#and why i'm writing what i'm writing folks it's not the deep we're just here to have fun have some laughs and go about it in a normal way

[lookedlikethebins]

What are your current favorite 1975 fics that you've read?

hi!! okay so admittedly i am so bad at remembering the names of fics i've read/liked because i have this horrible habit from my Early Teenage Years of being very Leave No Trace when i read fics??? like i couldn't have anyone know i was there so i'd leave anon kudos/comments and never save them... BUT i'm trying to break that trend so i can properly celebrate writers by remembering what they wrote lol so perhaps check back in with me in a little when i've gathered up more of a collection BUT...

currently i am really loving this ongoing kiss series by allylikethecat and, of course the wonderful, i love you, don't you mind? monster of a slow-burn fic by heavensfallingaroundus!

but honestly i'm seeing so many good fics floating around that i haven't gotten to yet but i'm really excited to read! everyone is so gd talented it both intimates and delights me. I WILL update with more when i read them. we will celebrate writers in this house!! x

[skaldish]

Alright folks. Here it is, my theory of what Ragnarok actually represents. It is very messy and I'm not sure I'm going to be able to actually convey my understanding clearly like I try with most things, because genuinely this is shit I would write a doctorate-level thesis on.

But we're going to try anyway.

So. After doing a lot to try to replicate animistic thinking, as well as taking a VERY deep read of the Norse myths, my theory is that Ragnarok is specifically allegory for societal collapse—the "end of the world" imagery and such is meant to convey what this feels like.

Recall what Odin says in Grimnismal. It goes something like this, since I can't be arsed to find the exact quote:

Huginn and Muninn fly over the world every day; while I fear Huginn ("thought") may not return, I fear Muninn's ("memory's") absence most.

When a society collapses, so does it's memory. It loses its technology, its methodologies, its paradigms, and everything it has learned about the world up to that point. Gone. Entire chapters of history erased.

What causes societal collapse is not always a conquering force, but is oftentimes the result of circumstances that a society orchestrates for itself. Think Rome.

People who have gone through societal collapse will probably develop an invested interest in figuring out how to prevent it entirely, so they don't have to start society all over again.

It's one thing to preserve the memory of "things collapsed and here's why" using a story. But it's another thing to do what apparently the Norse people did, which is cultivate a methodology for cognitively hardening their own society against collapse, using stories as a way to do it.

Like...I'm not kidding when I say they legitimately knew how the human mind works, and then built an entire system of stories and narratives that intentionally support the mind's freedom, cultivation, and agency. I can only convey a fraction of how this works in this post because the rest requires a deep-dive into behavioral psychology and neurological development.

All the tales leading to Ragnarok demonstrate various instances where the gods choose to follow their own agendas at the expense of the real people and forces in the world. All of these little things contribute to the magnitude of the event that is Ragnarok.

The tales represent these transgressions using allegories rather than literal events. This is because these stories were designed for children, who don't process information through a prefrontal cortex like we do as adults. They don't have them yet. But this gives kids an intuitive understanding for how circumstances of collapse feel, so they can recognize them in all their forms.

Loki is an allegory for the mischief we feel as children, and for the behaviors we demonstrate before we get to the age where we start valuing cooperation. In the myths, every time Loki causes mischief in ways that creates problems, the gods get mad at him and threaten Loki's life until he fixes his mess. Loki eventually becomes vindictive, kills Baldr in a jealous fit, and then is punished by being bound and buried beneath the ground, only to fight against the gods in Ragnarok.

The surface-level takeaway is a lesson in parenting: If we punish kids for their mischief, they're going to become vindictive adults, and these adults are going to have it out for the rest of society because they've been disenfranchised.

But it doesn't just end here. Consider how we punish ourselves for our own sense of mischief, beating ourselves up for having "problematic" thoughts and trying to bind and bury those thoughts in the depths of our mind.

These thoughts come from a place our mind known as the limbic system, which is focused on avoiding pain and seeking pleasure, and—most importantly—does not understand the world or make decisions using logic and reason, but in terms of what feels enjoyable and what doesn't.

We tend to call this system our inner child.

When we punish our inner child, that child starts doing exactly what Loki does and resorts to malicious and petty tricks. We can hold this behavior at bay until something causes us to "snap" (like Jörmungandr's tail does) and out comes the malice of the disenfranchised inner child, which creates a terrible cascade of social consequences for us.

Now, if we were to listen to these stories as kids, we would naturally be very upset whenever Loki was threatened of punished, because we think out of the limbic system at that age and Loki is meant to represent us—specifically, the state of being a kid. We would see what comes to pass, with Loki being imprisoned and fighting the gods against Ragnarok, and it would become clear to us that there's consequences for punishing mischief AND also causing too much of it.

Now I don't know about you, but I was very motivated by a sense of justice as a kid. Hearing Loki's arc would have inspired me to learn how to be friends with my sense of mischief while also learning to use it in ways that were cooperative and social, because this would have been how I could right the wrong I felt was done to Loki. It would also mean my own limbic system will not fight against me in the future, but be a modality of thought I can always access. (This is the beauty of the way the Norse myths are crafted; they are designed to instill knowledge of the world using mechanisms that reinforce one's own sense of agency and competency, so rather than being told the moral of this tale, it sets me up to run right into the conclusion it wants me to draw, but in a way that makes me feel smart and therefore inspires me to value it.)

The binding of Fenrir serves a similar allegory. When we become explosively angry in the way that Fenrir represents, it consumes our wisemind the same way Fenrir consumes Odin during Ragnarok. But this only happens if we bind Fenrir/our anger. By demonizing this nature of ours simply for existing, it will not only refuse to listen to us, but also turn against us. Remember that Fenrir was willing to socialize and cooperate with the gods before his betrayal.

(Honestly, I believe this is why ulfheiðnar existed the way they did. Even though the animalistic rage of ulfheiðnar was too terrible for domestic society, it was not demonized, but instead given a social function. People would learn to understand and partner with their own sense of rage, and I'm guessing this is also how they were able to keep their sense of reason and priorities straight even while going berserk from psychoactives.)

These two examples serve to illustrate how societal collapse stems from binding or punishing our own natures. But also fearing our own nature as mortals factors into it.

For example, Naglfar. This is a ship constructed of dead people's fingernails, and its completion is part of what signals the beginning of Ragnarok. But as the story goes, we can delay Naglfar's construction by trimming the nails of the dead before we bury them.

Naglfar represents "neglect for the dead," and this is significant because the act of no longer viewing the dead as people is sort of like the canary in the coal mine for no longer view each other as people...and no longer seeing people as people is what defines Ragnarok.

A society is at peace when its people have no fear of death, and having no fear of death comes only by incorporating death as a normal and familiar part of life, just like we do with birth. Our relationship with death is a litmus test for our relationship with our own humanity—if we fear the dead and cannot see them as human beings, then we are always going to fear a part of our own humanity, and be at war with it. The simple act of keeping the nails of the dead well-groomed because it stalls Naglfar's construction was a way to remind people why such a simple act was profoundly important.

And these are just the things that I can think of off the top of my head that are the most obvious examples. There are—and I shit you not—multitudes of these things laced within the Norse myths.

(I haven't even gotten to the part about how the Norse creation myth uses what the womb feels like to characterize it. Telling this story to very little children helps them establish a sense of familiarity, belonging, and secure attachment with the entire world from the get-go. If they learn the world is everything they've already experienced, then their bodies will never be afraid of it, because nothing about it will feel unknown or unknowable. Like, how fucking dope can you get.)

So here's where we get to the really dense irony of all this: Why we don't pick up on all these nuances as Westerners and have so far missed this entirely.

It is for two reasons.

The first is because our society values the things that the Norse people identified as contributing to societal collapse—namely, the act of conquering/competing against other forces and conquering/competing against our own natures. The transgressions of the Aesir are not things we register as problematic because to us they're normal.

The second is that we don't think animistically. The way we are taught to convey, interpret, and transmit information is designed PURELY by and for the prefrontal cortex, with neglect to everything else (if you ever wonder why Americans look weird in how we behave, this is why). But because we only prioritize communicating this way, we're missing out on all the context added within the Norse myths. These myths function the same way Old Norse kennings did, in that they are designed to speak to ALL areas of the brain at once and in tandem, but if we only engage with it using one part of the brain, we're only going to get a small piece of the picture and the rest is going to look weird.

(Little experiment for you: Try to logic something out in your mind or think through a complex problem without using words or sentences to do it. Use any other kind of thought-process besides language. I promise you that not only is this possible, but it yields a completely different kind of experience and conclusion than you might otherwise reach.)

Honestly, I don't even think Snorri himself fully understood what he was looking at when he was recording the Norse myths. I think he was just writing them down according to how they were told, word-for-word. But his cluelessness is our good fortune now, because he not only preserved the cultural stories, but also what I consider an entire cognitive technology.

And every time I look at it, I can't help but think about the generations of people who sat around the fire in the dead of winter, weaving, crafting, and figuring out better ways to fortify their society, raise kids so they became fine and truly fearless people, and conserve information. This is, as far as I'm concerned, real magic.

They knew some shit.

[randomshyperson]

Old Yellow Bricks - Heart Shaped Series

Chapter Summary: The conclusion to the adventures of an international thief and an Avenger witch. Or the one where you stop skipping work, Valentina answers the phone and Wanda does an ultrasound.

Warnings: (+18), smut (wanda taking the lead ‘cause that’s hot), bl*wjob, unprotected s*x, creampie, more shapeshifting stuff, some supervillain drama, minor angst with a happy ending I promise. | Words: 7.094k

A/N-> Hey folks, yes, I know I disappeared for a long time but I was so busy and mentally exhausted that I couldn't keep writing anymore, and I used practically half of my vacation just to get a decent amount of sleep. This story was almost abandoned, but I decided to give it an ending, even if it was a bit hasty, out of affection for the plot and out of consideration for those who have followed it up until now. I hope you aren't too dissatisfied with the ending, I tried to address any loose ends and leave it open to the canon we already know. Good reading.

General Masterlist | Wattpad | AO3 | Series Masterlist

-&-

It shouldn't come as a surprise that you got caught. But you did, mainly because for the past weeks you've felt so comfortable around Wanda that for a moment, you weren't you. No international bounty for your head, not gangs or supervillains or big schemes. 

Just you and Wanda.

Your small argument with the Black Widow was to blame for your distracted state, but fairly, those men were probably following you for a while now, just waiting for the right opportunity to show themselves.

They weren’t aggressive, despite everything. You're just walking a little further from the hotel and this Van - Strategically hidden with paintings from a pest control service - was parked next to the sidewalk and you immediately knew. The door opened and nobody came out. 

It was an invitation.

You took a deep breath and a last glance at the street before getting in.

The face of one of Valentina's most trustworthy henchmen, Mrs. Cassian Camorra,  came to focus in the poorly lit car. He was not alone, masked guards armed to the teeth took every other seat. The only vacant spot was for you.

With a discreet shift, there was no longer much difference between your muscles and theirs. The change made the white-collar man chuckle at you.

“There's no need for that, reaper.” Says Cassian with a smirk. “We're not here for a fight.”

You stare at him with an indifferent expression, lifting your chin a little. 

“The Guns send a different message.” You say but he smiles again just before nodding to the others, who immediately relax their alarmed posture even though they continue to listen to the conversation. In that small space, it would be impossible to do anything else.

You don't let your guard down but sigh once your eyes meet Cassian’s again.

“I don't go by that name anymore, Cass, you know that.”

He chuckles. “Would you prefer shithead?” He teases but you roll your eyes, wishing this conversation would end soon. He laughs again at your expression. “I still don't understand why you would be ashamed of one of your greatest achievements. The Reaper was a goddamn legend! The name gave people the chills!” He recalls excitedly. 

You swallow, shifting in your seat. “Just tell me what you are here for.” You cut his enthusiasm with a sharp demand, managing to make your voice deeper. The security guard next to him has this immediate reaction of touching his gun, but you offer him a cocky smirk before focusing on Cassian again.

He adjusts his suit, one of his hands moving to his jacket pocket to grab something. A small purple cart is extended to you but you don't move a muscle.

“I'm not looking for a job at the moment.” You tell him but he chuckles, flipping the card to show you the back of it.

You thought it was the traditional mission paper with a coding at the back, for you to find target information but instead of that habitual info, there's a written number there.

“The Countess asks to meet in person.”

You don't grab the card. “If that is what she wants, then why didn't she come here herself?”

The man chuckles, and without giving a damn about the concept of personal space, he moves his hands to find your pocket and shove the card inside.

“The Countess is a clever woman, child. Why on earth would she talk business with your new superhero friends around?”

“They are not my friends.” You mutter, pushing his hands away with a slap before pulling the card out of your pocket. “And if she really wished to see me, her face would be the one to welcome me into this car.”

But when you make mention of getting up, Cassian loses some of the calm facade he kept so far. 

“Sit your spoiled ass back right now, kid.” The bodyguards in the two seats behind you grab you by the shoulders, but their hands move away once you are back at your spot so you don't try to start a new fight. “This is the problem with Valentina's little freaks. You all think you're special. She's too soft with your type, so you grow confident in your insignificance. Let me tell you what's going to happen if you don't take this cordial invitation seriously, Lady Fontaine. Every favor for your protection, every deal, is off. You won't be CIA protégée anymore, you'll be on your own. For once in your life. That might talk some sense into your head.”

The anger is burning in your chest because of the cruel words but it spreads around with shame and guilt. Tears beg their way to your eyes but you keep your cheeks dry.

“I've been alone my whole life, Cass. You don't know shit.”

But he laughs, truly, as if you're joking.

“Alone? You? Hydra's golden egg goose?” He mocked managing some chuckles from his colleagues. “You're the one who doesn't know shit, you brat. You have no idea what people like us would do to have the kind of protection you so proudly display without a second thought. The mansions, the travels, the luxury. All that money. And don’t get me started on the attitude. The rest of us living in the gutter, trying to survive out of crumbs while freaks like you get to walk around like you own the world.” He narrates with a trace of bitterness and contained hatred that makes you shudder.  “How many times have you walked out of prison? Do you think it's the same for the rest of us? That we get those same privileges?”

Some redness escapes to your cheeks but you manage to keep your cool.

“I have no power over how things happen in our line of work, Cass. And I am hardly the one you should be angry at. Those privileges you say, believe me, they came at a very high price.”

But Cassian rolls his eyes, dismissing your words with a hand gesture. “Fragile. You always have been. Crybaby should be your next nickname.”

You sigh impatiently and this time, when you move to open the door and leave the car, they allow it without any fight. Standing on the sidewalk, you hear Cass hold the door open and look at him one last time.

He leans for one last warning. “If you ignore her invitation, she will have her answer. And we will be back, this time, not for a conversation.” He lets you know with a little smile that makes you shallow hard. The possibility of putting Wanda in danger makes your heart miss a beat. And when Cass lets out a small exclamation as if remembering something, you somehow know it's not a good thing. He searches in his other pocket only to take a small photo.

“Almost forgot. She asked me to give you this. A gesture of trust, she said.”

But that was nothing trustworthy about Valentina being aware of you and Wanda's relationship, especially for such a long time. The picture is from a security camera and is clear by the poor definition, but still, that day is still fresh in your mind as if it happened yesterday. The Avengers fair you once infiltrate to find Wanda, only for her to end any plan you might had or ever could by kissing you. Inside those tents you were safe but outside, the camera caught the last kiss you stole from her before your departure.

The fact that Valentina knew about this, for so long, makes you feel sick in your stomach.

You don't take the picture - it's a symbol of the false freedom you possessed under Valentina's wigs. You storm off and hear the agents giggling and muttering threats before the car is gone, and so are you when you make a curve that takes you back to the hotel parking lot.

The whole thing made your blood boil. How dare she? What was she even after, what did that photo even mean? Was it a treat? Or it could really be a gesture of trust? Something like, yes she knew and she never did anything about it, so maybe Valentina doesn't want your complete misery.  But then again, you know her well enough to tell that every action she takes is a well-planned one. If she knew about your relationship with Wanda and allowed that with no fuss other than a small bait in the first weeks, telling you to read Avengers files in an attempt to get you away from Wanda, then for sure, Valentina had a bigger plan. 

And for once in your life, you're done with being the pawn.

Wanda's asleep when you're back in your shared motel room so you do your best to keep it quiet on your way to the bathroom.

This will be painful but you're confident you can manage, with your powers help at least.

The small device hidden under your ribs is a high-tech tracker and it's your last physical connection to your old life. It doesn't work unless you want it to, because it answers to a biological stimulation only you can provide. Baron von Strucker gave this to you as a work tool, if you were ever captured, you could call for help without anyone being aware.

You haven't tried to use the device purposefully in years, but sometimes, when being too hurt, it would activate on its own. And because it's quite easy to forget a hidden object behind your ribs, it occurred to you that it has been active since you bled out in Greece, the same day Wanda called to tell you she was pregnant.

The realization that Valentina was aware of your location for so long, Wanda's and her friends especially, rips a sob to your throat. It’s more painful to know you’ve been putting her in danger than the open wound.

You muffle down your crying the second you hear the bed shifting. But luckily Wanda doesn't wake up. Taking a deep breath, your shaky hands keep doing the hard work - to cut open with a medical kit's scalpel your skin so you can remove the tracker.

It's painful of course but it ends quickly. You don't need a badge but it does take a lot of energy to heal on your own so when you're finally back at the bed, after destroying the little device with a squeeze, storing everything else, and getting clean, you're quite exhausted. Stumbling around, you do a poor job of laying down without much noise.

Your girlfriend only grumbles sleepy in return before her magic brings you closer to her body.

-&-

“Wake up.”

It's less gentle than previous attempts, but Wanda had to do it. You were really disturbed in your sleep - mumbling and sweating as if you were running.

Your restlessness and discomfort disturbed her greatly, but she gives you a tender smile as she sees all the tension ease when you meet her eyes.

Sleepily, you close your eyes again the next moment and Wanda takes the opportunity to move the sweaty hair away from your face.

"You were having a nightmare." She mumbles, and she's almost sitting on your lap so you think that it would be a waste to miss the opportunity. Your hands bring her into the position with ease, but Wanda has concern on her face. "Talk to me, detka."

A smile fills your lips, and you remain in a half-asleep state. "I love it when you call me that. You're so lovely, Wanda."

A faint blush fills your cheeks, but Wanda is determined to clarify a few things. "You came back late and as big as a bodyguard. I want to know what happened." She says, and seeing you sigh with your eyes closed, she frowns her heart racing. "Did you find trouble?"

"No, everything's fine." You retort quickly, stubbornly. And Wanda tilts her head incredulously at the clear lie. You finally look her in the eye, and she thinks it's unfair that you're such a pretty liar. Unable to hold her gaze, you look away, the flush on your face more from embarrassment than anything else. "It was nothing." You correct, annoyed, and Wanda sighs at the whole thing. She hopes that one day, your barriers won't have to be so raised all the time and you'll be able to trust her by instinct. But considering the kind of life you've led so far, maybe something like that is just impossible to achieve. 

She moves one of her hands to your face, caressing the skin tenderly. "If you can't put it into words, let me see."

You close your eyes again, nodding, and the invasion is almost immediate. The whole thing happens very quickly - Wanda is getting better at it. Accessing last night's memories is easy, the hard part is dealing with their significance.

When she comes to her senses, the room comes into focus again and so does your turned-away face. Pure guilt and shame in your expression.

"I'm sorry." You say promptly, your voice a bit tearful. " I keep fucking things up. I brought them to us because I forgot the damn tracking, and I got everyone in danger. I understand if you're angry and want to shout at me."

Wanda sighs at the words, shaking her head. "No one's going to be yelling at anyone." She says, her hands moving lower to pull your shirt up a little. She traces the new scar, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders as she sees that, apparently, you've healed fine. 

"Don't ever do anything like this again." She says, and you sniffle.

"That was the only trace I had-"

"Not that." She cuts in seriously, waiting for you to look at her. Wanda looks more hurt than angry and that confuses you. "You can't just self-harm in the bathroom and sew yourself back up in silence. You have to tell me things. You should let me take care of you, all right?"

Aware that the warmth spreading through your chest is quickly creeping up your neck and ears, you give up on putting together a coherent sentence. You nod quickly, and Wanda gives a weak laugh.

"I'm not angry." She continues, adjusting your shirt again, although her hands remain underneath, drawing patterns on your skin as she speaks. "You're always so... jumpy. And you get into trouble like it's second nature. And you're so incredibly stubborn-"

"Thanks." You grumble ironically, but your annoyance turns into a choke when you feel Wanda shift in your lap. It's an intentional fit at your hips, she's probably noticed the bulge you'd forgotten you were even carrying now. And the fit takes the air out of your lungs and makes your body jerk gently, waking you up completely. 

Wanda doesn't pay a second's attention to your reactions as she continues to talk. "You also have this habit of not letting me finish my sentences." She says with a little grin, her eyes dilating as your breathing starts to get heavy. "And I have to admit that you're hard work, but darling, you're worth every second of that effort. I wish I could take all the pain out of your past, but since I can't, I need you to understand that you're no longer dealing with things on your own. That I'm as devoted to you as you are to me."

These are romantic, intense, and considerate words. But Wanda is grinding slowly against your hips as she says them and you can only return a desperate nod, a deep moan tearing its way into your throat.

Wanda won't even let you lead - Your hands grab her barely covered ass through the oversized shirt she's stolen from you in an attempt to intensify the friction, but bright magic threads pull your wrists away in the next second. 

With your hands pinned to the headboard, you can only squirm at the mercy of the woman on top of you.

"You feel bigger than last time, baby." She whispers, almost losing her train of thought during a particularly hard thrust against your hips. You struggle to breathe.

But Wanda stops, and you bite back a sigh of frustration as you stare at her in a mixture of desperation and curiosity. She works with a certain urgency on your underwear, but instead of rewarding you with her warm cunt, she moves away until she's between your legs, her nails scratching your thighs.

"W-wanda, what are you doing?" You ask, suddenly very shy, your eyes slightly wide. She giggles, as her magic removes your underwear completely, and she leans in, planting kisses on your thighs that make you shiver.

Her dominant hand finally grabs your length and it's not very gentle so you let out something between a moan and a whimper and Wanda looks at you with a certain regret.

"Sorry, babe." She says softly, still holding you now more carefully. "I've never done this before."

Your mouth is dry, and your eyes want to close and just enjoy the sensation, but you fight these instincts to speak. "Done what, Wanda?"

She giggles mischievously, and her hand moves slowly, giving a tentative squeeze that makes the muscles in your thigh twitch. "You know what." She says in return, although you both share the strong blush on the cheeks, Wanda seems more confident about what she's about to do. "It can't be that hard. And if I do something wrong, you can just tell me to stop."

"Wanda, you don’t have to-" But she leans in, and unceremoniously takes your member into her mouth. You break down in an aroused sob, arching up on the bed. 

It's heaven, you're sure. Wanda Maximoff decided to wake you up with a blowjob, it’s a gift from the heavens that you must definitely don’t deserve but you won’t complain. You struggle against the magical chains just as you struggle to breathe and not to come immediately when Wanda continues to suck you off. 

It's sloppy at first - as she mentioned, she had never done that before. But the lack of practice doesn't make the act any less deliriously enjoyable. You feel very close very quickly and have to use all your concentration when Wanda meets your gaze, mouth full.

"Jesus." You groan, your whole body vibrating. Wanda pulls back, licking the tip and your eyes roll back. "Fuck."

She revels in your moans as much as she does in the whole thing. She can feel her own core throbbing at seeing you so pathetically at her mercy, but she wants you to finish first. Her hand moves to help and with each lick of the head leaking pre-cum, your body jerks in a way that makes the bed shake.

"Come on, baby, you can cum." She encourages you firmly as she alternates between sucking and licking. "You need this. And I got you."

You cry out the warning, and Wanda takes your whole length so as not to waste a drop. Your back arches on the bed, and the hot shot is deep into her throat. Wanda moans in return, making a mess all around as you try to return to orbit, your chest heaving and your body jerking.

She kisses your now flaccid member, biting back a smile as she watches the final throbs. Taking advantage of your state, Wanda resumes her previous position on your lap. Her magic fades from your wrists.

Just the brief rubbing of her thick thighs against you is enough for Wanda to feel you harden again.

"Are you sure, babe? You're still shaking." She asks teasingly, but all you give in return is an affected chuckle, your hands helping her to settle into you. The invasion happens slowly, and Wanda groans satisfied at the proof that yes, you are bigger. The stretching is gentle, and it's not painful because she's soaked, but it's still there and she has to bite her lips as she slowly sinks down until you bottom up.

Panting together, you watch her adoringly, your hands on her hips helping her move.

Wanda doesn't rush things. She rides you leisurely, feeling every inch of your cock inside her warm walls until the slowness is too overwhelming. 

Her hands rest on your shoulders, and you don't care that her nails are digging into your skin because Wanda feels too good for you to think of any other sensation than that tight pussy wrapping around you.

She holds your gaze, and between the grunts and moans she lets you know; "I love you." You can only nod, trying to gasp the same when Wanda suddenly bounces harder.

One of your hands grips with more strength, enough to mark the skin and she has to grab the headboard for a firmer support.

You groan at her nearly roughness; "Easy, woman." You try, even though she's grinding vigorously and the room has started to spin. "Wanda, damn it. Be more... ah... careful. You're pregnant...slow down… God."

She comes first, which is a surprise because you honestly don't know how you managed to hold it for so long.

You're still coming inside her when she collapses on top of you, falling down against your shoulder. But then there's satisfied laughter filling the room, and a joke about that being a very incredible way to start a day.

-&-

It's decided that you guys need to move as soon as you and Wanda are properly dressed and Wanda has encouraged you to be honest with the other Avengers.

And she also doesn't need to be a mind reader to know that there's something wrong with Natasha, who doesn't offer more than a mumble of agreement and doesn't say anything about you keeping a tracker jammed in your ribs all this time. 

While Wanda goes out to buy breakfast for the team, you stay behind and busy yourself packing the bags. But she is recognized at the grocery store near the motel when she tries to buy breakfast. It's just a child and her older sister, wanting photos with an Avenger, but it still causes her so much anxiety that she goes back to the bedroom with something more than food: a box of hair dye.

"I thought I'd follow Natasha's idea." That's what she gives as an explanation, and you laugh confusedly but end up believing it until Wanda has bleached spots and ends up confessing what really made her late. 

You're standing in the doorway, and she's focused on painting her hair, her eyes meeting yours through the reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"I'm sorry for not saying it right away. I just didn't want to worry you." 

You let out a sigh before offering her a small smile. "No problem, love." You assure her, reaching over to pick up the empty box of the product and read some of the labeling on the back. "I'm more concerned about whether pregnant women can dye their hair."

Your comment makes Wanda giggle. Her magic continues the process of coloring the spots, and she busies herself with washing her hands at the sink. 

"Well, most pregnant women can't manipulate energy and move things with their minds. I think I'll survive." She jokes back, sticking her tongue out at you when you smile. It ends up being a small grimace battle before you return the empty box to the garbage can and lean in to steal a kiss from her.

Wanda smiles through it, but her cold, wet hands reach under your blouse and make you jump. She laughs at the reaction, and you can barely notice the time passing as you play with each other and wait for the dye to finish settling on your locks.

When Wanda disappears back into the bathroom for a while, you wait for her to finish washing her hair and nothing really prepares you for the new look. Your girlfriend is slightly shy as she reappears, the towel still slung over her shoulders.

"So, what do you think?" She asks about the red hair and you swallow dry, speechless. Wanda blushes immediately, a nervous giggle escaping her lips. "What?"

"You look..." Your voice fails you and you have to clear your throat. "Really beautiful."

Wanda smiles, but then raises an eyebrow, gesturing gently in your direction. "It does seem that you truly like it, dear, I'm flattered."

You blink in confusion, before following her gaze and noticing your own body, and the bulge in your pants. Grinning in embarrassment, you quickly cover yourself with the nearest pillow. "Sorry." You mumble with your ears burning, but Wanda giggles, glancing quickly at the ajar door.

"I wonder if we still have time before we leave." She comments, scarlet threads appearing through the wood with the thought of closing it, but as if guessing the intentions of a delay, the door suddenly opens and Captain Rogers is practically pushed inside by Natasha.

"Nice change, Maximoff. But I hope your suitcases are ready." That's what the widow said, and she looked stressed, most likely because of all the stories about her adventures the night before. If your embarrassment over the tracker story wasn't enough, there was the other one you were trying to hide under your pillow. Wanda disguised it better than you, nodding quickly to the widow and gesturing toward the ready backpacks. "Steve can you take these to the quinjet please, I want to have a word with Romeo and Juliet."

The Captain sighed, trying to ignore being made a baggage handler - Muscles must be good for something - and offered you and Natasha a sympathetic look before leaving the room.

The widow closed the door but you spoke first. “Listen Nat, if this is a second scolding for the tracker, I've already made sure it can't be retraced and-"

"That's not it." She interrupts you with a certain determination, then a forced smile. "I've found a doctor for you. For Wanda, to be more exact."

The now red-haired woman gives Nat a surprised look and it's you who asks; "Are you sure it's safe? Risking a medical appointment in the situation we're in."

"You underestimate me."

"I didn't mean it like that."

But Nat smiles genuinely, shrugging. She checks her watch.

"We're actually going to meet her. Apart from Banner, she's the only doctor I trust."

You and Wanda exchange a look before nodding to Natasha in thanks. Your girlfriend then asks; "That's not all you wanted to talk about, is it Nat?"

The widow nods, seeming to get upset for a moment.

"I'm not saying this for the tracker story, I swear I'm not, but... maybe it's better if Y/N doesn't stay with us anymore."

Wanda snorts indignantly, ready to protest, especially as you lower your head. 

"We stay together-"

"I know." Natasha cuts off Wanda's defensiveness with a sigh. "I wouldn't expect otherwise." She mutters, taking a deep breath to gather her courage. "Rogers doesn't agree, you know how protective he is over you. I mean, he was pretty indignant when Tony tried to ground you in the Tower. Anyway, that's not the point. Clint left. He accepted a decent deal until things settle down, and yes, they will settle down. I know it feels like our world has turned upside down overnight, but we need to remember why the Avengers were created in the first place. It's only a matter of time before they need us, all of us again, and maybe it's experience talking, but I've seen so many governments collapse and rise again. I have seen this movie before."

The widow vents and you and Wanda don't have the heart to interrupt her. 

"What I mean is that Clint can make a deal for his family, and maybe you can do the same."

Wanda thinks for a moment until she swallows. "I'm not an agent with years of military service to my credit. General Ross would never offer me a deal."

"Not him. And not to you." Natasha retorts, turning her face towards you.

You sigh deeply as you understand exactly what she's implying. " Is there really no other option?"

Natasha gives you a sympathetic smile. "That's not an ultimatum, mercenary. Just think about it. None of us wants a pregnant woman in the life of a fugitive, and don't make that face Wanda, I know you don't want the baby to be in danger either." Your girlfriend begrudgingly shuts up, knowing that the widow is right. "Just give it a thought. Melina has agreed to do the prenatal care, so you have all this time to make a decision."

Natasha nods in farewell before heading out the door, and you turn to Wanda.

"Do you have any idea who Melina is?"

-&-

In the safety of the Quinjet and the untraceable lines of the Avengers, you call Contessa Fontaine.

The first thing Valentina says when she sees your face in the high-definition hologram is a scolding; "That tracker was worth a billion dollars."

You have to laugh, your back resting on the cold metal of the ship. "Can't say I'm sorry, boss. Having a tracker in the middle of your ribs doesn't scream work ethic."

She gives a short laugh, and you realize from the surroundings that she's in the private room of the Fontaine Mansion, a place you've been to countless times before.

"What can I do for you, my dear child?" She asks, slightly impatient. You swallow dry.

"Your people said you wanted to see me." You comment. 

Valentina laughs wryly. "Oh, yes, in person. Not talking through an Avengers line. You must have lost your mind."

"There are no more Avengers, Val, you know that." You retort, and she smiles in satisfaction.

"Touche." She mutters before raising her bright eyes to you. "But let me guess, they're listening to this conversation."

You sigh impatiently. "What difference does it make? I've been with them for weeks. I could have told them all the secrets I know about your work, but I didn't. Just as you didn't inform General Ross of their location. So how about we stop playing games?"

Valentina gives another evil little laugh, nodding. "Oh, dear, I miss our conversations, you're always so direct and attentive. Yes, I didn't hand over Team America to Ross, because unlike that arrogant fool, I have no interest in seeing our heroes trapped in the Raft. Only someone like Ross and his ballistics background would think of something as stupid as taking out Earth's main line of defense for threats we have no means of dealing with." You remain silent at Val's words, and she takes a breath to continue. "You know me, Y/N. I like my... enhanced ones. I understand the grandeur of this new world, men like Ross, impressionable with colored rifles, don't."

"So... you've been trying to help the Avengers?"

She breaks into a laugh. "Help? Don't go that far." She retorts grinning. "Let's say we had allied objectives up to the present moment. And I have no reason to put them out of work, you know? In any case, perhaps a little time out of the spotlight and struggling will lower some of their egos. It's a shame that Mr. Stark always seems to shrug off the consequences of his actions, he could learn something without having billions to spare."

You sigh without patience for the speech, adjusting your body. "Val, speaking of money-"

"Oh, it's about time."

With a short laugh, you continue; "I need mine."

She looks at you for a moment, before smiling. "Your money has always been yours to use. Nothing has changed."

But you force a smile, not quite believing it. "Everything has changed, Val. I don't want Lady Fontaine's money. I don't want to be one of your pawns. I want a new account, a new life. With everything I've worked to earn."

"And what makes you think I can give it to you?"

You snort, rubbing a stress point on your forehead. "Please, Val, don't take me for someone naïve, who doesn't know the extent of your influence."

But Valentina sighs deeply, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, to look at you intently.

"In fact, I'm beginning to think that your naivety is indeed remarkable and, unfortunately, my responsibility." She comments, and you chuckle ironically and indignantly, but she doesn't let you question it. "There is no new beginning for you, Y/N. Not the way you're asking me, not the way you really want. You're deluding yourself if you think I can bring in false documents and billions of dollars without anyone ever finding out the truth. That's not how things work. The bill always comes, and a past so stained with red always catches up with people like us." She says and you swallow, not having the heart to interrupt when you know deep down that she's not lying. Despite her seriousness, Valentina's gaze softens: "I know it's not what you wanted to hear, but all is not lost. You've been walking around for weeks with someone who committed as many atrocities as you did, and yet have been allowed to experience the greatest version of freedom a criminal can get."

It takes a moment for you to realize that she's talking about Natasha. You glance quickly at the main area of the quinjet through the glass of the private room they got you to call Val, and your former boss uses this time to light a cigarette.

"I'm not a black widow."

Val chuckles. "Of course not, they fight much better." She comments and you grimace. Val takes a slow drag, blowing smoke against the camera before continuing to talk; "Speaking of them, you should thank your new friend sometime. The amount of black widows she's put on the market looking for work is what's given you so much time off. I'm not short-staffed, thanks to that."

"I'm glad the rescue of trafficked women has given you new employees, Contessa." You sneer in annoyance, stepping out of the way of the video and ignoring her confusion to tap lightly on the glass. The Avengers outside look up at the same time, but you wave for Natasha and Wanda to come inside. 

"Where'd you go, little bird?" Val asks the wall, and ends up choking on her smoke as the faces of the two Avengers come into focus next to you. "Oh, hello. What an honor-"

"Cut it, Val." You interrupt annoyedly, squeezed between Natasha and Wanda on the seat in the room. "Make your proposal. I want Romanoff to tell me if it's true, because she's the only one with any real experience of these things, and well, Wanda's my partner and she should be up to speed."

Your former boss smiles impressed. "What a lovely thing, a thief and an Avenger, my eyes can hardly believe it." 

You snort impatiently, but Valentina doesn't keep up the teasing. She nods, before turning her attention to the personal computer next to her phone. As she types, she repeats her earlier proposal. "I need to work on it first, dear. But I understand it will be something very similar to the agreements Miss Romanoff signed with Shield when she was hired as an Agent. Serving the American government entirely in exchange for freedom."

Natasha looks at you. "Is that what you want to do? Be an Agent?"

But you shake your head, offering her a sad smile. "There's no more Shield to recruit me. And I don't think I'm fit to be an Avenger anyway. But Val is director of the CIA. She could offer me something perfectly legal. And I could have an almost normal life."

"But what about the Sokovia agreements?" Wanda asks in concern. "You're an enhanced one."

Before you can answer, Val hums and grins. "Oh, I can see why you like that one, she's clever." You roll your eyes at the provocation, wishing you'd gone to see Val in person and could pull a gun on her to make her behave. Your boss stops typing and turns her full attention to the three of you. "Miss Maximoff has a very good point. If you wish to work with me at the moment, a CIA Agent contract, you would be legally obliged to sign the Sokovia Agreements."

You snort impatiently. "I'm not signing something that would force me to become a lab rat again! And certainly not something that says Wanda should be behind bars or-"

"Relax, I didn't say I was going to make you sign it." She cuts in. "And you're the one in a hurry for a new job after all. I don't understand the hesitation to do something that could be entirely bureaucratic if you stay out of the spotlight."

You hesitate, and exchange a quick glance with the two women next to you. Natasha shakes her head in the negative, but Wanda sighs.

"I'm pregnant."

Valentina chokes on her cigarette again, and Natasha covers her face with her hands. You don't know how to react, and Wanda keeps talking.

"Y/N is doing this for us, and if your partnership has meant anything other than work all these years, I know you'll help her."

But Valentina shakes her head, chuckling incredulously to herself. Wanda begins to worry. 

"I don't want to appeal to sentimentality, I'm just asking you to be considerate. Job or not, no one is going to put my family at risk. I won't take it lightly if your people follow and threaten her again."

But Val gestures quickly. "A child, little bird? How can you keep this a secret from me?"

You sigh tiredly. "It wasn't exactly any of your business."

But Val leans over to pick something up from the table, and you frown as you recognize your old research file. "Except, well, it's entirely my business." Val retorts seriously, her eyes running over the pages she's leafing through. Until she lets out a small exclamation. "Yes, here it is. Strucker specifically wrote that you were infertile. And that was a disappointment of course, because everyone who gets an enhanced one, would love to make more of them."

Wanda looks at you with confusion, but you stand up as if you're going to choke on the attention, taking the cell phone with you to the other corner of the room.

"I know exactly what those pages say, you don't have to read them to me." You retort angrily. "Strucker had to believe that he couldn't have more of me, okay? I couldn't..." Your voice falters, but you control your emotions by swallowing hard. "I did what I had to do. The changes to my body so that he would never find out. So that no one would find out. But when I'm with Wanda, I just... I don't think about the past. I can breathe, Val. And it happened. And I'm asking you, if your mentoring has meant anything all these years, to give me a chance to be more than a goddamn puppet. Please."

Your boss remains silent, thoughtful, before sighing and offering you something like a sincere smile, however small.

"Ten years, little bird."

You frown in confusion. "What?"

"Ten years." She repeats. "That's the most I can offer you. Your money, a new identity, a fresh start. Think of it as extended maternity leave. The child will be old enough for boarding schools, and I'll charge you for the services."

"I-I..." You hesitate, looking at Wanda who has an expression that says she can't make this decision for you.

Valentina stands up, taking the phone with her. "I'll work on your contract carefully. Nick Fury is not a foolish man, little bird. He sees the world as I do, the dangers that surround us and that must come from the outside. I like the idea of a team working on my behalf, but it's too early for anything like that. Especially with everything that's happening with the first team." Val continues, and you swallow. She gives you a genuine smile. "And of course, all those years have meant something to me. You're the first person I'd trust with the job."

You want to tell her that this isn't the kind of meaning you'd like, but you think that work reliability is all Valentina can offer you. You nod and thank her and she says goodbye before hanging up.

Natasha thinks it best to leave you and Wanda alone for a moment, and when you sit down on the floor, Wanda sits down next to you. Silently, she holds your hand and rests her head on your shoulder.

"A lot can change in ten years." You murmur, and you don't need to explain for Wanda to understand your hope that you won't have to fulfill any contracts. She squeezes your hand tighter because the decision has already been made. 

Your cell phone vibrates again, not with the CIA contract, but with your new documents and bank account filled with all the money you've earned as a mercenary. It makes your stomach turn with the feeling that you've just sold yourself again, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Wanda turns away to look at you and waits for you to do the same. Once your gazes are connected, she raises her hand to your face and pulls you in to kiss you softly on the lips.

"I'll always love you. Nothing will ever change that." She whispers against your lips, her forehead resting against yours. "I need you to promise that you'll always remember it."

You caress the wrist of the hand she holds to your cheek, and continue with your eyes closed. "I won't remember anything else."

She smiles, ending the distance again.

You kiss for a moment before you pull away to press your lips to her forehead and squeeze her hand. 

"We'll be fine, Wanda. It's me and you, and just one baby. We can manage."

She smiles tenderly, nodding before hiding her face in the crook of your neck and sighing as she repeats the words. "You're right. Two of us, and a whole team of grumpy superheroes to handle one little baby. How hard can it be?"

Six hours later, Melina Vostokoff carried out Wanda's first ultrasound, which would reveal not one, but two little boys growing inside her womb. Both of them had a natural inclination towards superpowers. 

But that's another story.

[space-mango-company]

Stranger | Chapter 5

Chapter Links: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

TW: Descriptions of Violence, Mentions of Cannibalism

Tags: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Atreides!Reader, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Smut, POV Second Person, No use of y/n, Original Characters, Canon What Canon

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Not proofread!! Holy moly. Here it is, folks. The scene that inspired this whole fic. I had fun writing this so I really hope you enjoy it. Once again, I appreciate everyone who likes, comments, and/or leaves kudos so much. I really started this fic for myself but good golly, that dopamine rush whenever I get a notif might be more addicting than spice. I'm glad to be part of the bald man brigade.

Also, I can't believe I'm only now questioning why I decided to write this in the second person? I guess maybe I thought this fic would be a lot shorter and not that deep, lol. At this point 'y/n' probably has enough personality to just be a straight-up OC. It's funnier because I don't even find second-person or y/n fics any more engaging either. I always detach myself by giving 'y/n' her own name and only seeing her as a character in the fic.

ANYWAY, sorry to ramble. Stay safe and have a good one, ya weirdos.

You step out into the dark cul-de-sac of the guest hall, illuminated only by the large suspensor lamp in the middle. Feyd-Rautha looks you up and down, seemingly entranced by how the dim light casts his shadow on your modest dress. Atreides green, he recognized.

"Trying to sneak into my rooms again?" you say arms crossed, leaning on your door. "I didn't appreciate the last time, by the way."

"It's my house," he says cooly, "and I did knock this time."

You stare at him indifferently.

"Quite the display from you yesterday morning, using The Voice on me." His voice low and raspy, "I should have you drawn and quartered."

You scoff in his face. "You almost choked me to death. Are you trying to start a war?"

He takes a step closer and his face is inches from yours, you can feel his breath on your cheek, "I didn't think I'd like you this much, little hawk."

"What do you want, Feyd-Rautha?" you had no patience for him right now.

"Ah," he steps back, a dark smile on his face, "I've been waiting to hear my name from your tongue." His hand reaches for your lips. "I've grown quite tired of 'na-Baron'."

You grab his wrist before he can touch you. "If you're only here to toy with me, I would rather be left alone to prepare for bed." You release his hand and turn to open your door.

Feyd-Rautha props an arm against the doorway to block you. "We're to be married in three days," he says, "and I just can't seem to bring myself to let go of my 'harpies', as you called them." He meets your gaze. "You said you'd kill them. Did you mean that?"

You look up at him with steely eyes. He towered over you but your heart felt no fear, "Yes."

His coy smile returns. "Good. Come to my training hall tomorrow," he says, walking away.

"What?" you call after him.

"Dress to fight," he says over his shoulder. "I want to see what you can do, Atreides."

You needed no help from Zora in putting on a loose shirt and long pants. The plain beige outfit certainly wasn't as elegant as the dresses you had been wearing so far. But it was comfortable and you could fight in it, which was all that mattered. Still, you look yourself in the mirror. The soft, airy fabrics draped over your figure well but perhaps you were not in the best shape as you once were. Your muscle mass is much less than your brother's and he wasn't particularly built himself. You admit you did wane off your training sessions with Gurney and Paul leading up to your departure from Caladan. Nevertheless, you were still a skilled warrior. Another secret you've been keeping from the Harkonnens.

You were 14 when you started learning the blade. Watching Paul, 2 years your senior, practice with the Atreides Warmaster lit a fire in you. You didn't hesitate to pester your father to let you train with them and of course, there was nothing he could deny his darling daughter. You were a fierce and determined student. Gurney Halleck was a man you genuinely believed to be one of the best fighters in the Imperium, along with Duncan Idaho. Gurney would train you and Paul on even days. On odd days, your mother would teach you the Weirding Way. These lessons, much like the rest of your mother's teachings, your father wanted to know nothing about. After becoming decently adept at Prana-Bindu and gaining almost complete physical control of your body, Lady Jessica insisted that you also be skilled in the Bene Gesserit style of combat.

You were far from mastery in either but the combination of both trainings made you a formidable fighter. Despite this, you could never seem to beat your brother in a sparring match. A fact that frustrated you to no end, though you appreciated that Paul never went easy on you. You'd always blame it on him having trained for longer than you have. But in truth, you knew there had just always been something special about him.

"Are you ready, my lady?" Zora's soft voice wakes you from your thoughts.

"Hm? Right. Yes, let's go." You quickly tie your hair out of the way and grab your father's dagger from atop your dresser.

There was no fanfare when you entered the hall. On one end, the na-Baron's concubines sat chained on the steps of the shallow recessed pit in their leathers, their glares piercing through you. Your eyes linger on them as Feyd-Rautha and his Warmaster greet you.

"I was starting to think my lady bride was bluffing," Feyd-Rautha says as you approach him. The older man beside him offers you a polite bow.

"Perhaps she wasn't so keen on your brutish games," you bite back. "Your lord uncle won't be joining us?"

"No," Feyd-Rautha crosses his arms, "but he'll be hearing about your victory. Or your demise."

"Right. Well, I assume you'll be releasing them from those chains," you nod towards his pets "Not sure why they're necessary."

"Oh, trust me, little hawk. They're necessary." Feyd-Rautha motions to a servant.

"Your blade and shield, my lady," they bow, presenting you with a knife and a small device you recognize as a Holtzman shield.

"I've brought my own," you unsheath your father's dagger. You contemplate taking the shield but remembering that the na-Baron forwent it during his gladiator fight, you decide to do so as well. "They've no weapons anyway, the shield seems pointless."

Feyd-Rautha shrugs, "If you insist."

You take a deep breath, "Let's get this over with."

You lightly stretch as you walk down the steps of the shallow pit to stand opposite the na-Baron's concubines. You had come into this on the pretense of righteousness. For Iassa, you told yourself. But you've known her a mere two days. A part of you wanted to show off. You were good and you knew it. You could probably kill anyone in this room, even Feyd-Rautha. You craved the respect of the people here: the Harkonnens, the people of Geidi Prime. You figured this was one way to get it.

Feyd-Rautha walks around the pit to one of his concubines and kneels to whisper something in her ear. You assume a fighting stance when he moves to release her from the chains. When you meet her eyes, they are filled with feral bloodlust.

Suddenly, you weren't so bold. The veil of courage you have maintained since you arrived, even when Feyd-Rautha had your neck in his grip, is torn apart when you face this woman. You could tell no part of her would hesitate to rip your throat out with her bare teeth. You were almost relieved they were unarmed, but you weren't sure if that would make them any less lethal.

Fear grew in your chest and you had less than a moment to recite the Litany in your head before the concubine lunged at you.

You crouch down in time and slash at her abdomen as she approaches you. You turn to face her on the other side of the pit and she wastes no time in attacking you again. She attempts to grab your armed hand but you take hold of her wrist first and move to pin it behind her back. Quickly, your blade drags across her throat and she falls to your feet.

The kill has not yet registered in your mind but your heart is racing. You can almost hear your blood coursing through your veins. You held your arms outstretched, your eyes focused ahead, ready for the next one.

Across the pit, Feyd-Rautha licks his lips, smiling as he releases his second concubine. This time, you walk toward her while she moves to attack you. You clock her head with the pommel of your dagger and knock her a few steps back. She reaches a hand to wipe the blood beginning to drip out of her nose. After examining it, she snarls and bares her sharp teeth at you. Your mind is blank now. She dodges your first slash then manages to land a blow to your jaw. You seethe from the pain. You spit out the mixture of blood and saliva filling your mouth. The anger at the hit drives you to rush at her. Seeing an opening, you duck down to her waist and stab her twice. As she falls to her knees, the look of determination doesn't leave her eyes until the very last moment.

When you turn around, Feyd-Rautha has already released the last concubine. The ruthless scream she lets out disorients you. She pounces and knocks you over. She straddles you and pins your arms to the ground, your blade sliding inches away. She screams again in your face at the death of her sisters. You wedge your right knee between you and her abdomen, the only thing keeping her teeth from reaching your throat. You grunt as you struggle to free your hands. In your periphery, you see Feyd-Rautha, wielding his own blade, take a step into the pit.

"GET BACK," you roar, and he is powerless to refuse.

You turn back to your opponent still on top of you and you butt her head with your own. She loosens her grip and you kick her off to hastily crawl to your weapon. When she reorients herself and attempts to grab you again, you hook a knee under her arm and flip the both of you over. With your weight on her chest and both your knees pinning her arms down, she thrashes underneath you, claws digging into your right ankle. You take your blade in both hands and her screaming is silenced when you sink your knife deep into her heart.

When you rise, the room is quiet. Your chest heaves. The stark white ceiling lights don't help the lightheadedness that begins to wash over you in the post-adrenaline rush. Feyd-Rautha says something from behind you but his speech is garbled as you reel from the thrill of what just transpired. You were electrified. You almost... wanted more.

Then, the realization of the revolting scene you are in settles upon you and you are knocked off your high. You look at the leather-clad bodies scattered around you, the grotesque way they lay on the floor, the red blood pooling around them made brighter by the sterile grayness of the room. You did this.

A hand on your shoulder snaps you out of it. In reflex, you turn and raise your blade at the offender.

Feyd-Rautha holds his hands up, "Whoa, easy, Atreides. Trying to kill me? Don't want to start a war, do you?"

You yield your weapon. Your eyes dodge his as you look to your feet and try to steady your breathing.

"Enjoy your first taste of blood?" Feyd-Rautha says, the look in his eyes indecipherable to you. He raises a hand and swipes his thumb on your cheek. It comes away covered in crimson.

You gasp and reach for your face with your own hand. You don't even know if it's your blood or theirs, or when it got on you. Your heart pounded, unable to decide whether you were repulsed or proud.

"Look at you," he says licking the red off his finger. You could not help but stare at him through the strands of your hair that had come undone in the fighting. "You're beautiful like this," his hand reaches for your face again.

"No," you say low and quiet when you swat his hand away, "you're sick." You didn't know if you meant him or yourself. You calmly turn to leave. No one stops you when you make your way up the shallow steps of the pit. As you pass Iassa—no, Zora—by the doorway, you tell her flatly, "Prepare a bath."

You had never taken a life before. Today, you took three. You were glad you didn't know their names. You decided you'd never find out.

After Zora pours a final pitcher of hot water into the bath, you tell her, "You may go. I'll dress myself later, thank you."

She bows and makes her way out of your rooms.

In your solitude, you bring your knees to your chest. You had been quick to wipe the blood off your cheek before you even reached your quarters. Now, you cup the water into your hands and rub it into your face, the slight sting of the heat comforting you.

He was a cruel man, your betrothed. This is what you've decided. Having you kill the concubines he claimed to want to keep so much. But wasn't it you who threatened to kill them? He started it, you argue with yourself, when he had Iassa killed. You felt like a child.

When you used to hear of Feyd-Rautha's exploits, you had to mask your disgust. And yet now, you had killed so easily in that pit as he had in the arena. What was this place doing to you?

When you left Caladan, Paul had never killed anyone either. You wonder if he ever does, would he feel the same exhilaration you did when you slit that first concubine's throat. No. Your brother was fierce but, like your father, he had a good heart. You beat him by three. You hoped it would stay that way.

You think about your future here, marrying Feyd-Rautha. Producing heir after heir under the Baron's watchful eye. You were a broodmare. Despite all your fancy training and education. Despite your little demonstration earlier. It was the bitter truth.

You missed home. You missed walking along the beach at night with your father. You missed your mother's gentle hands brushing your hair. You missed the banter and teasing with your brother. You missed Gurney, and Duncan, and the cold breeze on your balcony, and getting to roam free and going anywhere you pleased. When the tears come, you sink deep into the bath so they might fade away in the water.

Chapter Links: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

Taglist: @torchbearerkyle @austinswhitewolf @dreamlandcreations @emeraldsgirl @strawberryfieldsforevermore @bornslippys @vexis-world @aoi-targaryen @alexandrainlove @mamawiggers1980 @sstardussty @aboutthenabaron

[dootznbootz]

Odysseus was afraid the entire year on Aeaea in the Odyssey.

Content warnings: Rape, Sexual Coercion, Sexual assault, Sex Work, power dynamics, this will also be long as fuck as I talk too much. This is NOT a "Circe the Goddess Hate Post". I call her out but that's it. I tried to keep this neutral but still making a point (Let me know if I gotta put more)

Lots of lovely folks on here have written great essays on what Calypso did to Odysseus as it's soooo blatantly obvious there. It literally states how he cried every day and how he flinched from Calypso, very straightforward on how he was explicitly raped.

But I've noticed that a lot of people are always iffy about Circe's situation (understandably so, it's not so in your face.) She's usually always mentioned in the "Odysseus never cheated! He was raped!" posts but then the evidence is only ever given against Calypso, and then mentioning how you can't say no or disobey the orders of an immortal and how it was in exchange for freeing his men.

WHICH IS ALL CORRECT!!! But!!!

There ARE immortal/mortal couples who genuinely love each other. Dionysus and Ariadne, and Eros and Psyche are examples. Apollo and Hyacinthus. Psyche indeed becomes immortal eventually and in some versions, both Hyacinthus and Ariadne do too. But even while mortal themselves, their immortal lovers still remained respectful and loving towards them and definitely doted on them. There are definitely power dynamics at play here but there's some nuance.

Odysseus and Circe's relationship, however, is very different. We all know he slept with her at the very least once. And that was in exchange for his men being returned to humans. That was the only time it was explicitly stated. With Calypso, it tells you every night he was enchanted and slept beside her. It was the narrator speaking but Odysseus is the narrator now and it's his story. If you think he lied, this probably won't change your mind anyway.

But even if it was a one-time thing, (which isn't the only interpretation and I will have points that talk about others) then why did he stay a year? What was he doing?

I'm doing a deep dive into the year he spent on Aeaea based on evidence in Book 10 and then the beginning of Book 12. Step by step, and honestly I'm writing this for Tumblr, not as a thesis so I will be a bit more casual but still using sources. To me, it's very obvious that he was uncomfortable throughout the text simply based on the language that is used. But it's very subtle and not an outright statement of "He's been crying every day."

BTW, just so we're clear, this is not a "Circe is the root of all evil, etc." type of post.

This isn't meant to villainize her. She's an immortal being and in mythology that changes things. Everybody is morally gray. I genuinely think if we were to ask her feelings on it, she'd probably be like "Oh, yeah! Turned his men into pigs! Strange little man he was." I don't think she gave a flying fuck.

I just simply get pissed tf off when people think Odysseus was fine. It honestly disturbs me how often I'll go on other websites YouTube and see everyone call him a whore and a womanizer. It's sexism at its finest because 1.) "MaN AlwAyS wAnTs sEx" and 2.) women can't rape/coerce. THIS IS SIMPLY TO LOOK INTO HIS FEELINGS ABOUT IT.

This is also only for Homer's Odyssey, using different translations. If you want to discuss this, (I'd be happy to! Just be nice!) DON'T BRING UP ANY OTHER WORKS.

With all that out of the way, come yell with me 🤗

I've read multiple translations, as I know there's going to be bias depending on who's translating. And having done so, each one has basically the same situations described the same so that's nice for consistency. Also, there are some parts in the story that are vague and that we'll never have answers to.

Odysseus first simply sees the smoke from her chimney and then sends his men in, after drawing lots Eurylochus leads half of the men to check out the house. I mentioned here vaguely how the 2 immortals he sleeps with are both introduced while singing and weaving, which could be seen as an enchantment (which to me is most likely. They both possess magic and are goddesses). So I'm just gonna move past that. Just take a peek and come back or just know that enchantment was likely.

Next, I'll see people often joke on Tumblr about how

"Odysseus says that Polites is his best friend yet only mentions him once!"

I think Odysseus mentions his best friend, the one to jubilantly go in first, to show WHY he would go through with this. How much these comrades mean to him. That's his best friend, and there are approximately 20 others who are now pigs as well. Could you knowingly leave one of your best friends to live a life like that knowing you could've done something?

[...]Circe—and deep inside they heard her singing, lifting her spellbinding voice as she glided back and forth at her great immortal loom, her enchanting web a shimmering glory only goddesses can weave. Polites, captain of armies, took command, the closest, most devoted man I had: ‘Friends, there’s someone inside, plying a great loom, and how she sings—enthralling! The whole house is echoing to her song. Goddess or woman—let’s call out to her now!’ So he urged and the men called out and hailed her. She opened her gleaming doors at once and stepped forth, inviting them all in, and in they went, all innocence.

(Fagles, Book 10)

In the Odyssey, it's never mentioned why she turns people into animals. I think they were turned into pigs because, throughout the Iliad and Odyssey, Odysseus is often associated with boars. His men are associated with him, therefore: 🐖 Piggy. From what we know, the lads were just eating her food. With how much Xenia and hospitality are a large part of the story, they probably thought they were safe. They were GUESTS. This is especially welcome after the Cyclops and the Laestrygonians. And it literally says "All innocence". They were simply naive.

Then Eurylochus runs back, so terrified that he couldn't speak at first. He then begs Odysseus to just leave the men behind. Odysseus has shown that he does TRY to save his men when it is truly not reckless to do so.

But I shot back, ‘Eurylochus, stay right here, eating, drinking, safe by the black ship. I must be off. Necessity drives me on.’

(Fagles, Book 10)

Then the famous warning from Hermes. I've seen folks bring this up when talking about this. YES, he is literally commanded by Hermes to not refuse her if he wants his men back in basically every translation. It sounds like Circe was warned as well. When? We don't know, but it sounds like Hermes didn't pick "sides" here.

Strange that he was still like, "Sleep with each other" to both, because he could've been like, "Circe, there's this guy named Odysseus. When he comes to this island, change his men back." But who knows, maybe it was Circe's idea from the beginning and Hermes went along with it. Just food for thought.

Now here’s your plan of action, step by step. The moment Circe strikes with her long thin wand, you draw your sharp sword sheathed at your hip and rush her fast as if to run her through! She’ll cower in fear and coax you to her bed— but don’t refuse the goddess’ bed, not then, not if she’s to release your friends and treat you well yourself. But have her swear the binding oath of the blessed gods she’ll never plot some new intrigue to harm you, once you lie there naked— never unman you, strip away your courage!’

(Fagles, Book 10)

But that doesn't explain why he was there for a year afterward! Nor if he himself was okay with it, which is what I'm trying to delve into as he wasn't.

Also the knife thing? She's still immortal. It was meant to startle her. Her dad is Helios. Odysseus would've been toast, literally.

Also note this exchange wasn't a "Yippee! Hermes says I'm going to get laid!".

...just approaching the halls of Circe, my heart a heaving storm at every step, paused at her doors, the nymph with lovely braids— I stood and shouted to her there. She heard my voice, she opened the gleaming doors at once and stepped forth, inviting me in, and in I went, all anguish now …

(Fagles, Book 10)

Another translation by Ian Johnston, (they all say the same thing essentially but trying to make a point.)

I continued on to Circe’s home. As I moved on, my heart was turning over many gloomy thoughts. After I had walked up to the gateway                                                of fair-haired Circe’s house, I just stood there and gave a shout. The goddess heard my voice.                      She came out at once, opened her bright doors, and invited me inside. I entered, heart full of misgivings.

HE👏WAS👏SCARED! The tone is solemn and suspenseful. He was just told that without Hermes' help with the root, he wouldn't be able to survive and bring back his men. Circe was dangerous.

He made her swear not to harm him.

Straightaway she began to swear the oath that I required—never, she’d never do me harm—and when she’d finished, then, at last, I mounted Circe’s gorgeous bed …

(Fagles, Book 10)

Please note that she NEVER promised that to his men. His comrades did NOT have moli in their systems. He had no way of truly ensuring their safety in any way from Circe.

He then refuses to eat or speak, literally "lost in grim forebodings". If he "just got laid", then why isn't he happy? Not many men can say that a goddess CHOSE to have sex with them. He did it to get his men turned back. It was an exchange. I don't think Circe is "Evil" so maybe it slipped her mind. Or yes, she could've thought, "Hey, I got what I wanted. He's handsome enough. Homer never shuts up about how hot this guy is He hasn't brought up the pigs yet. I'll just let this play out. Maybe HE forgot. I don't have to do anything." We don't know. But Odysseus probably felt like he got deceived.

"Hey, I did my part of the deal. I slept with you. Now do yours."

She pressed me to eat. I had no taste for food. I just sat there, mind wandering, far away … lost in grim forebodings. As soon as Circe saw me, huddled, not touching my food, immersed in sorrow, she sidled near with a coaxing, winged word: ‘Odysseus, why just sit there, struck dumb, eating your heart out, not touching food or drink? Suspect me of still more treachery? Nothing to fear. Haven’t I just sworn my solemn, binding oath?’

So she asked, but I protested, ‘Circe— how could any man in his right mind endure the taste of food and drink before he’d freed his comrades-in-arms and looked them in the eyes? If you, you really want me to eat and drink, set them free, all my beloved comrades— let me feast my eyes.’ So I demanded.

(Fagles, Book 10)

He doesn't trust her despite what she had told him that he should when they sleep together. He has figured out that while she will not hurt him, his men were not a part of that oath, the men he was trying to protect in the first place.

She is then moved by how they rejoice when they see one another again. While turning people into animals for funsies isn't cool and coercion is fucked up, I think she comes to see this group as not quite friends but I think she did find them entertaining in a way.

This is very strange but I've seen some folks say that since Odysseus was pissed at Eurylochus for still not believing him about Circe is proof that "Oh he was trying to defend her!". Which??? Uh, Eurylochus was literally questioning his leadership as a whole. Calling him reckless and shit. He is captain and he's the King, he can't let that shit slide. The text literally says "Mutinous". Also if I had to sleep with someone I did not want to especially if it was to save my friends and I got called names afterward I'd get fucking pissed too.

Only Eurylochus tried to hold my shipmates back, his mutinous outburst aimed at one and all: ‘Poor fools, where are we running now? Why are we tempting fate?— why stumble blindly down to Circe’s halls? She’ll turn us all into pigs or wolves or lions made to guard that palace of hers—by force, I tell you— just as the Cyclops trapped our comrades in his lair with hotheaded Odysseus right beside them all— thanks to this man’s rashness they died too!

They stay a year. Again it's never stated that Odysseus slept with her that whole time. You could interpret that. (Honestly, I feel Circe would get bored with him? She's a goddess, she's got more important matters than mortal men. And she definitely doesn't love him.)

His men DO have to bring it up that "Odysseus has forgotten his native land." Maybe they thought they could sneak out without her knowing??? I am fucking REACHING but hold on as Telemachus did because he knew Nestor would well, be Nestor and try to coax him with "Have a meal with us! Let me tell you about how badass I used to be in my youth." But to sneak away from a goddess? Without her permission? That won't end too well. Aeolus in the beginning kicked out Odysseus when he tried to ask for another bag of wind. If she didn't want him around, she could literally boot him out. While she didn't force him to stay like Calypso did, she didn't "release" him either.

We don't know if they've been asking for a long time. Odysseus does say to Circe that they have been begging him nonstop, but he could also be saying that to try and convince her. He's good at persuasion. I think while he knew he could rely on her for food, shelter, and good advice, he still didn't feel...SAFE with her. I think he was possibly avoiding her personally.

I think HOW he asks her to leave is important to know as well.

...but I went up to that luxurious bed of Circe’s, hugged her by the knees and the goddess heard my winging supplication: ‘Circe, now make good a promise you gave me once— it’s time to help me home. My heart longs to be home, my comrades’ hearts as well. They wear me down, pleading with me whenever you’re away.’

(Fagles, Book 10)

Throughout all of Homer's works, the characters grasp another's knees when they are desperate and are literally at the other person's mercy. Priam did when begging Achilles for Hector's body back. The man who literally killed his son and was defiling his body by dragging it around. Leodes grabs Odysseus' knees to beg for his life before Ody kills him. If he saw her as a friend, and not a captor, WHY DID HE FEEL THE NEED TO BEG IN ORDER TO LEAVE?! No one, who is in a healthy relationship, has to BEG for permission to leave. Or to "Break up", if you interpret them as still sleeping together.

And even Circe acknowledges that he is there against his will!

‘Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner, stay on no more in my house against your will.

(Fagles, Book 10)

[...]Odysseus, man of many resources, scion of Zeus, son of Laertes, don’t stay here a moment longer against your will

(A.S. Kline, Book 10)

This is probably another reach that you can ignore but the whole "they wear me down", could be trying to appease her. "Look, you're REALLY cool, it's actually my crew that wants to leave hahahah please don't kill them"

I mentioned before how Telemachus snuck away from Nestor but that was simply out of necessity because he needed to go home now. Not rest for the night. NOW. Nestor is just everyone's grandpa. Menelaus kind of talked more but Telemachus is very straight up in "Please I have to go now" and Menelaus immediately got things ready for him. He never has to beg and clasp his knees. Telemachus was never afraid. Menelaus is a fun uncle and Helen is your cool auntie.

Back to Circe! She tells him instructions for the underworld, they were in her bedroom. But that might've been the only way to speak with her. As even Penelope is usually away from the suitors when they are in her halls, Circe may have done the same. The text never states she played hostess physically. If she was hosting in the halls during the day, why did Odysseus wait until night to talk to her? He could've just asked her while she was on her throne in front of everyone. (He did so with the Phaeacians)

Or maybe he went alone because she only swore an oath to not harm him and so he didn't want his men near if she decided she didn't want to let them go. I could be missing something here so feel free to say something. Idk if this was a pride thing on how "I don't want others to see me beg".

She has info he needs in order to go home as well. She tells him to go to the Underworld.

She gave him new fine clothes and put on pretty clothes herself but that doesn't mean they had sex. Nausicaa gave him nice clothes as well but he never slept with her.

Then he leaves. Immediately. Not even doing a headcount as he didn't realize one of his men had died. (That was negligence on his part but he wanted out) He booked it, to the UNDERWORLD BY THE WAY. Circe even had to sneak the animals he needed for the sacrifice. Odysseus even basically said "She's a goddess. She can do things mortals can't" at the end of the book. And it almost feels...Numb? Solemn? Neutral? Gives a "It is what it is" vibe.

But Circe got to the dark hull before us, tethered a ram and black ewe close by— slipping past unseen. Who can glimpse a god who wants to be invisible gliding here and there?

(Fagles, Book 10)

She’d slipped past us with ease, for who can see a god move back and forth, if she has no desire to be observed?

(Johnston, Book 10)

She's a goddess. She has magic. She can do whatever the fuck she wants.

NOW ON TO BOOK 12!!! That was long! GET A SNACK AND WATER! LUCKILY THIS'LL BE SHORTER!

In Book 11, Odysseus swears, upon all his loved ones in Ithaca, to Elpenor that he'd give him a proper burial as he's been "unwept, unburied". So in Book 12, he sails back to Aeaea to fulfill his promise.

But you know what's funny to me?

He didn't tell Circe he was there.

He didn't even go to greet Circe himself. He sent his men to go get Elpenor's body.

The biggest clue that he didn't love/trust her is that if she was his "Affair partner" then why not go see her for "one last night together"?

SHE came out herself and pulled him aside to know what happened and then gave more advice.

I dispatched some men to Circe’s halls to bring the dead Elpenor’s body. [...]

Nor did our coming back from Death escape Circe— she hurried toward us, decked in rich regalia, handmaids following close with trays of bread and meats galore and glinting ruddy wine. [...]

But Circe, taking me by the hand, drew me away from all my shipmates there and sat me down and lying beside me probed me for details

(Fagles, Book 12)

In every translation, it talks about how he sits, and she lounges/lies down. That's not sex 🙃 In some translations, it even says he tried to be with his shipmates but she pulled him away!

So we lay down and slept beside our ship’s stern cables. But Circe took me by the hand and led me away, some distance from the crew. She made me sit, while she stretched out beside me on the ground. 

(Johnston, Book 12)

Then, she gives advice about the sirens, Charybdis, Scylla, and her father's Cattle. He tries to ask if he could save all his men. She scolds him for even thinking he could try. He again books it out of there.

I think we all know it wasn't "love". But I think a lot of people think Odysseus was willing and happy with whatever this was. "Friends with Benefits", if you will. I guess you could see it that way but I will say that makes me feel itchy with the whole power dynamic and fear. I don't think folks who have that arrangement have to beg on their knees to ask if they can leave though.

I mean the entirety of Book 10 gives me the vibes of "Laughing uncomfortably because you don't want to upset the other person". To just grin and bear it.

A lot of this was just putting the text here and picking it apart step by step. What you do with this is up to you. It's rambling while banging pots and pans together.

Maybe you see him as drugged the entire year and still sleeping together, as the moli "wore off". Even then, just because her magic can't affect him, there are plenty of natural concoctions that can be created that can affect mortals.

Maybe you see the entire year as sex work in exchange for shelter and food.

Maybe he was just alongside his men the whole time under her roof and was avoiding her after the exchange. After he got asked by his men to finally leave, he would start to walk up to that room only to freeze and turn around, thinking "One more day won't hurt. Should wait until I know she's in a sympathetic mood".

I beg of you, however, PLEASE understand that there was fear and coercion throughout his entirety on Aeaea. He wasn't staying to get laid. While there is so much going on and too many things that are left vague to really know exactly what happened, it is consistent that he was scared/numb. Lots of people go through with things they don't really want to do just to appease others. There are plenty of situations of sexual trauma where one person goes through something and the other has no idea the other person isn't okay. ESPECIALLY WHEN SOMEONE CAN HARM THE PEOPLE YOU CARE ABOUT AT ANY MOMENT!

Sexual trauma is a very complicated thing and while he was scared, he definitely wasn't as traumatized by her as he was by Calypso. Calypso was a torturous hell while Circe was a year of walking on eggshells. Not comparable but I still think it should be acknowledged. It's wild because I read the Odyssey and kept thinking "Y'all are calling the sex slave a cheater? The guy who slept with a goddess to get his men back? The ultimate simp apparently doesn't love his wife??"

Things I'm adding that shouldn't affect the argument as it is not in the Odyssey but I want to mention as it's a "fun fact": Odysseus' dad was an Argonaut. Laertes probably met Circe as well, (or knew of her) with the whole purifying thing and maybe Odysseus heard his dad tell stories of her. Later myths also have Circe with the habit of turning her crushes (or their lovers) into something with Scylla and Picus.

In conclusion, Yeah, he was afraid of her. At least to an extent. And don't pull the whole "Ancient men didn't get raped". Male victims exist and deserve compassion for what was done to them and women are capable of sexual abuse. If you think otherwise, you are not a true feminist and Fuck you. I said in the beginning this'll be casual and I don't wanna write a fancy ending. You can still think Circe is neat but you have to know that this was fucked up.

If you think a lot of this is bullshit or wanna give more context or wish to yell with me but still know he wasn't alright on Aeaea, cool. If you want to point out mistakes or something I should keep in mind with interpretations then feel free to say so but give text evidence. If you try and bring up the Telegony and/or Madeline Miller's Circe, fuck clean off. This is Homer. If you call Odysseus a whore and not the malewife he canonically is I'll start biting. 😤

[taytjiefourie]

Show Don't Tell: Sadness

Hey there, fabulous folks! I'm thrilled to have you back for another exciting day of my 'Show Don't Tell' series! Today, we're delving into the complex emotion of sadness, and I can't wait to explore this topic with you all.

Let's start by recapping why 'Show Don't Tell' is crucial in creative writing. When we show instead of telling, we allow our readers to truly experience the story firsthand. It's like sharing a delicious slice of pizza with a friend instead of just describing how it tastes. By showing, we can immerse our readers in the story and create a more captivating experience that brings the narrative to life in their minds.

Now, what is sadness?

Sadness is a powerful emotion that we all experience at some point in our lives. It's a feeling of deep sorrow or unhappiness, often caused by loss, disappointment, or failure. Sadness is an essential emotion to portray in storytelling because it allows the reader to connect with the characters on a deeper level. When we see characters experiencing sadness, we can empathize with them and understand their struggles.

Dialogue

Today we're starting off with dialogue! and oh boy, can I tell you a thing or two about dialogue in creative writing! See, dialogue is more than just two characters talking to each other - it's a powerful tool to reveal the inner emotions of your characters without having to explicitly state them. That's right, you can show, not tell, how your character is feeling just by the words they speak and the way they say them.

By carefully crafting dialogue, you can hint at a character's inner thoughts and feelings without spelling them out. You can use word choice, tone, pacing, and other elements to convey emotions that your readers can pick up on, even if your characters don't outright state what they're feeling.

For example, if a character is feeling nervous or anxious, they might speak in short, clipped sentences or stutter when they talk. If they're feeling angry or frustrated, they might use sarcasm or speak in a raised, forceful tone. And if they're feeling sad or defeated, they might use a subdued tone, speak slowly, or trail off mid-sentence.

By showing these emotions through dialogue, you're allowing your readers to draw their own conclusions about how your characters are feeling, rather than simply telling them outright. So, the next time you're writing dialogue, remember that it's not just about what your characters are saying, but how they're saying it.

Here are some ways to show your character's sadness through dialogue:

Speaking softly or in a subdued tone

Using a slow, hesitant delivery

Repetitively apologizing or expressing guilt

Avoiding eye contact

Using self-deprecating humor or dialogue

Asking for reassurance or validation

Using a trembling or shaking voice

Asking rhetorical questions to express confusion or hopelessness

Talking about loss or past regrets

Expressing disappointment or disillusionment

Using passive language, such as "I guess" or "I don't know"

Reflecting on negative feelings, such as shame or worthlessness

Using a quivering or choked voice

Expressing helplessness or powerlessness

Using long pauses or trailing off mid-sentence

Using a resigned or defeated tone

Expressing feelings of isolation or loneliness

Using negative self-talk or dialogue

Avoiding conflict or difficult conversations

Using a monotone or flat voice to convey sadness.

Making self-pitying statements, such as "Why does this always happen to me?"

Using expressions of regret, such as "I wish I had done things differently"

Expressing a lack of motivation or energy, such as "I just can't seem to get out of bed in the morning"

Talking about feeling overwhelmed or burdened by responsibilities

Using hesitant language, such as "I'm not sure if I can handle this"

Talking about feeling lost or directionless in life

Using indirect statements to avoid confronting difficult emotions, such as "It's just been a tough day"

Expressing a sense of hopelessness or despair, such as "What's the point anymore?"

Using figurative language to convey sadness, such as "It feels like a weight on my chest"

Talking about past traumas or painful memories

Using vague or noncommittal language, such as "I don't know how I feel right now"

Talking about feeling disconnected or disengaged from the world around them

Using self-criticism or self-blame, such as "I should have seen this coming"

Expressing a sense of longing or nostalgia for happier times

Using metaphors or similes to convey sadness, such as "I feel like a balloon slowly deflating"

Talking about feeling rejected or unloved by others

Using evasive language to avoid talking about difficult emotions directly

Expressing a sense of frustration or resignation, such as "It is what it is"

Using repetition to emphasize feelings of sadness, such as repeating "I just can't do this" multiple times.

Setting/Scenery

Let's talk about how to use the environment to create and convey sadness in creative writing. One way to use the environment to create a sad mood is through the use of imagery. Imagine a scene where the character is walking down a street on a rainy day. The sound of the rain hitting the pavement, the gray sky overhead, and the slick roads all work together to create a sense of sadness and melancholy. By describing the environment in detail, we can show the reader that the character is feeling down without ever having to tell them directly.

Another way to use the environment to convey sadness is through the use of color. For example, if the scene is set in a funeral home, we might describe the walls as a dull gray or beige, the curtains as heavy and dark, and the lighting as dim and muted. These details can all work together to create a sense of heaviness and sadness.

Using the environment can also be an effective way to create contrast and highlight the sadness in a scene. For instance, describing a bright and sunny day while the character is feeling down can help to emphasize their emotional state.

I've got a fantastic list of ways to use scenery and setting to indirectly show sadness:

Describing the weather as gray, rainy, or gloomy

Using dark or muted colors in the description of the setting

Creating a sense of isolation or emptiness in the environment

Using silence or a lack of sound to create a sense of loneliness or sadness

Describing the setting as abandoned or neglected

Using a stark or barren landscape to create a feeling of despair

Using symbolism in the setting, such as wilted flowers or broken objects, to convey sadness

Setting the scene in a place that is traditionally associated with sadness, such as a graveyard or hospital

Creating a contrast between the beauty of the setting and the sadness of the character's emotions

Describing the setting as chaotic or disorganized to mirror the character's internal turmoil.

There's another way to show a character's sadness - by having them directly interact with the setting:

Tracing their fingers along the rough surface of a wall

Sitting slumped or huddled in a corner

Staring off into the distance with a blank expression

Running their hands through grass or foliage absentmindedly

Letting raindrops fall on their face without moving

Slowly dragging their feet as they walk through the environment

Clenching their fists or gripping objects tightly

Kicking or throwing objects in frustration or anger

Covering their face with their hands or hiding their eyes

Leaning their head against a window or wall with a defeated expression

Tightly hugging a pillow, stuffed animal, or other comfort item

Pulling their knees up to their chest while sitting on the ground

Tearing apart flowers or other delicate objects

Trashing their surroundings in a fit of rage or despair

Moving through the environment slowly or aimlessly with no clear destination in mind.

I've also got some awesome details that'll help you convey sadness through scenery alone:

Weather: A gloomy, overcast day with drizzling rain can create a melancholic atmosphere, reflecting the character's sadness.

Time of Day: A dreary morning or mid-afternoon slump can convey a sense of sadness and lethargy.

Location: Abandoned or empty places, such as an old churchyard or an abandoned building, can create a sense of loneliness and isolation.

Objects: Neglected, dusty, or unused objects can symbolize the character's neglect or emotional emptiness.

Colors: Dull, muted colors like gray, brown, or beige can create a sense of emptiness and sadness.

Noises: Soft, somber sounds like gentle rain or the sound of distant waves crashing can create a sense of tranquility and melancholy.

Crowds: A crowded, bustling place like a shopping mall or a subway station can highlight the character's sense of detachment and loneliness.

Architecture: Decaying, crumbling buildings or abandoned factories can symbolize the character's emotional decay and emptiness.

Nature: A desolate or barren landscape, such as a desert or a frozen tundra, can evoke a sense of desolation and despair.

Animals: Sad or pitiful animals, like a stray dog or a sickly bird, can evoke a sense of vulnerability and sadness.

Action

Now it's time to talk about how actions can convey a character's sadness in a fictional story. Instead of saying, "He was sad," show us his actions, and we'll figure it out on our own. It's like when your best friend tells you she's fine, but you can tell from the slump of her shoulders and the frown on her face that she's definitely not fine.

For example, let's say your character just lost a loved one. Instead of telling the reader outright that the character is sad, show it through their actions. Maybe they're:

Staring blankly at a picture of the person they lost.

Lying in bed all day, refusing to get up or talk to anyone.

Going through the motions of daily life but without any joy or enthusiasm.

Avoiding anything that reminds them of the person they lost.

Crying uncontrollably at unexpected moments.

Losing their appetite or neglecting personal hygiene.

Snapping at loved ones who try to comfort them.

See how much more powerful and engaging that is than simply stating, "He was sad"? It allows the reader to empathize with the character and experience their sadness alongside them.

Here are a few other examples:

Slumping or drooping posture

Avoiding eye contact or looking down

Crying or tearing up

Frowning or looking solemn

Loss of appetite or overeating

Inability to sleep or sleeping too much

Lack of interest in activities they normally enjoy

Neglecting personal hygiene or appearance

Withdrawing from social situations

Clenching fists or tensing muscles

Moving slowly or sluggishly

Hesitating or procrastinating

Avoiding conversations or communication

Self-harm or destructive behavior

Engaging in risky behavior

Substance abuse or excessive drinking

A lack of energy or motivation

Losing track of time or being forgetful

Becoming easily frustrated or irritable

Exhibiting a lack of enthusiasm or passion for life

Remember that if a character is feeling sad and depressed, they might stop taking care of themselves, neglect their hygiene, and lose interest in their hobbies. They may also isolate themselves from others, withdrawing from social situations and avoiding conversations.

Body Language

Body language is a huge part of showing emotions in creative writing, and sadness is no exception! The way a character holds themselves, their posture, and their movements, can all tell the reader a lot about how they're feeling.

For example, imagine a character who has just received some terrible news. They might slump their shoulders, avoid eye contact, and wring their hands. These actions convey their feelings of defeat, sadness, and worry without the writer having to tell the reader directly.

Body language can also be used to create tension and conflict between characters. If one character is sad and another is trying to comfort them, the way they position themselves in relation to each other, the way they touch each other or don't touch each other, can all convey different emotions and create a deeper sense of meaning in the scene.

Here! I'll provide you with a short list of ways body language can convey sadness:

Drooping or slumping shoulders

Hunching over or curling up into a ball

Clasping or wringing hands

Biting or licking lips

Rubbing or covering eyes

Frowning or furrowing eyebrows

Tilting the head downward

Avoiding eye contact or looking down

Crossing arms or legs

Gazing into the distance or staring off into space

Sighing heavily or audibly

Slow or shuffling movements

Trembling or shaking

Fidgeting or restlessness

Wrinkling or rubbing the forehead

Holding oneself or self-soothing gestures

Stiff or tense posture

Lack of facial expression or a neutral expression

Slow or lack of movement

Deep, heavy breathing

A weak or feeble voice

Avoiding physical touch or contact

Shrinking or pulling away from others

Failing to respond or acknowledge others

Refraining from smiling or laughing

Breaking eye contact quickly

Pacing or fidgeting

Yawning excessively

Looking tired or fatigued

Crying or tearing up

Point of view

Let me tell you about the power of using point of view in creative writing to show a character's sadness indirectly. Point of view is all about the perspective from which the story is told, and it allows us to see the world through our character's eyes. By exploring our character's inner thoughts, inner dialogue, and emotional state, we can beautifully convey their feelings of sadness.

A character's sadness can be conveyed through things like:

Negative self-talk, such as self-doubt or self-criticism

Focusing on negative aspects of the environment or situation

Recalling past negative experiences or memories

Expressing a lack of motivation or interest in their surroundings

Having a pessimistic or cynical outlook on the future

Feeling disconnected or detached from others

Feeling overwhelmed or burdened by their emotions

Seeing the world in black and white, without much color or vibrancy

Struggling to find joy or pleasure in activities they used to enjoy

Having difficulty concentrating or focusing on tasks

Feeling hopeless or helpless about their situation

Expressing a desire to isolate or withdraw from others

Being irritable or easily agitated with others

Struggling to communicate their feelings to others

Feeling like they are a burden to others

Expressing a sense of numbness or emptiness

Feeling like they are trapped or stuck in their situation

Being indecisive or hesitant in their actions or choices

Feeling like they don't belong or fit in with their surroundings

Expressing feelings of guilt or shame

Having difficulty sleeping or eating properly

Feeling like they are constantly on edge or anxious

Seeing themselves as an outsider or outcast

Struggling to make meaningful connections with others

Feeling like they are invisible or overlooked by others

Expressing a sense of longing or yearning for something they can't have

Feeling like they are drowning in their emotions

Struggling to find purpose or meaning in their life

Feeling like they are stuck in a rut or a cycle of negativity

Expressing a sense of regret or remorse for past actions or choices.

Sensory Detail

Sensory details can take your writing to the next level! By incorporating sensory details into your writing, you can transport your readers into the world you've created and make them feel like they're a part of the story. Whether you want to evoke sadness, joy, or fear, sensory details are an essential tool for creating an emotional response in your readers.

Specifically, when it comes to showing a character's sadness, sensory details can be particularly effective. By describing their environment using muted colors and soft sounds, for example, you can create a somber atmosphere that resonates with the character's emotions. Additionally, describing physical sensations like a heavy chest or lump in the throat can help the reader understand just how deeply the character is feeling their sadness.

Remember, sensory detail isn't limited to external sensations - sensory detail can also include how the inner turmoil of the character interacts with the outside world, such as associating certain smells with sad memories.

I'll give you guys a few techniques for using sensory detail to show sadness:

Describing the weight of a character's heart or chest

Mentioning the salty taste of tears on the character's lips

Describing the sound of the character's labored breathing or sobs

Noticing the way the character's eyes water or become red

Describing the feel of tears streaming down the character's face

Mentioning the chill or shivers that accompany sadness

Describing the dull ache or pain in the character's body

Noticing the way the character's voice cracks or shakes

Describing the character's inability to eat or taste food

Mentioning the heaviness or stiffness in the character's limbs

Describing the character's difficulty in sleeping or restlessness

Noticing the way the character's hands tremble or shake

Describing the character's detachment or numbness

Mentioning the lack of appetite or desire to eat

Describing the character's exhaustion or fatigue

Noticing the way the character's posture slumps or droops

Describing the character's sensitivity to light or sound

Mentioning the character's lack of interest or enthusiasm

Describing the character's reluctance to leave their bed or room

Noticing the way the character's movements become slower or more deliberate

Describing the way the character's world becomes smaller or more constricted

Mentioning the character's lack of motivation or energy

Describing the way the character's skin becomes pale or sallow

Noticing the character's tendency to withdraw from others or isolate themselves

Describing the character's lack of focus or concentration

Mentioning the character's difficulty in making decisions or taking action

Describing the character's hypersensitivity to smells or tastes

Noticing the character's tendency to cry easily or frequently

Describing the way the character's thoughts become more negative or self-critical

Mentioning the character's lack of interest or pleasure in their usual activities.

Metaphors and Analogies

Metaphors and analogies in creative writing! These tools are like superpowers that allow us to express complex emotions in fun and unique ways. When we use them effectively, we can paint a picture in our reader's mind, making them feel and understand the emotions we're expressing. It's like adding a sprinkle of magic to our writing!

Here's how to use metaphors and analogies to show sadness in our writing! It's like playing a game of compare and contrast, where we compare the emotion to something that's relatable and tangible. For instance, we can describe sadness as a heavy weight on the character's chest, or a dark cloud that hangs over their head. By using these comparisons, we can help our readers to visualize the emotion in a more concrete way, making it easier for them to connect with the character and empathize with their experience.

Let's keep the creative juices flowing and talk about another way to use metaphors and analogies to show sadness in our writing! Instead of just describing the emotion itself, we can also use them to describe the character's actions or behavior. It's like giving our readers a visual representation of how the character is struggling with sadness. For example, we can compare a character who's dealing with sadness to a ship lost in a stormy sea, or a bird with a broken wing. These comparisons not only help the reader to understand the character's emotional state, but also create a sense of sympathy and compassion for their struggle.

Here are some examples for you to look at:

"Her heart was a shattered vase, the pieces impossible to put back together."

"He was a lone tree in the midst of a barren desert, with no hope of ever finding water."

"She felt as if a heavy weight was crushing her chest, suffocating her with grief."

"The sadness she felt was an ocean, deep and vast, with waves crashing over her constantly."

"His sadness was a thick fog, enveloping him in a cloud of melancholy."

"She felt like a bird with broken wings, unable to fly and trapped on the ground."

"His sadness was a never-ending tunnel, with no light at the end and no way out."

"The emptiness inside her was a black hole, devouring everything in its path."

"He was a ship lost at sea, with no sense of direction and no hope of rescue."

"Her sadness was a wildfire, spreading quickly and consuming everything in its path."

It's time to wrap up this post, but don't fret, I'll be back with more writing tips and tricks soon! There are plenty of these post on my tumblr so check them out too! or you can find a more organized version of them all here!

[larkral]

OKAY it's late so we're going to be as efficient as humanly possible here. I've spent pretty similar amounts of time this week writing in Finally (already, always) and As yet unnamed Red White and Royal Blue Soulmates BS (BS stands for Brilliant Shit, btw: I am obsessed with my soulmates concept), so you're going to get some of each!

Two mums

(Simon POV. There is no Baz POV in this story, FYI, so it's going to be SImon from here on out)

We don't even have to sneak out. We just take the keys off of the hook next to the front door and walk right out into the night. It's lovely. On our way to the nearest park, we walk past a community building where a choir is rehearsing, and then further into a bike-walkway. It's lined with trees, and when we get to an area where the zigging of a street gives the pathway a deeper tree cover, Baz tells me to wait under a light and walks determinedly into the trees.  I can see him moving in the shadows. Not, you know, perfectly, but if I look into the trees, there's still a bit of light coming through from the other side. If I let my mind wander, I can sometimes see a too-fast movement or a flicker of a shape that I know in my bones is him.  Then there's a long moment of stillness.  I wonder what he's found. 

RWRB Soulmate BS

(Just diving right into the "if I'm writing a soulmate fic, you better believe it's going to go hard in worldbuilding" of it all right off the bat.)

"I'm not an idiot Nora," Alex says exasperatedly. He swears sometimes she says stuff just so he can shout about it. "They rely so heavily on the idea that their empire was ordained by Divine Right because they've been exclusively letting their children marry their 'soulmates' since the beginning of time, and if those children's 'soulmates' happened to help them expand the reach of their power, then that was just God's will." Alex takes a deep breath. "Why would they ever give that up?" Nora sends a half-shrug his way, and June pats his shoulder.  "You'll just have to hold your breath against the hypocrisy, little bro," June says. "Especially because I'm pretty sure Zhara is going to forbid you from more than a polite sip of champagne."  "Don't I motherfucking know it," he says.

Thanks so much for the tags this week @thewholelemon, @that-disabled-princess, @kiwiana-writes, @bookish-bogwitch, @hushed-chorus,

@forabeatofadrum, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @monbons, @mooncello and @rimeswithpurple !! What a brilliantly active Wednesday it is today! I am *loving* all the things folks are sharing. Crafts and writing and art and life events. I absolutely <3<3 fandom. A+ work everyone!

Since it's the end of the day, I'd like everyone I'm tagging to consider this a prompt to tell me about anything you're doing lately, even if it's completely non-fandom related. <3

@stitchyqueer @confused-bi-queer @raenestee @facewithoutheart @whogaveyoupermission

@cutestkilla @sillyunicorn @basiltonbutliketheherb @roomwithanopenfire @orange-peony

@ileadacharmedlife @asocialpessimist @aristocratic-otter @captain-aralias @run-for-chamo-miles

@petedavidsonscock @artsyunderstudy @carryonvisinata @takenabackbytuesdays @martsonmars

@nausikaaa @nightimedreamersghost @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @ionlydrinkhotwater @wellbelesbian

@shrekgogurt  @palimpsessed @fatalfangirl​ @blackberrysummerblog​ @valeffelees

@j-nipper-95 @youarenevertooold @emeryhall @run-for-chamo-miles

@talentpiper11 @imagineacoolusername

[queenburd]

Cross posted to ao3. Very mild formatting differences. Comments make me happy.

Hey, folks, this one is heavy, long, and full of repetitive text and phrases. While I know that's par for the course with this game, I bring it up because I know writing it made me feel weird at times, and it intentionally leans into its theme of deterioration. Take care of yourselves. We're dealing with the Figurines Ending, the Epilogue, and the Skip button.

If you like my writing, please consider tipping me. I also have commissions and a paypal donation button.

|.|.|.|

The first thing Stanley does, when the reset hits and he finds himself staring at his desk, is pick up the mug that sits on the corner and hurl it out the door of his office. It hits the wall beside the doorframe on the opposite side of the room, and shatters on impact.

“Stanley?! What in God’s name—“

He screams.

It’s a hoarse noise. It’s deep and it’s broken and it hurts to get out, but he screams because there’s something horrible inside him, something he needs to purge. The noise cuts out, and then begins again.

The chair is grabbed next—he hooks his arms around the backrest and lifts the thing to chest height before he flings it with all his strength. A wheel catches on the doorframe to his office and the chair crashes to the floor, hitting the wall with an almighty, horrendous crash and sliding partway across the hideous beige carpet.

“Stanley!”

His chest heaves with fierce, angry panting. His cheeks are wet. Another noise wrenches itself from his throat. Stanley turns to his desk and swipes his arm across everything on it, knocking pencils and papers and pens to the floor. He slams his fists on it. He turns and kicks one of the filing cabinets, turns and paces in the little room like a caged animal.

There is so much built up inside him that he doesn’t know what to do with. All he knows is that he’s going to rip this place apart with his bare hands.

It’s not just anger, you must understand. It’s much more complicated than that. You see, Stanley has just come from the Epilogue.

-

The sand blows around him. The wind is cold and fierce. The sun is unforgiving. The moon is a large lamp in the sky.

And Stanley is alone.

He walks for what feels like eternity. He walks for what seems like mere minutes. He walks towards nothing. He turns in every direction. He puts one foot in front of the other.

And Stanley is alone.

The fire doesn’t warm him. He can’t dislodge the chairs from the ground. There’s sand in his shoes and shirt and mouth. He wraps his arms around his chest and walks and walks.

And he is alone.

-

“Yes, I'm remembering something now. I remember before this whole story got started.

Back then, I was... I was different; I used to make big decisions, I was passionate! I was skeptical! I weighed each decision with profound thoughtfulness.

And then, somewhere along the way, I stopped making decisions.

I became lazy. And I came up with—well—I came up with a character named Stanley, to do my thinking for me. He would make the decisions, he would decide which way to go, I would cheer him on as he collected figurines for no reason.

Why did I invent Stanley? Was I lonely?

Yes, perhaps that's it. Perhaps I needed to imagine I had companionship. And Stanley really did make for a wonderful companion, even if he was a fiction.

But—ahh, I suppose it's grown old. I-I want to think for myself again. I want to go back to how it used to be.

Yes, I can be on my own again. I can do it! I'll be stronger this time. I'll take care of myself. I don't need Stanley anymore.

Oh, but he truly was so much fun to play with!

You know what? Since we're in the Memory Zone, how about one more good memory?

Let's go back, just once, and give Stanley one more run of the office! And then, I'll retire him for good. I did enjoy telling his story—so very much.

Okay, here we go.

This is the story of a man named Stanley.”

-

The Memory Zone is flooded with sand. The bucket does little to comfort Stanley, even as he holds it to his chest. He follows the power cord deeper into the deserted building, feeling numb.

-

[ Narrator? ]

[ Narrator, what are you talking about? ]

[ Can’t you see me? Hey! Hey! Narrator! ]

[ Why won’t you answer me? Answer me, please! ]

[ Narrator! ]

-

“I’ll take care of myself. I don’t need Stanley anymore.”

-

“Jim.”

“Jim.”

“Jim.”

The buttons glow softly. He presses them mindlessly.

“Jim.”

“Jim.”

“Jim.”

What once was a source of amusement leaves an ashy taste in his mouth. The bastard never tried, in the end, to make these buttons work. Like everything else, he half-assed it, then abandoned it when something else caught his interest. Left it to collect dust. Left it to be forgotten, with the rest of the oh-so-precious memories.

With Stanley.

Hurt blooms in his chest. It’s been minutes—it’s been years. Time doesn’t mean anything at all in this stupid game. Nothing means anything. The thousand thousand runs they’ve played don’t mean anything. The conversations they had don’t mean anything. Their friendship doesn’t mean anything.

He doesn’t mean anything.

“Jim.”

“Jim.”

“Jim.”

“Stanley.”

-

“Stop sniggering, Stanley, you’re ruining my take! Oh, it’s no use, we’ll have to start from the top.”

Stanley giggles around the hand he has pressed firmly to his mouth. He wants to be apologetic, and he’s glad the Narrator is involving him in this new promotion for the upcoming update, but the delight in him keeps bubbling over. It’s so rare to see the fellow direct that old familiar vitriol at someone other than Stanley himself. After so long knowing him, hearing him attempt to be menacing and nasty is outright silly.

“Wh—Silly?! You impetuous—Stanley, stop laughing!!”

Sorry, he’s sorry! A little off-balance from his own laughter, Stanley climbs onto the set and adds another tally to the whiteboard there.

“Unbelievable,” the voice mutters while he climbs back off the set and makes sure the camera is still centered on the tripod. “Here I am, trying to make a serious critique of game developer habits, and you demand to be included so I include you, and what do I get? Mockery. Absolutely ridiculous.”

Comments like these do little to dampen Stanley’s spirits, but he does attempt to sober himself. He does, after all, appreciate that the fellow has gone through all the effort to include him in brainstorming this one and setting it up. It was his idea to include the clocks and the tally board, and he really does think the shot is improved for it.

He sits back into the metal folding chair quietly. No more laughing. Promise. He’ll manage it this time.

The Narrator clears his throat. “Right. Let me review the script again.”

Stanley nods. His eyes flick around the small office set, then back to the computer monitor.

Man, has it really been almost nine years? It feels like they’ve been doing this for much longer.

“Well, really it’s only a little more than eight years, if I’m being honest. The original HD game released in October of 2013, so depending on when Ultra Deluxe drops in 2022, it may only be a couple months past the eighth anniversary.”

That’s being a bit generous to the developers, Stanley thinks. Does the Narrator really think it will drop in January?

“Oh, I don’t know, Stanley! I’m guessing, same as you.”

Still. Over eight years. Why does it feel like they’ve been here for much longer?

“Well,” the voice sniffs, “it could be for a number of reasons. Time is relative in the Parable, after all. Then of course there’s the fact you rarely sleep, since you don’t need to, so you get a lot more time than most proper humans would, since the usual human circadian rhythm makes them lose at least eight hours in a day. That’s fifty-six extra hours a week you have over most. Multiply by fifty-two, and then again by eight, and that’s not an insubstantial amount of time, I would say.”

That's fair. That's... shoot, Stanley isn't fantastic with numbers. That's... Fifty by fifty is twenty-five hundred, then six and and two is twelve—

“Twenty-three thousand, two hundred ninety-six hours. Divided by twenty-four, it's an additional 970.6 days, which means over two and a half additional years.”

Did he just pull up a calculator?

“Didn't.”

He totally did. Stanley heard the tapping of old clunky buttons.

There's a derisive sniff. “Yes, I suppose you would be the expert on buttons, and not maths.”

Also, is that two and a half years extra per year, or altogether?

“....I don't know.”

This is gonna give him a headache.

Quite without their meaning to, the both of them begin to chuckle at the same time. It's ridiculous, honestly. They're bickering over math, over time and takes and it's all just so ridiculous.

Eight years, give or take two or possibly twenty. That's how long it's been since Stanley started wandering these halls with little more than a voice for a companion. That's... that's a lot of time together. It's a lot of time for things to change. He kind of likes how things have changed.

And, as the fellow said before, time is relative here. They can and have experienced things on a different scale from how an experience would play out in the real world. Their own individual experiences are different even from each other's, with lost time, pauses between death sequences, loading screens—it's all subjective. Guess Einstein was on to something there. Bet he never imagined it in this kind of context, though.

Still. It's a long time with one other person. The universe spins on, and they have each other.

There's the tapping of keys again, a little soft muttering. He smiles.

He's double-checking the numbers, isn't he?

“No! No, I'm not, thank you!” The defensive tone in the Narrator's words confirm that yes, he is. It's made further obvious by the following deflection. “Now, that's enough of a break, let's get back to work. And no giggling this time, Stanley!”

He clears his throat, and the lights dim on the set. Stanley settles back in the metal chair with a grin, arms crossed.

“What does it mean to be a video game developer?” The voice begins. “It means lying, boldly and brazenly to your audience; promising them release dates that are wildly outside the realm of reality...”

-

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”

Why is he still pressing it? Why can't he stop? Why is Stanley shaking, fingers pressing down on the plastic again and again?

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”

When did the Narrator make this? When did he—and why is it here, with the rest of the discarded buttons? Why would he go through the effort to make something, just to leave it behind?

The button doesn't answer him. He presses it, and presses it, and it says his name until the word loses all meaning.

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”

-

Every time you restart the game, we’ll advance the number of the sequel by 1, and then we’ll pick a new subtitle. That way, The Stanley Parable will never end! And nothing in the game itself will change when you do this, either. Adding more content sounds like work, no need to do that. It’ll just be the same content, recycled again and again and again, with a new title screen! What do you say? Should we go forward with this plan? I like it, but I want you to have a say as well. [Let’s do it]     [Don’t do it]

He stares at the dark screen, but he doesn't really see it.

Stanley feels cored out. There's an emptiness in him that he can't truly comprehend. It hurts, he thinks, but he feels it in a detached sort of way.

The Narrator is gone. Stanley is alone. Yet, even now, he faces choices that are designed around traps for one or both of them. How is that fair?

How is it fair to ask him if he wants to go back to the office, to go back to companionship, when the companion in question has apparently abandoned him? How is it fair to ask him if he wants to drag that person back into hell, when they've supposedly freed themselves from it after years?

-

“How they wish to destroy one another. How they wish to control one another.

How they both wish to be free.”

-

He doesn't want to be alone, in this wasteland. He knows in the end what he's going to choose, and he hates that he does.

He's selfish. He's so, so selfish. His loneliness is more important than the Narrator's happiness, that's what this decision says. It says that he would rather force them both to live through the Parable, again and again, forever, than have the Narrator leave him.

And then, here's the kicker! Is this even Stanley's own choice? Is he coming to the conclusion himself, or is there another force at play, a Player, influencing his decision? He can't know! He only ever knows the Player's presence in the godforsaken Real-Person ending, they only ever fully yank the control from him there. Can he even trust his own mind?

Does... Does it matter?

[Let’s do it]

-

Stanley is not a good person.

-

So. As I said before, reader. Stanley's emotions are a complicated tangle of hurt, anger, despair, and uncertainty. It's almost impossible to tell where to begin when it comes to unraveling it all.

Still, one must do one's best.

-

For as long as the Parable has existed, it has spun around conflict. Taijitu, or yin-yang, is a circle made up of two teardrops, one black and one white, circling each other endlessly. A wheel that turns forever. Opposing forces that will never overtake the other. Always equal, always opposite.

But you recall this, don't you? This isn't new information. We've been here before.

Stanley and the Narrator are equal and opposing forces, circling each other. Stanley makes a choice, and the Narrator responds. Stanley moves forward, and the Narrator tries to pull him back. A battle for control—one only ever responds to the other. Neither of them can claim to want this, but if they didn't want different things, then there would be no game to play.

Time and again, the Parable tests the bond that has been crafted through time and care. Memories are taken. Time is stretched thin as it can go, like a rubber band. Stanley makes a choice, and it brings the Narrator joy or suffering. If he stops, the Narrator will be at peace, but then there will be silence, and silence cannot be tolerated. Silence is the equivalent of inaction.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, this is a game about control, and the lack of it. If you could find happiness through a single choice, but it would bring another person pain, would you do it?

How they both wish to be free.

-

But these two have turned a battle into a dance. There will always be a drop of yin in the teardrop half of yang, and vice-versa.

So how do they fight back? How do they choose to progress, when the wheel turns ever back? Or are they doomed to repeat the cycle forever?

-

When Stanley has had enough of his pacing, when the silence has become too oppressive for him to take, he turns on his heel and sharply faces the open door.

Well? Nothing to say? Nothing at all?

“Well,” comes the bitter retort, slower than expected, “I would ask what you expect this tantrum of yours to accomplish, but that isn't exactly the most constructive comment, is it?”

A hiss escapes through Stanley's bared teeth. That's it?

“What do you want from me?!”

It's desperate. It's hurt. It's confused.

“What have I done, Stanley? I can't make sense of you right now, your mind isn't making any sense!”

Of course he doesn't remember. Of course it's Stanley's job to be the one who remembers, who chooses, who deals with the consequences of both their actions. That's how it's always been, that's—

“Stanley, I know our situation has never been balanced fairly in your favor, but I—“

Stanley storms out of his office and kicks his chair out of the way. He grabs a cardboard filing box off the floor and lifts it over his head before flinging it hard. It hits the cubicle wall by the copy machine and the lid flies off, papers scattering across the floor and box bouncing off the top of the copy machine to fall harmlessly to the floor.

“What has gotten into you?!”

Stanley snarls again, at the open air, the ceiling, wherever he thinks the Narrator might be perceiving him. Never been balanced fairly?! Understatement of the millennia! Speaking of millennia, did the Narrator enjoy his little vacay away from Stanley? Was it fun, “thinking for himself”? Leaving Stanley in the sand with the rest of his discarded little game, his figurines and buttons?

“I—“

Did he come up with new stories? New protagonists? Was he stronger? Was he happier without him?

Did Stanley drag him back to hell?

The silence this time feels distinctly more shocked and hurt. Stanley lets out another noise, pacing across the carpet and then turning to door 429. He lifts his fist and slams hard on it, face twisted up into an amalgamate of pain and anger. He beats his fist on the door again, desperate and despairing.

Say something! Say anything! Fight him! Argue with him! Be angry! Be angry that Stanley was so selfish, that Stanley decided to get revenge for being abandoned, please just—

“I'm sorry.”

He flinches.

“I don't—I don't know what I did, but I think it must have been something terrible. I just can't stop, can I? Even when I'm trying to, to be careful, I can't stop being cruel to you. You're angry with me, I can see that, and you don't—you don't like to be angry, so I—“

The voice trembles. It sounds on the verge of tears. Stanley hits the door again, because it hurts to hear, and that's not fair.

Damn him. Damn his own empathy.

“I'm sorry,” it says again. “Whatever I did, I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you somehow. Do, do you want more endings? I'll make new endings, I'll find a way. I'll find more for you to do, I'll come up with something, please just let me fix it. I'm sorry I don't remember, but I'll fix it.”

Stanley screams hoarsely again. His legs give out and he drops, leaning against the bottom of the door with his fist pressed to it. His chest heaves, shaking sobs that wrack his frame, though there's barely any tears. It's just so hard to breathe.

Stop, stop. Stop. Stop apologizing. Stanley is the one in the wrong here. Stanley turned the wheel back. Stanley tore him from his happy ending.

Didn't he?

“I didn't go anywhere,” the voice responds, distraught. “I never left.”

Then what was that?

“I don't know,” it pleads. “Even if I could go, I wouldn't. I wouldn't leave you behind, you're my best friend. I thought you knew that, Stanley.”

He thought he did, too. But then the voice had called him a fiction again, something dreamed up for companionship, and had decided it didn't need him anymore.

The Narrator is quiet at this, and then he says, very carefully and in a voice terribly controlled, “I only ever thought that when you were frozen with the Skip button.”

-

The Narrator waited, but he was not stagnant. At some point, while Stanley was in a small concrete room, lit with only the glow of a yellow button on a pedestal, the Narrator decided to pass the time by making something new. Surely, when all this was over, when they were back in the office, they would put this behind them and pass the time as before.

For all that the new content for Ultra Deluxe had been a disappointment, hidden in the download were folders and folders of unused assets. It seemed that the developers had had countless ideas, and yet had done little to expand on those ideas, choosing instead to box them away. Well, the Narrator would show them what new content was supposed to look like! Who cared about Ultra Deluxe? No, he would really knock the reviewers' socks off. He was going to make a sequel! Stanley would love it!

When he came back.

If he came back.

No, of course he would come back!

And so time passed, and that was fine. More time meant a chance to perfect his work, to work out his new features and to even perhaps address some of the complaints people had had about the original game. And more time passed and he thought he might make a button that says the name of the player, wouldn't that be rewarding and engaging? Stanley would love that! A button of his own to say his name, wouldn't that just be delightful?

And Stanley stared unseeing at the Skip button, and the Narrator thought to himself, perhaps not. Perhaps Stanley wouldn't care at all.

But that was fine, because there were plenty of new features for him to explore! He'd love the Bucket, surely. All the silly secret Easter eggs, the little references to lore that went nowhere, he'd get a kick out of it for sure! And the figurines! There wouldn't be anything special about them, of course, but the fact they were Stanley! His silly face! Oh, the Narrator would be so excited to see Stanley get them all, and of course Stanley would, because he would do everything. He would find every single one.

And, and the Narrator was so excited for that! Maybe he didn't know how Stanley would react, maybe Stanley would think it all silly, but the sheer fact he would find each one, it would delight the voice to no end. It would say “you found one of them! One of the figurines!”

It would be so much fun! Wouldn't it, Stanley?

Stanley?

Ah. Still frozen. Of course. Not a problem. The Narrator would be here when he got back. The sequel would be here. The figurines would be here.

He would just get everything ready in the meantime.

Wouldn't it be wonderful, when Stanley was here, and able to play? There would be so much for him to explore! He would love the Bucket and finding its secrets, and oh, the figurines! He'd find them all, surely he must. And the Narrator would say “you found one of them!”

And one of them would be by the red and blue doors, and Stanley would probably get that one last, but there was no guarantee, he did like to keep the fellow on his toes, but when he did collect the last one, the Narrator would say “and now the first number equals the last number!” And it would be so exciting! Even though there was nothing special about them, just the experience itself, doing something for the sake of it, was so special, and he'd think about it always.

-

“It was such a wonderful fantasy. And so in his head he relived it again, and then again, and again, over and over, wishing beyond hope that it would never end. That he might always feel this free. Surely there's an answer down some new path, mustn't there be? Perhaps if he played just one more time.”

-

And the Narrator would say, “yes, another Stanlurine under your belt!”

-

“But there is no answer. How could there possibly be? In reality, all he's doing is pushing the same buttons he always has. Nothing has changed. The longer he spends here, the more invested he gets, the more he forgets which life is the real one.”

-

And the Narrator would say, “I haven't stopped thinking about them since you nabbed every last one.”

And the Narrator would say, “science tells us that it's impossible to forget your third time doing anything.”

And the Narrator would say, “No, no I'm not ready to move on! Stop the loading screen!”

-

“And I'm trying to tell him this. That in this world he can never be anything but an observer. That as long as he remains here, he's slowly killing himself. But he won't listen to me. He won't stop.”

-

And the Narrator would say, “We'll do the Memory Zone again from the opposite direction! See how that feels!”

And the Narrator would say, “I want to keep going! What else is there? What came before this?”

And the Narrator would say, “And before everything else, there was your office.”

And he would pause, and then wonder aloud, to nobody in particular, because nobody would be there, “Was there anything else?”

There must have been. He was sure of it. He was sure there was something, or perhaps someone. But that couldn't have been right, you see, because if there was someone, then he wouldn't be alone. He wouldn't be talking to himself, someone would be listening to him. Someone would hear him. That's what—that's what Stanley was for!

But Stanley wasn't doing that. Stanley had not done that for a long time. Had he imagined Stanley? He must have. He imagined many things, after all. Yes, he must have made Stanley up, to listen to him, to have a companion. It's terribly lonely, after all, being a voice without an ear.

Maybe he should move on. Try something else. Maybe that would be for the best. But—oh, but Stanley made him so terribly happy. Just like those wonderful figurines. He loved to think about Stanley's adventures, he loved telling his story so much. Just like the figurines, he'd have to indulge himself.

Just one more time.

-

Just one more time.

-

Just one more time.

-

“It was such a wonderful fantasy. And so in his head he relived it again, and then again, and again, over and over, wishing beyond hope that it would never end. That he might always feel this free. Surely there's an answer down some new path, mustn't there be? Perhaps if he played just one more time.”

-

And the end was never the end. Was never the end. Was never the end.

-

Can you see? Can you see how much they need one another?

-

“I'm sorry, Stanley,” the Narrator says again, sorrowful. “When the game reset, everything was saved. The sequel content, but also the things I found myself saying during the interim. It's all here, somewhere. It's all my fault.”

So he never left?

“Never.”

And Stanley hadn't dragged him from his happy ending?

“No.”

He slumps further against the door. A hand absently lifts and scrubs at his face. So he's just stupid.

“No, I don't think so,” the fellow says generously. “I think you're hurting, understandably so. I think the Parable seeks out ways for us to try to make the other miserable, so that we will keep trying to control each other. You know the song and dance.”

Where it cannot find conflict, it will manifest it.

“Yes. We've been here before, haven't we?”

They have.

-

I asked you, before, how they overcome it. I told you they'd made a battle into a dance instead. How do they do it? How do they choose to progress when the wheel turns ever back?

But you already know the answer. You've already seen it. Don't you remember?

We've been here before.

-

“Stanley, I'm not going to hurt you.”

-

He didn’t want Stanley to be scared of him.

-

“Whatever it is, we can figure it out together.”

-

[ New path, new story. Just me and Stanley. ]

-

If Stanley gave him context, he could get to the memory himself?

-

“I—I can’t recall if I’ve said it before, how grateful I am to you, Stanley.”

-

This time, by the time the hold music has kicked on, Stanley is on the floor, laughing so hard his sides hurt.

-

[ Don't ever. Call yourself DADDY. Again. ]

-

Did he just pull up a calculator?

-

He’s listening. He’s listening, and listening, letting his friend know that they exist, together, the space between them closing again, and for as long as he can he won’t let the narrator be alone in the void.

-

The unwavering strength in his voice feels like an untapped well of passion. Like he’s working to fuel them both through this damnable path, letting Stanley know that yes, yes, they are moving towards something, he has not abandoned him.

-

“Please listen. This is important to me, alright? It’s not your fault.”

-

Stanley's fist has loosened and relaxed against the door. Now it rests there, gently curled, as he thinks.

They have been here a long time, in this game, and he is tired.

So now what?

“Well, now I think I'll close the figurines exhibit, so something like this doesn't happen again.”

The Narrator's voice is rather cool and detached. It lacks distress. It's professional. Words stated in the same way as a script, memorized by heart. Stanley doesn't like it.

He presses his hand flat to the door and rests his temple against it. It's cool against his face.

And after that?

“That's up to you, isn't it?”

Quite without meaning to, Stanley flinches again. The Narrator nearly speaks, before he cuts himself off, seeming to think better of it.

It's hard on the spirit, to be the one who has to make choices. Thinking of what they might mean, what the consequences could mean for others. Certainly, there's power in making decisions, but with that power comes the burden of responsibility. Include the added ordeal of being the one who remembers every consequence, every outcome, and one is left with the distinct feeling that they are being punished. There is no winning here. There is no gaining the upper hand.

He is so tired of making choices.

“Then, perhaps I could convince you to listen to me, and follow direction, for a few minutes.”

Something prickles in the back of Stanley's head in old familiar irritability. He doesn't want to do the story. He doesn't think he can get up.

“I didn't say anything about doing the story, now, did I, Stanley? Close your eyes.”

An innocent enough direction. He obeys, adjusting his position against the door to lean his back against it, hands in his lap.

“Good. Very good, Stanley.”

Still all professionalism. Still lacking familiarity, or anything more than casual approval.

“Now. Take a deep breath. Good. Now let it out, slowly. There you are. Again.”

His breathing steadies and his heart slows. Tiredness gives way to calm.

“Excellent. Now. I'm going to speak, and you're going to listen. That's it. No choices, no paths. Just my voice, and your ear.”

That's not a game.

“No, it isn't. It's a story, and you're my audience. Now. Quiet your mind, there's a good lad.

This is a story about my very good friend Stanley.”

-

“Stanley's had a rough go of it in his life. He likes simple things, like pushing buttons, and drinking coffee completely black. This isn't to say Stanley is a simple-minded fellow, oh no, not at all. In fact, Stanley is one of the most intelligent and compassionate people I know.

The problem is that, for all that Stanley prefers simplicity, he's been put into an impossible position. He's a protagonist of a story.

Now, everyone knows that the best stories aren't the ones where things just happen to a protagonist, but instead the ones where the protagonist plays an active role in progressing the plot. Making choices that result in changing the direction of a story, towards its climax and resolution. It's all well and good that Hansel and Gretel have been left in the middle of the forest, but they choose to be clever and leave a trail of pebbles behind them, before being forced to resort to breadcrumbs—and then of course the choice to use breadcrumbs changes the trajectory of their tale.

The truth is that being a protagonist is anything but simple. Quite without his permission, Stanley has become inundated with responsibility. It isn't an easy life, and it can quite honestly be an unfair lot to give to the fellow.

But if you ask me, there's nobody better suited to the job.

Now, perhaps this is unfair of me to say. After all, I'm not the one who has to make the decisions. All I have to do is tell his story, as a passive observer. Look at him, look at how he struggles, doesn't this make for an incredible tale of overcoming odds? I of course will never have to shoulder the burden he does, so I can say what I please without any regard to his own well-being. Oh, don't give me that look, Stanley, you and I both know it's true. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if I were paid to do it.

Yet I've been watching Stanley for quite frankly a ridiculous amount of time, so long one might call me an absolute creep. It's true! And so I feel I am at liberty to say that, for all that it's an unfair position to be put in, and a terrible burden to carry, there's nobody who carries it like Stanley does.

You see, he makes every choice to the best of his ability. He thinks about its ramifications to the best of his knowledge, and does his best to consider what his decision might mean in the long run. Take this recent choice, for example. He's decided to listen to me, for a few minutes, even though it's in his very nature to take action and to disagree, because he knows that I asked him to. He's chosen to compromise, despite the fact I could press an advantage.

He's done so, because he knows in his heart and in his mind that I care about him. I want him to be happy. He knows, based off prior knowledge and based on his own gut feeling, that listening to me will make him feel better, because he matters to me.

And this is a simple choice, deceptively so, but in its simplicity it is a perfect example of what I'm trying to convey—

That Stanley does everything to the best of his ability, with all the care he can muster, and that no one could ever judge him poorly for doing the best he can.”

-

Stanley doesn't know when he started crying again, body wracked with the force of it. It's quiet, at least. When the Narrator stops speaking, he still feels him all around, comfort on every side.

Does he mean it? Does he really—?

“Of course I mean it,” the voice huffs, faux offense warm in his ear. “Don't you know by now that I mean what I say? Don't you—“ it wavers a little, before pushing on, a touch shakier. “Don't you know how much you mean to me?”

He cries. The sigh is fond, and gentle.

“You're alright, darling. It's alright.”

-

Taijitu. Balance between black and white. The symbol didn't always have the two dots, you know. In the original concept, yin and yang symbolized stillness and activeness of all things in the universe, respectively. The substance of the universe moves as an active force, until it reaches its limit and becomes still; and yet even that stillness reaches a limit, and becomes active again. The dots, added during the Ming Dynasty, have since their inception been a portrayal of how one will always be the source of the other, and so both will always exist. There will always be an interconnected, interwoven, powerful bond between these two forces in flux.

Which doesn't mean much, to those of us who don't study Taoist philosophy or history. Most of us just appreciate the duality of opposites, who cannot help but have a grain of commonality. One does not and cannot overtake the other. Round and round they go, an endless chase.

Or, one might note, a dance between partners. Momentum carried through. Weight supported. Stepping in sync.

The wheel turns, as do the dancers. This is how they succeed. When one slips back, the other grabs them by the hand and guides them forward with the grace that's only gained through years of practice and familiarity. The wheel turns without catching, and neither are caught under its grind, because they're standing on its face, using it as the platform on which they perform only for each other.

-

Stanley dries his eyes and wipes his nose. He's sorry for causing such a mess.

“Please, I've seen you do worse and we both know it. Remember the time you threw every chair and box out the window to see if you could make a ladder back up into the office?”

He laughs weakly. Not one of his brightest moments, admittedly. The Narrator had threatened to navlock every last item in the office down if he tried it again, after.

“Which, of course, only motivated you to try again.”

Yeah. Because he's a bastard.

“That you are, Stanley.” The Narrator chuckles. “Now, up you get. Up, up!” he reinforces, while Stanley sluggishly gets to his feet. “I have a surprise for you!”

Oh boy. That can only be good, he's sure.

He's led through the office to the TSP 2 Expo sign, which has returned to take the place of door 416 for good, it seems. When the Narrator guides him through the display environment, he takes care not to rush Stanley, since the thin monitors and patterned carpet delight him more than he ever thought possible, but it's also clear the fellow is eager to get a move on, to show Stanley something he's sure will knock his socks off.

So when Stanley gets to the Jump circle, displaying twenty-one jumps left, he's distinctly unimpressed.

“Just trust me,” the Narrator says, with nothing but earnestness.

And so he does. He steps into the circle.

“Jump!”

With a barely-there smile, and a roll of his eyes, Stanley jumps.

And then the game resets.

THEENDISNEVERTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDISLOADING

Stanley blinks, looking at his computer monitor, then up. Uh... What?

“Stanley,” the voice says slyly, “when have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

“Now. Jump.”

Stanley's eyes widen. He blinks.

And then he jumps.

He jumps again.

And again.

And then Stanley begins to laugh, utterly befuddled and delighted and surprised and joyful, and the Narrator begins to laugh as well, and the wheel spins on, and so do they.

[gunbun]

this post is about the cultural concerns regarding ffxiv: dawntrail

Hi doods. Activism has brushed up against fandom YET AGAIN but this time it punches me straight in the heritage and this time I wanna talk about it.

I'm a non-status Qalipu Mik'maq, for the record. An Indigenous American, if thou wilt.

I discuss some pretty heavy shit below the cut. I pray it persists across all devices. Please advise if you want me to tag this as something, or block the tags I have used. I do not need anyone to spread this on my behalf, I do not need anyone's defense. I just have some thoughts and I want to think them.

So it's been less than 24 hours since Dawntrail was announced and we got the Keynote.

We're going to Fantasy The Americas! Before Industrialization!

Many people went "oh hell yeah, that's Brazil, this is gonna be great! We don't usually see this!"

On Twitter especially, many MORE people lost their goddamn minds, citing CBU3's prior wobbles with depicting foreign/indigenous persons.

And of course, the White Community Leaders are out in force performing pre-emptive outrage or even asking people to quit FFXIV in light of this announcement.

I'm here to ask folks not to do that.

What follows is my tweet-thread about it.

"It is perfectly okay to be waiting and seeing how Tural is going to be portrayed in Dawntrail. It's okay to have a concern.

It is NOT okay to come out preemptively swinging and performing outrage.

Because blood quanta are their own touchy subject I usually don't bring this up, but I am the class of indigenous person what represents "what's left".

And I fucking tell you now I don't need the opinions of Concerned White People.

I do not need Concerned White People telling me what colonialism is.

I do not need Concerned White People telling me to be mad.

I do need Concerned White People to realise that the above two actions are microaggressive as fuuuuck.

"but Jai, aren't you White?"

colonialism and genocide comes in many forms. this includes forcing indigenous persons to assimilate or be killed.

also stuff like reinforcing the idea that being indigenous is shameful so that when their descendants find out, they deny it."

Thus ended my tweet thread. There's one more tweet linking to qalipu.ca.

So I want to write more about this on Tumblr.

I really want to make sure that folks take a hard look at what they're concerned about and why.

Like… a lot of White Concern about the use of indigenous motifs in Dawntrail is itself a brand of anti-indigenous racism.

Thinking that the MSQ is going to automatically be about the Scions starting a colonialism in Tural? That's a pretty gross thing to say in the same breath y'all complain about Always Fantasy Europe.

Calling "cultural appropriation" when everyday items are displayed and depicted in the manner in which they were/are used (gulal, curry)? Way to exoticise foreign and indigenous cultures by thinking that everything they make, wear, use, or eat is something of Deep Cultural Significance that Cannot Ever Be Shared With Outsiders. Saris and salwar kameez are just as culturally significant as skirts and slacks. Moccasins are just shoes.

And moreover, getting preemptively Concerned when thus far THERE IS LITERALLY NO NEED TO BE CONCERNED is actually kind of beyond the pale. I haven't seen many indigenous folks and/or folks from South America being anything but pleased that this time The Americas gets a cool pastiche like Europe, Asia, and India have gotten in the past. There's an undercurrent of "oh no, I hope it's not bad stereotypes" which is ABSOLUTELY OKAY. Reblog and retweet what THOSE people are saying. Do not add commentary.

Preemptively saying "you're worried" about your South American/Indigenous friends with zero indication that they're bothered? Come the actual fuck on. We are not a monolithic group that you can "be concerned" for to get a pat on the back later as a Good Person. Do not Perform the I'm A Good Person And The Worst Thing You Could Do is CALL Me A Racist dance.

Don't "get ahead of the discourse". Not every conversation needs your fucking input. Shut your mouth.

What is and isn't an Offensive Portrayal of Indigenous Americans is a lot more nuanced than most people who like to perform outrage make it out to be.

We can and will speak up for ourselves. Share our words and our concerns if you must. Do not go and distill our words and turn us into the monolith you hide behind to perpetuate white saviourism and neocolonialism.

We aren't a monolith of poor uneducated people who don't understand what the europeans did that need to be uwu protected.

[bleachbleachbleach]

Reading Update

Not Bleach-related, but since this is where I've been putting my writing updates, in my mind it's also where my reading ones should go. I basically only get to read things May-August, so I've been on a tear. But I keep reading things I don't end up liking? Which, HELP. WHY.

It makes me feel like such a hater, or someone who's too closed-off to things outside of my expectations that I automatically, anti-intellectually hate it, but then I'm like, okay, but I have not picked up a single fanfic this year that I did not think was brilliant. I have seen three movies this year I thought were brilliant (Fancy Dance, Evil Does Not Exist, and the Haikyuu movie, the last of which is definitely 100% like the other two)! I have read a lot of really fantastic article-length creative nonfiction that I also found brilliant!

MAYBE I JUST DON'T LIKE BOOKS.

Books I Really Liked

The Souvenir Museum - Elizabeth McCracken

Flux - Jinwoo Chong

Run Me To Earth - Paul Yoon

Shadow Life - Hiromi Goto

I know I just said "not Bleach-related," I actually think some Bleach folks would be into a lot of these, depending on where your specific interests within Bleach lie.

The Souvenir Museum had fabulous character work, and I love what I'm beginning to feel is something signature about McCracken, in that most of these stories were realist New England fiction and then out of the blue she slid one in there that was sorta-supernatural and also about cannibalism. Love that for her! Love that for me.

Flux is a speculative time travel thriller, but where it stands out is how much trust it places in its audience to follow along and hop in medias res with all these characters and premises. There's no extraneous exposition or explainers; it just drops you in the deep end and it's so much fun. There's also a lot in this book that is about TV and fandom and while I usually find it hard to buy into depictions of these things this book gets it so, so right for me. And the dialogue is fantastically tight and snappy and so full of life--I loved Part 1 in particular, and the book is worth it just for that!

Run Me To Earth is beautiful. Trenchant, haunting. Each character feels like a small poem, living and breathing and doing their best to avoid unexploded ordinances while riding a motorbike. And bonus Inuzuri vibes for me

(And Shadow Life I already talked about here. That's the one where a lady traps Death inside of her vacuum cleaner.)

Books I Am Actively Annoyed By

All That’s Left Unsaid - Tracey Lien

Your Driver is Waiting - Priya Guns

The Thousand Crimes of Ming Tsu - Tom Lin

AKA "maybe I just don't like genre fiction." These were a mystery, lesbian thriller, and western, respectively, and the whole time I was basically like, "we're really just doing this, huh?" In each of these, the character work wasn't strong enough to make the story, and I guess from each I expected more critical engagement with the genre? And not "we're going to un-self-consciously depict and then slaughter a bunch of bloodthirsty Indians because THAT'S WHAT WESTERNS DO." These were all books that sounded theoretically interesting to me but in practice were very not.

Nonfiction That I Wish Had Been Better

Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals - Alexis Pauline Gumbs

Dear Elia - Mimi Khuc

What We Talk About When We Talk About Rape - Sohaila Abdulali

Mott Street - Ava Chin

How to Read Now, Elaine Castillo

Eating Wildly - Ava Chin [DNF]

I think I'm just a pop nonfiction hater, because my issue with all of these is that they often felt like too-superficial treatments of their subject or seemed extremely (sometimes intentionally) undercited. Multiple of these kept making assertions about having developed an original thesis/practice or never having seen X in the world, when that's simply not true. These just make me think about all of the stylistically brilliant, incredibly thoughtful creative nonfiction being published online/in magazines, and how pale these book-length treatments feel in comparison.

(Almost) Everything Else

River East, River West - Aub Rey Lescure (this is the Naruto hentai book)

Our Missing Hearts - Celeste Ng

I Would Meet You Anywhere - Susan Ito

Tea: History, Terroirs, Varieties - Kevin Gascoyne

Bowlaway - Elizabeth McCracken

Book I Could Not Physically Read Because I Hated it So Much I Couldn't Stand It

The Leftover Woman, Jean Kwok

Future Reads

Four Treasures of the Sky - Jenny Zhang

Pnin - Vladimir Nabokov

Miko Kings, LeAnne Howe

A Bestiary - Lily Hoang

[sublimecatgalaxy]

elliot euphoria, prompt 10 please? tysm :)

Of course beautiful, I'm actually back in my fike phase so this is perfect timing!! Also thanks for being the only participant! You get an award 🥇

"Hey," Elliot steps into the bathroom, brows drawn together tightly, "you okay?" He asks, lowering himself down onto the floor beside me, nudging me with his hip as his arm wraps around me to rest on the tub behind us.

"My friends left, I don't have a way to get home." I whimper, burying my face in my hands, surely smudging my makeup all over my eyes and cheeks. He tuts, squishing me briefly to his side before rubbing my arms soothingly.

"What assholes." He chastises and sends me a soft smile, dark eyes flickering back and forth between my teary ones. "Hey, if it makes you feel better, all of my friends left too."

"Why are people leaving us? We're so cool." I whimper, the alcohol in my system only making me more pathetic and worsening the abandonment issues dwelling in my brain right now.

"That's right." He laughs, head tilting cutely at me as he reaches over to drag his thumb beneath my eyes, collecting the teary mascara collecting on my skin. "Are you a little drunk?" He asks kindly.

"A lot-tle drunk." I snort, taking a deep breath and pulling the edge of my dress further down my thighs with a deep, disappointed huff.

"Alright." He sighs, leaning away from me to reach into his pocket, pulling out his keys and jangling them in front of my face. "I can drive you home if you want? Or we can just camp out on this random persons bathroom floor?" He offers and my chest rumbles in laughter as I lean into him.

"The tub would be more comfortable." I mutter, reaching over to pat the porcelain behind us as he chuckles once more, tightening his grip protectively around my shoulder as my eyes shut. I feel like I'm wobbling back and forth even though I'm completely stable, Elliot's hands grounding me.

"You're funny. I like you." He grins and if I wasn't spinning right now, I'd attempt to kiss him but I know damn well that if I try right now, my aim will be completely off.

"I like you." I hiccup, tucking my head into his shoulder. "You won't leave like the rest of them right?" I ask, intertwining our fingers as he nudges my chin up so he can look down at me.

“Hey, look at me. I'm not going anywhere.” He grins as if it's the simplest thing in the world and he gives me a simple shrug. "I literally have no where else to be but right here." His words warm my heart, my nausea and headache dissipating momentarily as he laughs. "Or in the tub."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane28282 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi @crunchytoenailsyum@glizzymcguirex @beth123lg @melovesmut @rafecameronswhore @ariianelle @write-from-the heart @vampviolets@haylee-e @honee-chai-tea @lokiandbuckywife

@officiallyunofficialperson@heyaitsklaudia@rosepetalsparks @bluetreecloud20 @scenesofobx @double-shot-of-tequila @1dluver13xx @colbysbrocks @iamasimpingh0e @loveshineslikethesky @id-3-kbro @diorsitgirl @errorfound101-allideasburnedout @neverwillknowme18 @ellyskey @taylors-folk @loversjoy @myaloveee @thyris-is @lagataprrr @aaaaslaaaan @witxhy-lexx @minjix @luvroseee @tee-swizzle @savageneversaw @admiringlove @hysteriahall @piceous21 @starlightandfairies @igotmajordaddyissues @drewstarkey-wife1

[darth-sonny]

Hi Sonny ! I just read all the post I could find on your Prime Leo Au (though I'm not sure I found everything... I don't know if you ever explained why Kraang Prime needed an Host in the first place). And it gave me thoughts !

First about why Kraang Prime wouldn't want Donnie as an Host despite his smart (yes I know we're well past that but bear with me please ?), there's also that Donnie's knowledge and smarts is primarily on machinery, engineering and programing. But considering that Kraangs rely much more on biological means for their technology, that really wouldn't match well. And since I'm a fan of the Medic Leo headcanon, I also headcanon as interested and good at anatomy, biology and biochemistry. So even there he's a better fit for Kraang Prime that Donnie.

Second, remember that 4 (?) pages comic where we see Prime completely possessing Leo and explaining that Leo can't hear them coz in a dream world etc. It made me thought, what if Raph tried to mind meld Leo right then and there in an attempt to reach out to him. Except it doesn't reach Leo of course coz he's in too deep but it does reach Kraang Prime who's in front... And what if Kraang Prime decided to let it happen ? So Raph just mind meld with it for a few seconds ? Wouldn't that be fuck up or what ? (oh and Prime would be a bastard about it too commenting things like "oh~ it tingle", "You wish to enter right ? Very well I'll allow it")

Ans I know this one won't happen officially in the story (coz if so they would realize Leo's touch aversion wayyyy before Leo himself told them) but if the Fam does enter Leo's Dream World, imagine if Prime, that sick bastard, go "visit" Leo at the same time. I already had that idea as soon as I read about the Dream World but it got back full force when I read how Prime was really "touchy" with Leo, making him uncomfortable. There isn't 1 person in this massive family that wouldn't snap seeing this and I would be here for it.

(In fact, if you're still taking art suggestion, I think that it would be very cool if you could draw the moment where Kraang Prime is there "greeting" the Bros in the Dream World while having his hands on a Leo that is frozen in discomfort while the Bros are also frozen but in shock and stupor because they are still processing what they are seeing. Only if you want of course 👉👈 👀)

another long folks strap in!!

also hii @louve-garoue !!

1.) the answer on why Prime needs a Host: it's honestly easier commanding armies when you have a physical body to help you do that, yknow??

2.) yep! when there's an entire race of aliens who's tech is biorganical, it makes sense taking control of someone who knows how the body works in every aspect. also, to Prime, Donnie is just a smarter than everage baby sooooo

3.) shoot! i legit forgot about mind melding when i made that!! but i'm gonna have to disagree with you; the mind meld trick wouldn't reach Leo at all, and Prime isn't going to let anyone in to try and talk to Leo and help break him out. they'd be a huge dick to Raph about that and flaunt it ("awww, our former brute can't reach the Host~, how...tragic")

4.) ooooooooooo, that's gooood!!! it won't happen in the story "canon"-wise like you said, but it is still a good prompt (maybe i'll write it one day, who knows..). Prime just....forcibly and creepily touching Leo while the fam watches and they can't do anything about it and it pisses them off something good is just *chef's kiss*

for the drawing request, here's Prime playing with Leo's mask tails (pretend that they're looking at the fam while they do this, it was three in the morning when i finished and i straight up conked out)

[pheita]

Flash Fic Friday: Count the Days

yay, still in time despite migraine yesterday @flashfictionfridayofficial

I totally blame my sis for this one, with her love for those werewolf romance novels out there.

So, here we are. I know some folks wanted to be tagged in anything I write, so @cljordan-imperium @bee-barnes-author @writingamongther0ses

The cold, crisp morning air filled her lungs as Idalia stood on the small balcony outside her room and took a deep breath. Summer was slowly winding down and turning into fall, which meant the next gathering of the clans. She was reluctant to admit that she was already counting the days until then, because this year she was old enough to come along.

There was a knock at the door, the manner revealing her mother.

"Ida, are you awake yet?"

"Yes, I'll be right down."

She took another deep breath and then went back inside to get dressed for the day. Luckily, she still had the day off and could enjoy it.

Once in the kitchen, she found her mother staring longingly at the coffee machine, which was slowly bubbling away, and somewhere in the house her father and younger brother were rumbling around.

"Rough night?"

Her mother nodded slowly. Night watches were always the most exhausting for everyone, especially at this time of year.

"There's our sunshine," her father's voice sounded behind her, far too cheerful and awake for the time of day.

Idalia put her head in her neck with a groan.

"What do you want me to do for you now?"

"Can you take Collin to school?"

Blinking, she turned and looked at her father. Even though he was more than a head taller than her and a spitting image of The Rock, he looked as insecure as a little schoolboy.

"What happened?"

"We don't know yet," her mother explained, "But some of the other guards found strange tracks in the south of the territory last night. Don't match any kind of were-being we know of."

"That's why they're all being called together," her father added.

Idalia nodded slowly. That made sense. Unknown werebeings in their territory was something the Alpha needed to take care of and of course he needed the knowledge of the older members.

"Do you think it's connected to the reunion? We're hosting it this year, and it's nothing unusual that it attracts strange creatures."

Her father smiled proudly and hugged her.

"I've had that thought too. We'll see."

She felt his tension in the embrace. Whatever was found was worrying everyone more than they wanted to admit.

"All right, I'll take Collin to school. Do you want me to get groceries while I'm at it?"

"That would be great," her mother sighed and left the guard post at the coffee machine to get a pen and paper.

"Dad! I've got to go!"

Collin rumbled down the stairs as only an overgrown 14-year-old could and grabbed one of the ready-made toasts from the kitchen table. Idalia took the shopping list from her mother and pushed Collin out the door.

"I'll take you today, important clan business."

"Cool, are we taking the other way?"

She grinned at the question. The other way was the road over the mountains with all the curves where you could slide so delightfully. A glance over her shoulder told her that her parents hadn't heard and hastily closed the front door.

"Quick, before they realize what you asked."

Toast in his mouth, Collin tossed his backpack into the backseat and got in.

"And already nervous about the clan meeting?" he grinned broadly.

"Cheeky puppy."

"I'm just asking, everyone else is talking about nothing else."

She gave him a sideways glance as she adjusted the rearview mirror.

"Do I look like the others?"

He wrinkled his nose and chuckled.

"Nah, you're not as crazy about finding your mate as the rest. Luckily."

"Luckily?"

The agonized groan spoke entire book lines.

"The girls in my class don't know any other subject at the moment. What it's like when they get their wolf, what it's like when they find their mate. Blah blah blah."

Collin's eye roll was something Idalia could well understand, it got on her nerves back then too.

"Let me guess, it's the popular girls who talk about it so loudly."

His grumble confirmed everything. So, it was business as usual. With a mischievous grin, Idalia took the turn to the mountain road and got an amused snort in response. Collin knew that if they were going to slide down the road like a rally driver, Idalia needed all the attention she could get. She had to smile more when she thought about how her father used to do that when she was little.

They had just arrived at the foot of the hill when something darted across the road at such an inhuman speed that Idalia could only steer to the side. They came to a screeching halt a few meters further on and both looked back.

"Holy shit, what was that?" asked Collin.

"I have no idea," she answered honestly, but something told her that was what the clan was sitting together for.

She quickly typed a message to her parents that something was on the move in the southwestern clan territory and tried to calm down. Once more she looked over her shoulder behind her where the strange creature had crossed the road and was shaken. Something told her it wasn't the last time she'd seen it.

[the-heart-of-a-monster]

SHADOW'S LITTLE SMILE OH MY GOSH THAT'S ADORABLE-

Oh and uh yeah, the people of the arctic recognize Sonic, but it's not that big a deal tbh. Why?

...

WELL I'M GLAD THAT NONE OF YOU ASKED BECAUSE I'M DELVING INTO IT ANYWAY SO STRAP UP FOLKS, WE'RE GOING FOR A RIDE.

Okay so start things off with the obvious, every time Sonic's visited someone or crossed paths with someone, they hardly even flinched when interacting with him. The clearest memory/recolection I have of this was an issue waaaaaaay back (Probably like 2 years ago now) when our main trio was finishing a mission and exhausted outta their minds. A kind chinese family let them into their home with no sweat and with as much welcoming energy as anyone would have for a renowned hero. They gave the team food and a nice place to sleep, all while Sonic was in his Werehog form.

There were a few more instances of this same thing, but I can't remember if Sonic and Shadow actually stayed the night or if the people were just really nice or not. Either way, random people on the street showing unfounded kindness and attention to the heroes without breaking a sweat WHILE Sonic was in Werehog form... It's far from uncommon!

In short, seeing the arctic villagers be so kind to Sonic and Shadow is nothing new. At least to us, that is...

Think of this through Sonic's viewpoint. He's a monster, a rage-filled beast, a myth, resembling a mystical bear that this snowy town worships like a god! In no way, shape, or form (Well except for one form lol) does he feel like himself. Every lock of fur, every shimmering marking, every Gaia monster he faces... It just reminds him of the kind of thing he has become. In Sonic's eyes, kindness and forgiveness is now beneath him. To this poor little edgey hedgey, he's finally hit his peak, and if people knew who he truly was, then it would all be over for him. The least Sonic can do now is try to clean up the world-shattering mess he thinks he made.

Sure, he had Shadow and Chip to be by his side, but they were exceptions. Shadow caught him at a bad time and had nothing to share except pity, and Chip left him already. As time went on, Shadow became more reserved, more like the type of guy we know now, and Chip became more cautious. He wasn't as physically affectionate as he used to be, and to Sonic, that was a sign that Chip was beginning to fear Sonic, seeing him for the monster he really is. And Shadow is... Well, Shadow! Who knows what he thinks?

And then, out of nowhere, completely unprompted, the girl in the hoodie walks up to him and says...

"We may not know what happened to you, but we know it's still you." (That's probably not it but I can't look at the page while writing this)

And all of a sudden, like magic, part of the giant hole in Sonic's heart has been filled.

They know who he is. These people, these sad, cold, lonely people who just want the best for each other, know who Sonic is behind all that fuzz and darkness. His appearance, while menacing and intimidating to most, didn't phaze that little girl in the slightest. His eyes, bright and piercing through those who dare to look at him, hardly damaged any of the people within this village. They hugged him, they played with his ears, they accepted him! Nobody here cared what he looked like or how he acted at all! They only cared about who he was deep down, or at least what he aspired to be. Everyone smiling at him wasn't fake or forced, and it was all genuine this entire time!

Even Shadow, who had been so reserved and so distant this whole time, was giving Sonic a small, warm smile, hardly visible yet clearly genuine.

He couldn't ask for anything more.

So yeah I really like the funny anthro hedgehog comic-

theyre not sad cold and lonely though AJKSFBDHKSAFHKAJS theyre happy cozy and... togetherness..? opposite of lonely?

ANYWHO THANKS for the comment im so glad you enjoy the comic and i hope you will enjoy todyas page

[zaritarazi]

WAIT back up people are rebranding the omegaverse to be less nasty? THAT'S THE SECRET SAUCE OF OMEGAVERSE. IT'S THE HORNY WET AND WILD WEIRD MONSTERUCKING FANTASY TROPE BUCKET what on EARTH needs rebranding

alright. for the sake of integrity i am downloading this app to investigate. this will be in my app store history forever, by the way

i'm gonna level with you i started doing a deep dive and came up here to add a read more because i've just gotten to the point of this whole thing and we're not even in the deep end yet

so first the app is asking to allow notifications. immediate deny. next, it would like me to set up a profile. i can pick from the Three Genders (female, male, other) and my age.

it would like me to choose up to 3 of my favorite genres. the genres offered to me are:

romance

billionaire

mystery

erotica

werewolf

fantasy

thriller

paranormal

now of course, my immediate concern is that erotica seems to be its own category, where i'm assuming all of these books have fucking in them and i'm going to be really upset if they aren't all smut

additionally, i don't think the billionaire category is about becoming an agent of the proletariat, infiltrating the bourgeoisie, killing the billionaire, and redistributing the wealth. in minecraft. red son superman would never stand for this

okay now my cat (tarazi) is loafing on my phone. i think she's trying to protect me.

here is the photo for the "werewolf" category, which i think raises more questions than it answers

okay so that's not what a werewolf looks like, to my knowledge

top stories in werewolf. we have "alpha knows best" and we have "mated to my alpha stepbrother" which- i looked at the summary and he's not her stepbrother yet, they're college seniors and he's the son of her mom's new boyfriend who i guess is going to be her mate? but any time you have to say "it's not technically incest" it's not great, ryan!

okay here's a top story called "alpha max." no this one is in high school, backing out immediately.

also want to mention the stepbrother one just updated an hour ago. so this is like wattpad but i think the writers get paid? it has 54 fucking chapters

so these aren't finished, published works. i mean they're published in a way, but they're not whole stories, which i guess explains why the site advertises itself as "romance & fanfiction books" when all of the content is original sort of technically? it updates like a fic site.

so! here's what we're looking for. these stories have microspecific tags, but where there is "alpha" there is "luna." i have seen this a few times- okay wait! here's something interesting. i have found a story listed in popular werewolf that is lgbtq+. This alpha has a straight mate? Okay steven whatever helps you sleep at night. now HERE is something interesting. this has "alpha" as a tag, but no "luna," but ALSO no "omega." INTERESTING.

okay, let's go into the lgbtq+ tag on here and. see if that gives us more insight

OKAY! OKAY! this DOES have stories with omegas in it! is the second one listed bts fic? yes! okay but the FIRST one that comes up is called "my omega" bills itself as having a "female" alpha and "male" omega, although this description is so incredibly, beautifully problematic that it really defies common conventions of thought

okay i skimmed the first 50 words and the "female" alpha is... gross. like misogynist gross. so we're back at square fucking one here folks

okay here's a different one where they use Omega specifically as like... an Evil Luna? which is like- there is ALMOST something here by accident. like YES! make a lilith complex! i know that's not what you're doing, but you should! there's a hint of an idea here! you're so close to doing something almost maybe a little bit interesting!

to circle back to the original question of our study, "are they making omegaverse less nasty?" i think it's a complicated answer. the people who write for this app would probably balk at being called less nasty or not smutty enough, but at the same time, they've taken conventional romance and just put a slightly furry skin on it. and i know when you criticize the romance genre people are like "so you don't think women can read?" and i'm like you know what? maybe i fucking don't. maybe none of us should read and we can all run directly back into the sea. if one fucking amoeba millions and millions of years ago hadn't gotten above its station and crawled out of the ocean, we could all be jellyfish right now, and this wouldn't be in my downloads history. forever. again. i am stuck with this in my history forever

like the omegaverse has a very storied history but it's kind of wild to restyle it in a way that makes it more misogynist. like this was invented by people watching supernatural. and somehow this crop of "writers" is worse to women

i honestly hesitate to call this omegaverse at all. i know there were articles a few years ago about legal battles in the world of omegaverse and plagiarism and all that jazz, but this is not omegaverse. this is barely werewolf. this is soulmates with some growling. and so really, what's the fucking point?

okay wait this one is 2 alphas sharing an omega. now we're back to fucking literature

[painfullymeta]

In my feels again, tumblr

Back in 2017 or so I wrote a story about anxiety. It was absolutely rooted in the political environment of the moment; it was absolutely rooted in the particular stresses of the moment for someone who passes for cishet and is not. It's about a closeted, neurodivergent (unspecified but he has enough echolalia to be a PITA to write) trans man who is being increasingly hemmed in by the misogynistic component of creeping fascism and is forced to choose whether or not he becomes himself or lets the world win.*

The world is full of choices, and they don't actually get less scary when the moment passes, because gods know those moments are still out there waiting for their chance (if life were made of moments, even now and then a bad one— but if life were only moments, then you'd never know you had one**) and I'm just me. (Am I not hot when I'm in my feelings?***)

Sunday I had a chance to talk with the trans kid who was a big chunk of inspiring my last big in my feels tumblr post and tell him his speech meant a lot to me, as someone who doesn't know what the fuck I am. And to tell him my Tradition has a canonically transmasc god, because it does, and even if he isn't pagan anymore, he's someone it's safe to say that to.

The teens give me life, yo. (Nonbinary kid at the coaster park stabbing into their ice cream cup with a spoon and yelling at their jimmies, "I CAME OUT, WHY WON'T YOU" will live rent-free in my brain forever. In the good way. In the best way.) One of my kids made me a nonbinary flag friendship bracelet. I love everyone in this bar never mind that none of y'all are old enough to drink there.

I spend a lot of pointless brain cycles worrying about how much of my life I'll blow up if I make more of a point of anything. Though at least being at "now accepting all major pronouns and thon" about it makes the casual human interaction a little less fraught. But I loop back around and through the petty anxiety about it all the time.

Anyway. That is all setup for the bit I am actually in my feels about.

I happened to glance at Discord and saw activity in a server for a meatspace social group. So I went to see what it was.

What it was, was a friend who is, as far as I know, cishet, posting this:

Which I suspect he did because a) it's June and b) one of the other folks there has Star Wars as a special interest.

I peered at it, and I peered at my anxiety, and I replied to say that in related content, one of my kids made me an enby-flag friendship bracelet.

Within less than a minute, that comment of mine had a thumbs up react from a cis gay friend who hadn't even been logged in at the time I said it and I am fuckin' verklempt ever since.

It's such a tiny thing, but I have such anxiety about my whole deal in my meatspace life y'all and here's this quiet in-person-person in-community support and it means the world to me and...

... anyway I flapped my hands incoherently at him in DMs because it fuckn mattered. (And I know he can parse "I am too autistic to words usefully here".)

Never underestimate the power of a well-placed thumbs up emoji.

We are more than we're made to be We got more than meets the eye When we stand strong, together you and me We can save the world ****

* "The Company Store" was published in Recognize Fascism, an anthology edited by Crystal M. Huff and released by World Weaver Press in 2020.

** Yeah I'm putting in the echolalia because I talked about Rory's origin story it's just gonna happen that way and also I am deep in Alexithymia Bros right now so I'm talking around my feels. That's from Into the Woods, by the way, "Moments in the Woods", by Sondheim and Lapine.

*** "I'm Just Ken", the Barbie Movie

**** "We Can Save the World", Blaseball: The Musical (The Deaths of Sebastian Telephone)