#but considering black can see us (to some extent) its not really private

[juaneloriginal]

A dream and a nightmare

@blackkatdraws's silly!

i just want him to be happy bro

by himself not only with black, honestly i like their relationship but most of the time (i think early in their relationship) he always comes out injured or dead and the fact that he doesnt even care about his own safety most of the time just to (me thinks) make black happy makes me so sad/pos

i like the fact that they are being more cute now but im not sure how much that its going to last

[captainamericasbeard]

Empathy Ch. 1

Pairing: Bucky x Empath!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None in this first chapter

Summary: Y/N is an empath tasked with helping the Avengers but healing only comes if you want it. 

A/N: I’m incredibly proud and excited to be bringing you this story! If you’d like to be tagged just send an ask and I’d be happy to knock up a list. 

Empathy MASTERLIST ll MASTERLIST 

The sound of your heels clicking on linoleum filled your ears. You smoothed down the front of your skirt and tucked a stray hair behind your ear as you walked briskly down the long hallway. You reached the door to Nick Fury’s office sooner than you would have liked and you took a steadying breath as you raised your hand to knock. Tap tap tap and the door opened immediately. Nick Fury was standing there dressed all in black with his eye patch perfectly in place. You’d seen Fury from afar before, passing through a room, on tv, but you’d never been in close proximity before. He was taller than you expected.

“I’m guessing I shouldn’t shake your hand?” He asked with a chuckle.

“Not unless you want me to know exactly what you’re thinking and feeling.” You reply, a mischievous grin curling your lips.

“Maybe next time,” Fury said inviting you in with a wave of his hand.

“I’m just kidding. I don’t automatically read every person I touch, unless their emotions are running high.” You explain as Fury escorts you to a leather chair across from a small couch.  

“I know a girl who can’t touch anyone. It’s… not a fun way to live,” Fury says as he sits in the chair leaving the couch open for you. You smooth your skirt behind you and sit down crossing your legs.

“I can imagine. When I was a girl my powers were so overwhelming I wasn't able to touch anyone. Years of hard work and practice and I’m a mostly functional member of society. Director Fury, I’ve been with 3P since I was 12. Why are we pretending you don’t already know everything about me.” You drop any naiveté and fix the director with a knowing look. Fury had never taken an interest in your powers before, why now?

“Common courtesy,” Fury said with a shrug.

“Well, thank you. Why don’t we talk about why I’m really here,” you said.

“I’ve got a job for you, if you want it,” Fury offered.  

“I’ve already got a job,” you reply with an arched eyebrow. You had an inkling as to where this was going.

“You do. In my linguists department. Because after being experimented on and tortured you decided to get your PhD in ancient languages and try to contribute some good to society,” Fury said, diving once again into his seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of your life.  

“Yes sir,” you confirmed.

“And as a result of that torture and experimentation you have telempathetic powers and super strength,” Fury said.

“In a nutshell, yes.” Let him think he knows everything, even you didn’t know the true extent of your powers.

Fury leaned back in his seat and fixed you with an inscrutable glare. Penny in the air.

“I have a select group of high functioning people with specific skills I’d like you to work with,” Fury stated. And the penny drops.

“I’m not interested in becoming an Avenger, sir” you said.

“Not becoming one of them, helping them. No field work. I’ve got enough super soldiers.” You smiled at that. It was true, you had no desire to throw yourself into the fray and save the world. But helping, that was something you were good at.

“Helping how?” You asked, your curiosity piqued.

“The team gets themselves into some pretty sticky situations and it’s not always easy for them to bounce back, mentally or emotionally. You would be there to… lighten the load, as only you can,” Fury said

“I’m not a therapist,” you said firmly.  

“I’ve got therapists. The team goes regularly. Requirement for being on the payroll. I’m asking you to take it that step further. Help ‘em sleep at night.” You were beginning to catch on.

“I understand. Help their minds rest a bit so things like therapy can be that much more effective,” you said.

“That’s the idea,” Fury said.

“I think I can be of assistance,” you consent. “What about linguistics?”

“What about it? You keep at it. You’re one of our best and I’d hate to lose you,” Fury stated. It was true, you excelled at languages. You worked twice as hard and with higher accuracy than your counterparts. You took a moment to consider Fury’s offer and what it would mean for your life and career. You had reservations but ultimately the thought of using your powers for good won out.

“When do I start,” you ask.  

“You have dinner with the team at 8:00 tonight,” Fury said as he stood up. You stood too and followed him to the door as he held it open for you.  

“8:00. I’ll be there. Thank you Director,” you said.

“No, thank you,” Fury said as you stepped out of his office. You gave him a smile and started down the hallway.

“Oh and Y/n? Maybe you can do something for Barnes,” Fury called after you.

“Sergeant Barnes? What do you mean,” you ask, turning on your heel. “Let’s just say, he’s a troubled man," Fury said with one last glare. With that he shut the door and you were left to ponder what he meant. You started down the hallway and were met by Fury’s assistant who informed you you would be moving into the Avenger’s quarters.

“Go home and pack a bag for a couple of days and we will come by for the rest of your things,” he said.

…

The Avengers occupied the top 4 levels of the main building of the compound. Sprawling common spaces, private rooms, and a gym made up the bulk of the quarters. Tony had a lab and his own private quarters with Pepper. Natasha, Sam, Bucky, and Steve had their own rooms and shared the common areas.

The elevator carried you up and up and up and as you rose your nerves rose too. You clutched your overnight bag in your hand and your knuckles went white. You took a few deep, steadying breaths as the elevator arrived. The doors opened and there stood Steve Rogers, arms crossed and a neutral look on his face. You could feel the apprehension rolling off him but you knew mentioning that would start you off on the wrong foot. You put on your most winning smile and extended your hand. He glanced at it but made no move to shake it so you let it fall. You were used to it.

“So, you’re Y/N,” Steve stated.

“That’s me,” you replied.

“You can leave your bag here. Kitchen’s this way. Don’t expect a warm welcome.” Steve led you through a tastefully decorated common room to the kitchen where the rest of the team sat chatting quietly. The conversation, clearly about you, died away with your entrance. The team turned to greet you. For those who smiled it didn’t reach their eyes. You could feel fear, panic, judgement. You knew you had some huge walls to scale.

“Don’t worry guys, I don’t bite,” you said holding up your hands defensively.

“Don’t mind them,” Sam said approaching you with a hand extended, “they’re a little wary around people who can read their thoughts.” You gratefully shook Sam’s hand.

“I’m not reading anyone’s thoughts, certainly not without their permission. Though you guys are going to have to calm down if you don’t want me knowing how much you dislike me,” you added with a light chuckle.

“Not dislike. Distrust.” Natasha clarified.

“No, its a bit of dislike too. And that’s ok. We have to start somewhere,” you countered, keeping a charming smile on your lips.  

“Hungry?” Sam asked, “It's spaghetti night. My speciality,” He said with a toothy grin.

“Famished,” you replied and sat down and the team followed. “Let’s hold off the questions until after we’ve eaten though. Interrogation’s not great for my digestion.” A few laughed at that and you soon settled into a conversation lead mostly by Sam with Steve and Nat chiming in here and there. Bucky remained stoic, eyes down picking at his food. You tried to catch his eye at first to give him a reassuring smile but he was actively avoiding your gaze.

As the meal ended the light hearted conversation faded away. One by one the team leaned back in their chairs and fixed you with interrogative stares. You were careful not to adopt a defensive stance, keeping your body open and your mind clear. You knew Steve would want to take the lead so you turned to him with a smile.

“Why are you here, Y/N?” Steve asked abruptly.

“I told you, I’m here to help. No ulterior motive,” you replied simply. Steve and Natasha exchanged a quick glance and that’s when you knew these questions had been rehearsed.

“Are you a spy? You report back to Fury?” Natasha asked.

“Not a spy and I don’t report to anyone. Everything I do stays between us.” You knew you couldn’t lie to Natasha even if you wanted to.

“So what’s your deal,” Sam asks, “Telempathetic? What does that even mean?”

“It means I can read and manipulate emotions. I can make a group of people feel one thing or I can focus on just one person. I can heal emotional damage or cause it. I can tell what you’re feeling and even thinking to an extent.”

“What else you got?” Bucky asked in a gruff voice. This you could see caught the others off guard. Bucky was reading you and he was doing a damn good job.

“My physicality is much like yours and Steve’s,” you answered. Steve’s eyebrow went up at this. You felt like you’d been caught in a lie.  

"How do you mean?” Steve asked.

“Increased strength and agility. Increased healing factor. Longer than average life span. That sort of thing.”

“So you're a super solider?” Bucky stated. He was watching you with arms crossed and brow furrowed. You had your work cut out for you with this one.

“Super without the solider,” you explained.

“Fury doesn’t want you in the field?” Steve questioned.

“No, and I don’t want to be there. I’m not here to be an Avenger. I'm just here to help,” you said.

“Help how?” Natasha asked.

“When a mission is too much, or even life is too much, I can help. I can ease your burdens. It's… hard to explain.”

"Show us. Show us what you’ve got.” Sam challenges.

“I'll need a volunteer from the audience,” you said with a coy smile.  

“You said you could do a group. Do all of us,” you felt fear spike in the group and you didn’t need to ask where it came from.

“Not everyone here is comfortable with what I can do. I’d like a willing volunteer,” you said.  

“I asked so I guess I'll do it. Why not. You’re not gonna mess with my memories or anything, are you?” You catch Bucky visibly squirm in his seat at this question.

“No, no, not at all. Nothing like that. If you feel me going somewhere you don’t want me to simply close that door and I’ll stay out. Can I touch your shoulder?” you ask and Sam nods.

“Do you have to be touching the person?” Steve asks curiously.

“No, but it helps,” you say with a soft smile. You reach out and gently lay a hand on Sam’s shoulder. You feel his tension, and his distrust. Suddenly a giggle erupts from Sam’s lips. He claps his hand over his mouth but more soon follow. Steve and Nat glance at each other and Bucky’s scowl deepens as Sam keeps laughing. He’s roaring now, doubled over with tears streaming down his cheeks. Steve chuckles and shakes his head.

“Alright, alright,” he says. You take your hand off Sam’s shoulder and his laughter slowly abates. He chuckles and wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“That was a trip! I’ve never felt anything like that! How’d you do that?” Sam asked. “That I can’t answer. I don’t know the how behind it.”

“But you were experimented on. I mean, you weren’t born like this.” Bucky asked.

“Come on Buck, she doesn’t have to go into that,” Steve said surprising you.

“No, it’s ok. Yes, I was experimented on. By Hydra. My father, he was a scientist and a genius but his experiments were of the unethical variety. Hydra found him disgraced and gave him a home. They gave him the freedom of human experimentation without consequences. And who better to transform than his own daughter.” A ripple of disgust passed through the group at your revelation. “He thought he was creating a god but I only thought I was a monster. I escaped and sought refuge here at Shield with 3P. I put myself through school, college, all under Shield’s protection.”

“3P?” Sam asked.

“Shield’s Powered Protection Program. They take in people with abilities who for one reason or another aren’t safe out in the world,” Natasha answered for you and you nodded.

“Alright, that’s enough for one day. Let’s let Y/N get settled.” Steve said ending the interview. The team seemed finally satisfied. They didn’t trust you yet but they weren’t going to throw you out of the compound. Steve rose and you followed him to the elevator to pick up your bag and on to a hallway lined with doors. Yours was the second on the right.

“Bucky’s on your right and I’m across the hall,” Steve said waving his hand.

“Thanks Steve.”  

“Is that all you have,” he asked pointing to your small bag.

“For now. Logistics is bringing over the rest of my things in the next few days. I just live on campus,” Steve’s face softened a bit at this.

“You know for most of us, this is the only family we’ve got. We’re just protecting what’s most valuable to us,” he explained apologetically.

“I understand. And I’m not offended. I’m here if any of you need me,” you replied.  

“Well, don’t hold your breath on that. I’ll leave you to settle in,” he said with a small smile and closed your door.

[wevegottogetaway]

Crashing into you

Sooo, I have no idea where this concept came from but here is you and Harry surviving a plane crash only to find yourselves stranded on an island (featuring best friends to lovers and who knows what else). There is more to come after this part, I’m just really busy with uni at the moment, so smaller pieces at the time it is. Please leave some feedback if you have any, or tell me what you would like to see happen in future parts! Happy reading xx

It wasn’t supposed to happened.

None of it was. Not the birds. Not the fire. Not the nose-dive.

And you weren’t supposed to be there either. Weren’t supposed to find yourselves floating 35,000 feet over endless stretches of sea when it happened. Not you and certainly not Harry whose presence was only the result of his boundless generosity.

It was a last minute trip on your part, an emergency response to the calling of a friend back in London; they’d gotten hospitalized and you were their emergency contact, pretty simple maths. Your assistance was irremissible and since it was cutting your time short with Harry, he didn’t hesitate before offering both his support and an express flight aboard some kind of private jet. None of you knew it at the time, but that decision turned out to be a twisted expression of serendipity, a very sick jock that the universe wasn’t supposed to make.

Except it did happened and there was no escaping the cataclysm that ensued.

                                                        ***

The cabin of the small plane is plunged in peaceful silence, the deep whir of its engines and the soft snores wafting through Harry’s nose the only white noises filling the space. There is no fussing toddler, no businessman talking loudly on the phone, no arguing couple; just you and Harry, one flight attendant and two pilots. Everything around you looks pristine and expensive, from the champagne you were offered but declined at the beginning of the flight, to the refined suede upholstery covering all the seats.

You’re not used to the luxury, and frankly, neither is Harry.

He doesn’t use private planes very often, doesn’t think it makes much sense to waste all that toxic kerosene when commercial flights do the job perfectly, and doesn't like how they make him feel like the diva some people mistakenly make him out to be. But for you he’d bend the rules. For you he’d bend over and backwards to assuage any of your pains and worries. You had been so on edge when you told him about your friend, so desperate to be there for them,  he had just wanted to be there for you in turn.

That’s why the two of you hopped in this small aircraft nearly four hours ago, with his hand drawing comforting shapes on your back. Now, you find yourself absentmindedly nipping at your nails, overthinking ever possible scenario that could unfold once you land and find your friend. In deep conversation with your conscience, you’ve been looking out the small window to your right, as if any of the two blue immensities painting the horizon knew all the secrets that you needed. They don’t; if anything, they bring their own mysteries to an already confusing world.

The atmosphere inside the plane is so inert, it feels like someone pressed the pause button. The flight attendant has remained quietly by her station, waiting for any signal that would indicate her presence required, and the pilots haven’t piped a word since their polite ‘have a lovely flight,’ when you first boarded the plane. The little company wouldn’t bother you so much, if Harry hadn’t fallen asleep thirty minutes in, leaving you to your own devices. You figure you can’t be too grumpy about it though, he did just rent a plane for your sake after all. Plus, his unconscious state has allowed you to ogle his sleepy figure for hours without being noticed, a treat you’re rarely privy to on top of being a nice distraction from your current troublesome thoughts.

Three years. Three years you’ve been a very dedicated friend to him and he to you. Three years of holding each other’s hand through any hardships and laughing till you’re blue in the face; three years of always supporting each other in your craziest undertakings and inspiring each other to be the best version of yourselves. You two are an indestructible pair and your friendship is the purest, most sacred thing you were given in this world.

Except, it’s also been three years of mind-boggling and consuming feelings that can’t be quelled and have no limits. Three years of secret glances when he’s too focused on something else to notice. Three years of talking yourself down from those feeling, but to no avail; they keep coming back full force and with a vengeance. It quickly became a full time job really, an art you mastered over time. At first because he was happily in a relationship, so there was no speculating whether your affections could be returned. Then once that ended, you were already so wired to ignore the skip of your heartbeats when he looks at you tenderly, or the soft and sometimes borderline ambiguous cuddles he gives you when he’s had one too many Margaritas; that the fantasy of him loving you the way you do was just unfathomable, you never even considered speaking up about it.

But these were your three years, not his.

You let out a deep sigh, as your musings once again circle back to your unrequited love. You wish you had more control over them, could limit them to sleepy fabulation sweetening your mind right before you surrender to unconsciousness. But alas, them come and go as they please, slip into your mind at any inopportune time, often betraying you by pigmenting your cheeks in cerise-colored bashfulness. Even now, in the stillness of the pressurized cabin, as your eyes settle back on his slouched form in the seat opposite yours, your skin can’t help but heat up in fondness.

Before you can get too lost in the soft eyelashes caressing his cheekbones, or the cupid bow shaping his pink supple lips, or the way a few of his mischievous curls are dandling in front of his face, slightly fluttering at each soft puff coming out of his mouth…yeah, before you get too lost in all that, you reach for the small bottle of water sitting on a small table.

You barely have the cap unscrewed before a massive tremor shakes the whole aircraft, spilling half of the bottle’s content on your lap. Your hand immediately white knuckles the armrest of your seat, your eyes widening in fear and frantically scoping the cabin for the flight attendant or anyone that could tell you what the hell is going on. Then the panic pumping through your veins prompts you to check on Harry and wake him back to alertness, but to your relief, he’s already groggily shaking the slumber from his limbs with a deep frown on his face. "Wha’s goin’ on?"

If dread wasn’t firing each of your nerve-endings, you’d find his grumpy look and slurred speech quite adorable, but the sight of the frazzled-looking stewardess coming towards you is sending a different kind of chills down your spine. These people are trained to maintain composure in all circumstances, so her trepidation can only mean one of two things: she’s either very new at her job or there is clearly a cause for concern.

"You two need to fasten your seat belts immediately," she speaks hurriedly.

"Sophia, what’s going on?" Harry reiterates his question with more alarm.

"We’ve collided with a flock of birds. We don’t know the extent of the damage yet, so I need you two to buckle in."

You and Harry share a worried look then, still confused about the situation. The plane has regain some semblance of stability, it seems, but Sophia’s anxious behavior doesn’t sooth your nerves one bit. She makes a quick exit back toward the cockpit, probably to discuss the ordeal further with the pilots. You gulp your uneasiness away, fidgeting on your seat as your hands blindly feel around for the safety belt, but the image greeting your eyes as they veer back to the window has your heart dropping to your knees.

Lambent orange and red flaring from the engines and lapping at the wing. Black smoke leaving an angry trail behind the plane and fogging up the windows.

"Harry," you barely manage to breath his name out and the urgency of your tone has him straighten up in his seat. "Harry the wing is on fire." You twist your head back towards him only to find him jumping from his seat to plop down next to you. The absolute gleam of terror swimming in your eyes makes his blood turn cold, so he quickly takes your hand in both of his before glancing at the carnage taking place outside. He gulps in apprehension before buckling his seatbelt and checking that yours is clasped in as well.

"Fuck, okay, it’s okay, love. Everything’s gonna be okay." It’s more prayers than reassurances tumbling out of his mouth, squeezing at your hand in plea, and a couple seconds after his utterance the tremors resume with greater intensity. You both can feel the aircraft slanting downward as everything around you start shaking as though you were caught in an earthquake. Except, you couldn’t be further from earth at the moment, and the shaking is not going to just pass after a while.

Objects start falling and rolling down all over, the tray of complimentary drinks tumbling down from the back of the plane to crash at the front. You and Harry are wrapped up in a protective embrace, tucking your faces in each others neck to avoid impact and because you’re both too afraid to look at the unfurling chaos. You can feel your seatbelt straining against your lower belly in a dire attempt to keep you in one place, but as the plane starts plummeting for good, top becomes bottom, right becomes left, and your bodies become masses thrown around at the hands of gravity just like everything else.

The last thing you hear before everything goes south is a defeated ‘brace for impact’ coming from the small intercom of the cabin. You feel the brutal shock of the plane hitting smooth surface if it weren’t for the speed of the collision, and then it’s just water.

Water everywhere. Water enveloping your body in a frigid clutch, water weighing you down as it imbibes every fiber of your clothes, water invading your retinas and blurring your vision. Water seeping through your mouth, pouring into your lungs when you feel the skin at your shin torn by sharp metal.

You vaguely hear your name being shouted, but the shortage of oxygen in your system makes you feel delirious. At this point you barely have enough energy to fight unconsciousness, much less the threat of your crumbling surroundings. That’s how you don’t feel the hand grasping at your shoulder and hosting you up on a floating piece of broken wing. Harry is holding onto it for dear life as well, muttering more prayers and encouraging words for you to please stay with him but soon you are both overthrown by your unconscious, slowly drifting away on the makeshift buoy.

                                                        ***

When Harry regains consciousness, the first things he feels is hard grounds underneath him. His ears are ringing, his throat is sore and his mouth feels dry, not to mention the splitting headache jackhammering at his skull. Groaning and frowning at the pain, that’s when he realizes that the ground against the skin of his cheek isn’t completely hard, but rather granular at the touch. Slowly, he brings his hands higher near his face and flattens them to hoist himself up. Once on his knees, he finally blinks his eyes opened, squinting at the blinding luminosity of the sun. And then it’s just sand.

Sand everywhere. Sand stretching miles into the distance. Sand itching at the joints of his fingers, sand creeping inside his shoes and clothes, sand weaving through his hair. Sand obnoxiously lingering on his lips, and as he tries to brush it off with the back of his hand, he has to spit some out of his mouth after realizing that said hand is also covered in it.

How did he find himself stranded on a freaking island? How did this happen? How could he be one minute safely by your sides, helping you through a tough situation, and then the next, thrown into the deep end - quite literally - scrambling for his life because some dumb birds decided to crash in the engine of the plane? Why him, why-

It’s a jolt to his brain then, an electric shock firing his body up to a standing position when the thought of you clashes in his mind. His breathing picks up considerably as he recalls the last time he saw you, passed out on the broken part of the wrecked airplane. He’d passed out soon after you as well, but what had happened since then? Had you find your way on this desolate beach as well? Or had your unconscious body slipped back into the water and sank all the way to the ocean floor until you reached that hidden museum of all the things and beings that fell victim to the sea?

Harry shudders at the thought. No. He’s not loosing you, now or ever, he convinces himself as he frantically jogs along the beach. Not when he never got his chance. His heart is lodged in his throat and threatening to escape at every passing second. Not when he still has unfinished, or rather, un-commenced business with you. Sweat drips down his face in searing droplet, a faint sting above his left eye barely registering in his frantic mind. Not before you know his last secret. His breathing is starting to get scarce until finally, finally his blurry eyes fall upon a figure stretched out on the sand, waves still licking at their feet. His job turns into a sprint as he begs for them to be you and for you to still be alive, desperate cries of your name echoing in the wilderness. "Please be okay, please be okay, fuck I need y-"

His relief is short lived once he takes in your passed out form, the blueish hue of your lips and the very lack of movement of your chest, twisting his guts in a painful knot. Harry abruptly falls to his knees next to you and brings his ear to your body hoping for any indication that you are still breathing. He fights the onslaught of hyperventilation that threatens to take over his body when he finds none and quickly checks your pulse at your carotid. His eyes pinch in brief respite: it’s faint but it’s there.

His brain almost goes into overdrive as he tries to recall everything he knows about CPR before his hands instinctively start pressing at your chest as though they already know what to do. It gives him time to absorb all the composure he can muster and think more clearly. He’s got to keep your heart going, that much he knows, and if you’re not breathing, it’s probably because you’ve got water in your lungs. Upon the realization he briefly stops the cardiac massage to pinch your nose and blow as much air as he can into your mouth.

For the next couple of minutes he does just that, alternating between insufflating oxygen through your mouth and pressing at your heart. His own breaks every time he pulls away from your lips and they still don’t pink back up to their usual lovely cherry color. Tears roll down his face in a constant flow, forcing him to wipe his face against the material of his shirt at his shoulder; there is no way in hell he is stopping his action for even a fraction of a second. He’ll die trying to save you before you die on him, and then he’d kick you ass from heaven down to hell for even thinking of leaving him behind.

All of a sudden you start coughing wet sounds from your throat, your body jolting from its spot on the sand. Harry’s never been so happy to hear someone choke (on water, that is) and as you turn your body sideways to let out all the excess of water clogging your chest, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back towards the sky in gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispers out in relief, before regaining his breathing and focusing back on you. He draws soothing circle against your back as you cough the last bit of water out of your mouth, pushing your hair out of your face to give you space to breath. Lord knows you need it.

"It’s okay, pet. You’re okay, you’re alive. Fuck you’re alive, I can’t- please don’t ever do that to me ever again, you hear me?" He rambles at you as he cups your face with two trembling hands. He is in shamble in front of you, the high he was caught up in, in his order to save you finally dissolving and leaving only but shock and despair in its aftermath. You’d come this close to die in his arms, you both realize. This close from your life being highjacked from his in the middle of nowhere and the thought turns your blood even colder than it already is.

"‘kay, m’okay, Harry. We’re both okay," you reassure him too, and just hearing the sound of your hoarse voice is enough to calm him some. He brings you in a bear hug, tucking your face underneath his chin and draping is other arm over your back. You don’t hesitate before you return his embrace by wrapping your arms around his waist.

For a hot minute you remain intertwined in silence as you breath each other in and revel in the fact that you both survived the crash. Once your heartbeats have lowered down to healthier levels, you slightly part from each other and your eyes glisten as you lock them with his. "You saved my life, Harry," you whisper out to him with a tender caress at his cheeks, trying to ignore the small cut at his brow bone. "I just- thank you, thank you so much."

He answers with a small shake of his head, "don’t thank me, pet. I can’t imagine what I woulda done if y- if I couldn’t-" he struggles to let the words out and his face turns into a grimace at their implication. "M’just so relieved you’re alive, I’m the one thankful for that if anythin’," he ends up saying against the palm of your hand before leaving a small peck there.

As you move to stand up, you feel a sharp sting at your shin as soon as you apply pressure on your right leg. Looking down, you spot a gash at the skin, it’s not too profound that you won’t be able to walk, but it definitely needs tending to if you don’t want it to get infected. You let out a quiet ‘fuck’ in frustration before catching the look of concern of Harry’s face. "It’s fine," you brush it off, "just gonna need to clean it out. That cut on your face as well," you motion at his injury and he brings his hand up to feel out the cut in confusion. He hadn’t noticed the small wound, you realize. "Right, yeah," he answers after inspecting the patch of blood coating his fingers now.

Now that the shock of the situation is slowly dissipating and that reality is setting in, you both start thinking about the next course of action. You’re both alive and relatively unscathed, but now what? How do you get out form this place? Where even is this place? And how do you go home? It becomes increasingly obvious that you don’t have much resources and that you need some sort of plan if you want to survive.

"What about Sophia and the pilots? Do you know what happened to them?" you suddenly remember the rest of the crew. Perhaps they know more about how to proceed in such a situation. They might even know where you’re located, how far you are from home and what’s the procedure to ensure everyone’s survival and rescue.

"I dunno, love. Didn’t see them when we were in the water, I think they might have been on the other side of the plane," the somber look on his face betrays his pessimism as to their fate. They would be on the beach as well if they had survived. As the same reasoning courses through your mind, you look down in sadness at the vicious image of them struggling in the water before succumbing to the fatigue. Harry notices your pained expression and brings you back against his frame to leave a small comforting kiss at your hairline.

"Alright, it’s gonna be fine," you declare in pretend confidence. "People will start looking for us, right?" you try to make light of the conversation. "Hell, there’s probably going to be a whole unit created to find you as soon as we don’t show up in London and I’m sure they’ll find us fast." Hope is emulating in your belly where water had previously drown your vigor. You’re probably right; surely, if the one and only Harry Styles disappears in the middle of a plane crash, the response will be worthy of the man.  

He doesn’t seem to quite share the sentiment however, if the small frown and nervous nipping at his lips suggest anything. "Love, I- Jeff’s the only one who knows we were going back to England. He might not notice right away." It’s his own fear talking, the idea that it might take more than a day for people to notice their unsettling absence.

On a normal schedule, him and Jeff would be in constant contact, sharing details for the next day’s agenda, planning tours, interviews, promotions and pitching in ideas for new projects, but be that as it may, Harry was currently on vacation. He’d taken a couple weeks off to relieve the pressure from the last busy months and catch up on some much needed time with you, and Jeff knew that meant a little less consistent contact for this break to be as rejuvenating as expected. Would he think much of the absence of texts from his friend? At some point definitely, but how long would it take for concern to replace dismissal?

Talk about rejuvenation.

"What about the plane company?" you ask, not ready to see your hopes dwindle down.

He seems surprised at the thought for a second before the anxious lines on his face smooth out some, iridescent eyes locking with your own in renewed faith. "You’re right, Jeff was the one who made the booking, so the company will have to contact him once they know about the crash." You let your lips quirk into a soft smile at his optimism before he adds, "we just have to survive until then."

"Right," you dial back on the heart-talking and dares your brain to recall any tips about survival behavior you’ve ever heard. "So we need find water asap and to make a fire before the night falls." You know water should be your priority, you have three days before you die of dehydration, maybe even less under this blazing sun. And despite behind surrounded by water, you know that the sea can’t help you with that. It’s quite ironic in a sense, you find yourself trapped by water, yet the biggest threat to you in that instance is the lack of water consumption. As for the fire, you also know temperature can drop very low at night in places like this and since you don’t have anything to bundle yourselves in, hypothermia is your second biggest threat.

Harry nods in approval before looking around. The beach is enclosed between the sea and endless stretch of luxuriant green tropical jungle. "Come on then, we should try and see if anything from the plane made it out on the beach. I think I saw some pieces earlier, maybe we’ll find something to store water." You think it’s a brilliant idea since you will need some kind of container should you be successful in your quest for water. And with that, you both start walking back towards the edge of the shore, Harry’s hand holding tightly to your shoulder keeping you close to him.

➪ Masterlist

[tintinwrites]

dreams and other things | Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x Reader

A/N: This is inspired by an episode of King of the Hill, a show I did not even watch of my own volition yet vaguely enjoyed sometimes. No tags since the subject of this fic is quite touchy.

Rating: T

Warning: Trying for a baby and not being very successful with it. Discussions of possible infertility. Many sexual references. Naughty words. Depression. Arguing.

Word count: 1,907, apparently!!

Summary: Trying for a baby is taking longer than you thought it would, so Frankie tries to cheer you up.

GIF credit: ^ Please let me know if you don’t want me using your GIF!

                                            ----------------------

When you and Frankie first talked about trying to have a baby, it was quite possibly the best thing ever.

Yes, your sex life was pretty damn healthy if both of you did say so yourselves, but the moment you were working towards something with no condoms, no birth control?

You barely kept your hands off each other, whether you were somewhere private or you needed to sneak off to somewhere that was only semi-private.

Frankie didn’t know shit about ovulation until you peed on those little sticks and told him that meant you were at your most fertile; which meant three days of as much sex as possible, which meant he now knew a lot about ovulation and considered it to be a pretty damn great invention.

The first month of trying resulted in an obscenely expensive pregnancy test blinking a timer at you before it said ‘not pregnant’.

You were obviously disappointed, but you kissed him on the cheek and told him that it was pretty rare for a couple to get pregnant so quickly and you would keep trying.

He didn’t mind that.

But then one month became three, and three became six, and six became eight.

If someone is wanting a baby, they can only deal with throwing so many ‘not pregnant’ or one-lined sticks into the trash before it starts to chip at something. Frankie would hear you sob in the bathroom when your period came and sit outside waiting until you were pulled together enough, but you would just start sobbing again in his arms anyway.

With how disappointed he was with each month that passed without you being pregnant, he could only imagine your disappointment.

Fuck, he’d watched you weep on the bathroom floor about what a failure you were, how you couldn’t bear him a child, how much you just wanted to see two stupid fucking lines, and he still wasn’t sure he understood the extent of your disappointment.

Those three days he’d loved were starting to become something he hated, sex now an effort you both made yourselves do three days a month when it used to be something you needed to be pulled apart from doing; would this time result in a baby? Was he shooting blanks? Was there something up with your uterus, or your ovaries, or something else?

All your worries made the two of you bicker, then cry, then apologize, over and over again, until you finally broke down and told him you just didn’t know what was wrong with you.

That, at this point, you knew each pregnancy test would say you weren’t pregnant and that you hated yourself so much you were taking it out on him.

He was pissed because this was supposed to be easy, damn it. Creating a family was something biological, something anyone should be able to do if they wanted to, and he couldn’t do that for you? He wanted to yell at whoever the fuck would listen each time you cried because something that should’ve been simple just wasn’t.

Any yelling he wanted to do was kept in for the most part, aside from one time when snippy bickering made him raise his voice with everything he was shoving down.

I don’t know how to fucking fix this, okay?!

The moment the words left his mouth, his face had softened and he moved to you immediately, dropping to his knees at the couch in front of you and rubbing his palms up and down your thighs.

I didn’t mean to yell, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.

Maybe he was apologizing for more than just yelling as he laid his head in your lap, letting a few silent tears fall with the way you were running your fingers through his hair, telling him that you were sorry too, that you never meant anything you said and you just wanted a damn baby.

You decided to ease off on trying since it was so stressful for you both, and Frankie watched your heart break.

He watched it break even more when, despite not really trying, you were weeping in the bathroom once again at the blood in your underwear telling you that you still weren’t pregnant.

He held you to his chest, and kissed your head, and whispered all the truths to you of how great you were, and he suggested you take the week off work to just take a little more stress off.

You spent each day laying on the couch with dried tear tracks on your face as you watched almost every sitcom that was streaming, but he didn’t care. He’d leave something for you for breakfast in the morning, call in for something to be delivered for lunch, then make you dinner when he was home.

Most nights, he’d bring you to bed and help you change into fresh clothes, smiling at you when you’d kiss him and say a little thank you.

And then you’d fall asleep and any smile he tried to keep on for you dropped.

You were so...sad. There was no other word for it. Empty, maybe. Longing for something that should’ve been yours.

Shit, maybe he wasn’t going to be the best dad in the world, but you needed to be a mother.

Wherever he would’ve failed, he knew that baby would be okay with you loving it, and nurturing it, and kissing it, and holding it close to you.

Seeing the way you yearned for a baby made him think of all the other things you’d talked about with him, all the little dreams and other things you hoped to do with him.

He thought maybe one of them would help, maybe he could find something to help fill that void even if it didn’t fit quite right.

Something that would occupy your heart until you were finally pregnant or you looked into adopting a kid.

He came home that Friday you’d taken off work with a box in his arms, setting it outside the door before he pushed it open and stepped inside. He took off his boots like always and walked over to the couch where you were watching an old show, bending down to kiss you gently.

“Can you close your eyes for me, baby?” He tugged on your bottom lip with his thumb as you gazed up at him.

“If I open them to find you naked, I’m not gonna find it very amusing.” The time off work brought back a bit of your humor, but you did close your eyes as you moved to sit up.

“Not doing that, but I really hope you like this.” He made sure your eyes were closed before he moved towards the still open door. “It’s, uh...it’s gonna be a little work, but I know we talked about doing this before.” He balanced the box in his arms carefully, kicking the door closed as he moved inside.

“I’m still convinced this is a sex thing.” You furrowed your brow, wringing your hands anxiously.

“It’s not a sex thing, hon.” He set the box at your feet and reached in to take out the furry, wriggling creature.

“It really sounds like it is.”

“Hold out your hands.”

You did with little hesitation because you trusted Frankie more than anyone, brow furrowing even more when something soft was placed into your hands.

“Open your eyes.”

You did, pausing when you looked down to find what looked to be a little mixed hound puppy staring up at you and wagging its tail, trying desperately to lick at any part of you it could.

The longer you stared at the puppy in silence, the more nervous Frankie became that this was a bad idea and that you were going to be offended by him trying to cheer you up with a dog.

Then you started sobbing, putting the puppy in your lap and reaching up to Frankie, who quickly moved to sit next to you.

He wasn’t sure if you were happy or not, but he wrapped his arms tight around you either way and let you cry against his neck.

“Is this good crying?” he asked tentatively, relaxing considerably when he felt you nod.

“Good, it’s good. Is it a boy or a girl?” For some reason, that question broke his heart a little, but he pulled away to watch the puppy paw at your shirt.

“A girl. Someone dumped her and her brothers and sisters at the shelter. But she’s ours now, if you want her.”

“Oh, baby. She’s so beautiful, Frankie.”

You held the puppy again and she wriggled around, teetering forward to lick at your chin which made you laugh loudly.

That was Frankie’s most favorite sound in the world and he’d been hearing it so infrequently that he was pretty sure he’d just fallen in love with you all over again.

He gently rubbed up and down your back, watching the puppy gnaw on your finger with those little sharp teeth. “You like her?”

“I love her. Thank you for...everything.” You kissed him gently, for loving you, for putting up with you, for wanting a baby with you, for doing his best to provide something else you dreamed of when your dream of a child wasn’t working out.

He pressed his head against yours and looked into your eyes in a tender moment that was quickly interrupted by the puppy leaping up and licking at you both. You both laughed and you set her down on the couch, letting her sniff around the new environment.

“You’ll need to pick out a name. Alright, alright, damn.” The puppy was trying to nose in behind him impatiently and he scooted forward a little, chuckling.

“Catfish,” you said so surely that Frankie looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I want her to be named after her daddy.”

He shook his head, looking to his side to see that dopey little tan and black face staring up at him with her tail thumping on the couch cushion. “I guess there’s enough room for two Catfish around here, huh?”

She tilted her little head as he spoke, ears flopping around slightly, then dove right into his lap and started nipping at his hands.

You laughed, leaning over and nuzzling his shoulder. “We need to buy her some chew toys.”

“Uh, I did.”

“You sound guilty.”

“—I took off work early to grab her and we stopped by the pet store for food and shit, so I bought a few toys.”

“How many is a few toys?”

“Anything she wanted.”

“You softie.”

You watched him with adoration in your eyes as he playfully scolded the puppy for chewing on his jacket. “Put the puppy in the box.”

“Huh?”

“Put her in the box for a minute.”

Frankie looked confused until your hand slid between his legs, eyes widening when you squeezed him lightly. “Alright, baby girl, you hold tight and play with the ball I put in your box, okay?”

It was a month and a half later as Frankie stared at eight lines, two on each of the four pregnancy tests you’d taken, as well as the three digital screens that said ‘pregnant’ on the other ones, that you kissed Catfish’s head again and again and told her it was thanks to her that she was going to be a big sister.

[another-snape-story]

Halloween

Chapter XIV

“Are you all right?” Snape asked, peering intently into your face. It lost its usual liveliness, and your thoughts seemed to dwell far away from the festively decorated Hall you anticipated to see so much, from overall excitement, from him.

“Yes,” you gave him the same forced smile as earlier this morning, and Snape’s heart sank. Something happened in a couple of hours he hasn’t seen you during the day. That damned envelope he himself passed into your hands should be the reason, he thought. This was the only possible explanation. He didn’t expect you’d open up to him, but it would be a lie if he said he didn’t cherish a tiny bit of hope.

Eyes full of concern, he desperately tried to find right words to express his readiness to help you whatever has happened, to assure you were not alone, but at the same time – surrounded by your other colleagues – not to make this matter public, moreover he had no idea what it was all about.

“Why aren’t you helping yourself?” deprived of opportunity to sit beside, Aurora Sinistra spoke to you from the other side of the table. “These profiteroles are delicious!”

Annoyed with unfavorable intrusion, Snape leaned back on his chair, fists clenched.

“I’ll try some,” you answered politely and reluctantly reached out for the dish to put one on your plate. Snape watched you with increasing anxiety.

“Where’s Quirrell?” you questioned, hoping to divert his attention.  Estranging yourself from the man you were thankful to come into your life felt so terribly wrong, but you were not ready to tell what bothered you – neither him, nor anyone else.

This very moment Professor Quirrell appeared in the doorway and rushed through the Hall right to Headmaster’s chair.

“Troll! Troll in the dungeons!” he gasped short of breath and – unconscious – swooned to the floor.

Astounded, you turned to Snape. Deep in thought, his eyes wandered the room. Meanwhile, Headmaster Dumbledore called agitated students for order. Prefects started gathering children of their Houses to escort them back to the dormitories. Professor Sprout was trying to bring Quirinus to his senses.

“The stone!” you startled up.

“Stay here!” Snape ordered heading for the exit.

“No!” you followed him.

He grabbed your shoulders. “Stay here! And please – be careful!”

“And you? What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he stole the last glance from you, and what he saw made his heart leap. You truly worried about him! Merlin, how could this be? The corners of his mouth formed a barely perceptible smile. “Be careful…”

He left you standing in the middle of the throng, lost and confused. You shouldn’t have let him go alone. What he was up to? You felt uncomfortable not knowing if he was all right. With this came realization he was the only one here you really cared for.

“The troll’s heading upstairs!” you heard someone’s desperate scream.

Holding your wand ready, with a resolute step you set off to catch that stupid mountain of flesh. Professor McGonagall ran after you.

Muted hammering sounds got more audible the closer you approached the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, and disgusting smell proved you were going in the right direction.

“Snape’s going to miss everything.” Once this thought crossed your mind, a tall black figure streaked from around the corner, causing a powerful wash of relief sweep over your body, giving you strength and determination to move further. Snape lined up with you and joined you on your way. It wasn’t the best time for questions. The troll raged; his chilling roar echoed through the corridor. You heard a loud bang and silence fell all at once. Stopped in your tracks – so strange and unexpected it was – you and Snape exchanged anxious glances and hurried as fast as you could, praying none of the students was hurt.

Professor McGonagall managed to outstrip you. She was the first to burst into the room. Snape protectively held you back, shielding you from whatever might’ve been inside. Suddenly, Quirrell, who vanished again as soon as all this bustle started, emerged out of nowhere, pushing his course through the doorway. Why he followed suit remained a mystery – the man looked like fainting again.

A huge stinky mass of the troll lay on the floor, motionless. It didn’t seem to bear any kind of danger anymore. Snape bent over the troll to make sure. The way he moved set you alert. Hard to say, what exactly drew your attention, but something certainly was different.

In the interim, Professor McGonagall blasted three young Gryffindors, who – to your surprise and terror – happened to be Harry Potter himself and his friends: showing little effort in studying Ron Weasley and nosy know-it-all Hermione Granger. How could these first-years expect to defeat a troll without having neither defensive nor fighting spells in store of their knowledge? It was pure luck they weren’t injured!

“You said you had a special gift with trolls, Quirinus?” you addressed him coldly.

The man flinched at the sound of his name.

“Why didn’t you stop him right there – in the dungeons?”

“I – j-just –” words seemed to stuck in his throat.

“And what were you doing there?”

Snape approached you, supposing you’d step back, but driven by anger and resentment you had no intention to stop this conversation. Snape on the other hand was determined to put an end to it. He made another step towards you, and another one – until his chest was pressed against your shoulder. Blocking your view with his tall figure, Snape almost pushed you out in the corridor.

Before leaving the room, he threw a condemning glance at your suspicious colleague.

“What the – ” you frowned. “I had more questions to this scoundrel!”

“I know,” he hushed you. “Not now.”

“When then?” you croaked.

“And not you,” he stated firmly.

“Am I suspended?” his words outraged you. “Why not me?”

If Quirrell was implicated in the Dark Lord’s matters, Snape had to keep you away from this. Quirrell should see not a slightest hint of danger in your words or actions, moreover – consider you his enemy.

“Just trust me, okay?” he stopped, and you turned to face him – it felt natural to do so. These eyes never betrayed you. You nodded, given in, and sighed:

“Okay…”

You continued your way in silence.

“Are you limping?” coming around after this chaotic evening, you finally noticed your fellow Professor fall heavily on the right leg.

“I’m fine. Stumbled on the stairs,” he explained indifferently.

Now it was your turn to stop.

“What?” Snape spun around to see the reason of your sudden holdup.

Arms crossed on your chest, you stood still, your lips pursed in a disapproving curve.

“How can I trust you, if you don’t find it necessary to tell me what happened in that short time you were absent! Where have you been, huh?”

“Neither do you want to tell me about the letter you received this morning and why it bothers you so much!” he spat back. “Correct me – if – I’m – wrong.”  

His words stroke you dumb. Chasing the troll, you forgot about your troubles for a while; to be reminded of them in such a rude, offhanded manner was heartbreaking. You couldn’t say what hurt you more – revived awareness of the news you received, or cold demeanor of the man you needed to be beside in this distressing moment. You felt a lump rise up to your throat and swallowed hard.

“This letter is a private issue and therefore concerns only me,” your voice creaked. “But recent events have to do with the whole school.” Holding back tears, you made a pause to pull yourself together and stung him with his own words. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Snape got used to you to that extent he started considering you a part of his reality so indefeasible, completely neglecting the fact you had your own reality, where his place might be of much lesser importance. Clearly, you didn’t owe him a thing, and could keep your secrets to yourself. He should’ve realized it. Of course, he should. Blaming you for that was inacceptable and tremendously selfish. Constant strain of nerve costed Snape the loss of self-control. Being too protective of you, he violated the boundaries and severely regretted it. He opened his mouth to apologize, but there was nothing he could say to atone his fault.

You shook your head in downright disappointment and shoot past him in the darkness of the passage.

“Wait!” Snape jolted, “I didn’t mean to –” He limped a few steps after you, but – his leg searing with pain each time he moved – couldn’t catch up with your speed. “Ugh, damn it!” he stretched out his hand to lean against the wall. He had to do something with this first.

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[tlbodine]

The History & Evolution of Home Invasion Horror

Here’s my prediction: In the next couple of years, we’re going to be seeing a sudden surge of home invasion movies hit the market. For many of us, 2020 has been a year of extreme stress compounded by social isolation; venturing outside means being exposed to a deadly plague, after all. 

And while many people have already predicted that we’ll see an influx of pandemic and virus horrors (see my post on those: https://ko-fi.com/post/Pandemic-and-Pandemonium-Sickness-in-Horror-T6T21I201), I actually think a lot of us are going to be processing a different type of fear -- anxiety about what happens when your home, which is supposed to be a literal safe space, gets invaded. Because if you’re not safe in your own house...you’re not safe anywhere. 

Home invasion movies have been around a long time -- arguably as long as film, with 1909′s The Lonely Villa setting down the formula -- and they share many of the same roots as slasher films in the 1970s. But somewhere along the way, they separated off and became their own distinct subgenre with specific tropes, and it’s that separation and the stories that followed it that I want to focus on. 

The Origins of the Home Invasion Movie 

In order to really qualify as a home invasion movie, a film has to meet a few requirements:

The action must be contained entirely (or almost entirely) to a single location, usually a private residence (ie, the home) 

The perpetrator(s) must be humans, not supernatural entities (no ghosts, zombies, or vampires -- that’s a different set of tropes!) 

In most cases, the horror builds during a long siege between the invader and the home-dweller, including scenes of torture, capture, escape, traps, and so forth. 

To an extent, home invasion movies are truth in television. Although home invasions are relatively rare, and most break-ins occur when a family is away (the usual goal being to steal things, not torture and kill people), criminals do sometimes break into people’s homes, and homeowners are sometimes killed by them. 

In the 1960s and 70s, this certainly would have been at the forefront of people’s minds. Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood detailed one such crime in lavish detail, and the account was soon turned into a film. Serial killers like the Boston Strangler, BTK Killer and the “Vampire of Sacramento” Richard Chase also made headlines for their murders, which often occurred inside the victim’s home. (Chase, famously, considered unlocked doors to be an invitation, which is one great reason to lock your doors). 

By the 1960s and 70s, too, people were more and more often beginning to live in cities and larger neighborhoods where they did not know their neighbors. Anxieties about being surrounded by strangers (and, let’s face it, racial anxieties rooted in newly-mixed, de-segregated neighborhoods) undoubtedly fueled fears about home invasion. 

Early Roots of the Home Invasion Genre

Home invasion plays a part in several crime thrillers and horror films in the 1950s and 60s, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder in 1954, but it’s more of a plot point than a genre. In these films, home invasion is a means to an end rather than a goal unto itself. 

We see some early hints of the home invasion formula show up in Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left in 1972. The film depicts a group of murderous thugs who, after torturing and killing two girls, seek refuge in the victim’s home and plot the deaths of the rest of the family. In 1974, the formula is refined with Bob Clark’s Black Christmas, which shows the one-by-one murder of members of a sorority house and chilling phone calls that come from inside the home. 

Even closer still is I Spit on Your Grave, directed by Meir Zarchi in 1978. Although it’s generally (and rightly) classified as a rape-revenge film, the first half of the movie -- where an author goes to a remote cabin and is targeted and brutally assaulted by a group of men -- hits all the same story beats as the modern home invasion story: isolation, mundane evil, acts of random violence, and protracted torture. 

Slumber Party Massacre, directed by Amy Holden Jones in 1982, also hits on both home invasion and slasher tropes. Although it is primarily a straightforward slasher featuring an escaped killer systematically killing teenagers (with a decidedly phallic weapon), the film also shows its victims teaming up and fighting back -- weaponizing their home against the killer. This becomes an important part of the genre in later years! 

In 1997, Funny Games, directed by Michael Haneke, provides a brutal but self-aware look at the genre. Created primarily as a condemnation of violent media, the film nevertheless succeeds as an unironic addition to the home invasion canon -- from its vulnerable, suffering family to the excruciating tension of its plot to the nihilistic, motive-free criminality of its villains, it may actually be the purest example of the home invasion movie. 

Home Invasions Gone Wrong 

Where things start to get interesting for the home invasion genre is 1991′s The People Under the Stairs, another Wes Craven film. Here the script is flipped: The hero is the would-be robber, breaking and entering into the home of some greedy rich landlords. But this plan swiftly goes sideways when the homeowners turn out to be even worse people than they’d first let on. 

This is, as far as I can tell, the origin of the home-invasion-gone-wrong subgenre, which has gained immense popularity recently -- due, perhaps, to a growing awareness of systemic issues, a differing view of poverty, and a viewership sympathetic to the plight of down-on-their-luck criminals discovering that rich homeowners are, indeed, very bad people. 

Home Invasion Film Explosion of the 2000s 

The home invasion genre really hit the ground running in the 2000s, due perhaps to post-911 anxieties about being attacked on our home turf (and increasing economic uneasiness in a recession-afflicted economy and a growing awareness of the Occupy movement and wealth inequality). We see a whole slew of these films crop up, each bringing a slightly different twist to the formula.

*  It’s also worth noting that the 2000s saw remakes of many well-known films in the genre, including Funny Games and Last House on the Left.  

In 2008, Bryan Bertino directed The Strangers, a straightforward home invasion involving one traumatized couple and three masked villains. By this point, we’re wholly removed from the early crime movie roots; these are not people breaking in for financial gain. Like the killers in Funny Games, the masked strangers lack motive and even identity; they are simply a force of evil, chaotic and senseless. 

The themes of “violence as a senseless, awful thing” are driven further home by Martyrs, another 2008 release, this one from French director Pascal Laugier. A revenge story turned into a home-invasion-gone-wrong, the film is noteworthy for its brutality and blunt nihilism. 

2009′s The Collector, directed by Marcus Dunstan, is another home-invasion-gone-wrong movie. Like Martyrs, it dovetails with the torture porn genre (another popular staple of the 2000s), but it has a lot more fun with it. The film follows a down-on-his-luck thief who breaks into a house only to encounter another home invader set on murdering the family that lives there. The cat-and-mouse games between the two -- which involve numerous traps and convoluted schemes -- are fun to watch (if you like blood and guts). 

In a similar vein, we see You’re Next in 2013, which starts off as a standard home invasion movie but takes a sharp twist when it’s revealed that one of the victims isn’t nearly as helpless as she appears. Director Adam Wingard helps to redefine the concept of “final girl” in this move in a way that has carried forward right into the next decade with no sign of stopping. 

2013 of course also introduced us to The Purge, a horror franchise created by James DeMonaco. If there was ever any doubt as to the economic anxieties at the root of the genre, they should be alleviated now -- The Purge is such a well-known franchise at this point that the term has entered our pop culture lexicon as a shorthand for revolution. 

Don’t Breathe, directed be Fede Alvarez in 2016, is one of the creepiest modern entries into the “failed home invasion” category, and one that (ha ha) breathed some new life into the genre. Much like The People Under the Stairs, it tells the story of some down-on-their-luck criminals getting in over their heads when they target the wrong man. However, there is not the same overt criticism of wealth inequality in this film; it’s a movie more interested in examining and inverting genre tropes than treading new thematic ground. The same is true of Hush that same year. Directed by Mike Flanagan, the film is most noteworthy for its deaf protagonist. 

But lest you start to think the home invasion genre had lost its thematic relevance, 2019 arrived with two hard-hitting, thoughtful films that dip their toes in these tropes: Jordan Peele’s Us and Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite, which both tackle themes of privilege in light of home invasion (albeit a nontraditional structure in Parasite -- its inclusion here is admittedly a bit of a stretch, but I think it falls so closely in the tradition of The People Under the Stairs that it deserves a spot on this list). 

What Does the Future Hold? 

I’m no oracle, so I can’t say for certain where the future of the home invasion genre might lead. But I do think we’re going to start seeing more of them in the next few years as a bunch of creative folks start working through our collective trauma. 

Income inequality, racial inequality, political unrest and systemic issues are all at the forefront of our minds (not to mention a deadly virus), and those themes are ripe for the picking in horror. 

I know that Paul Tremblay’s novel The Cabin at the End of the World has been optioned for film, so we might be seeing that soon -- and if so, it might just usher in a fresh wave of apocalypse-flavored home invasion stories. 

Like my content? You can support more of it by dropping me some money in my tip jar: https://www.ko-fi.com/post/Home-Invasion-Stories-A-History-R6R72RV7Y

[c0ry-c0nvoluted]

THE ENEMY IS NOT A SKIN COLOR. THE ENEMY IS A CLASS.

White privilege. The phrase implies special rights. The phrase implies having a jumpstart in the race by way of DNA. What it doesn’t imply is that that white-skinned Jim or Judy is gonna win that race, just that the game is rigged in their favor.

I don’t hate the concept. The validity of it, I mean. It honestly rings some-kind-of-true in my brain when taking into consideration the general social status of people of color. But there’s a problem with it. Not in its validity, but in its generality, its assumption, and the overall affect it has on our society.

The biggest and most obvious problem with it is that there are tens of millions of white people (if not hundreds of millions worldwide), who are all struggling just to make ends meet (if they can at all). There are “poor white folk” everywhere. And there are white kids who are terrorized by their own parents. There are white boys and girls getting bullied at school or in their neighborhood. There are white people suffering at the hands of violent criminals, scam artists, corporations, policemen… And I’m not talking about white criminals suffering, here...

I worked with this insanely gorgeous blond who was one of several dozen (I don’t remember the actual number) of women who were raped by this cop in my city (San Diego). He’d follow them from clubs, pull them over, take what he wanted from them, then send them on their way. He got away with it up until he didn’t, but how many cops still do? His choice of victim was young and white, as are most serial killer victims, but does their skin color matter? In the sense that they’re preferred as targets, yes, but not in the sense of right and wrong. Their white skin, in this case, wasn’t doing them any favors.

But let’s get back to the topic at hand.

Is “white privilege” real?

Well that depends on what you consider “white privilege” to be, and I think that’s where our signals are getting crossed. I think that if you look at it on a more psychological level you’ll see that, yes, “white privilege” is a real thing in that “white people are less likely to be demonized or judged negatively based solely on their skin tone.” (But not on their appearance. If a white person is dressed like a thug, he/she is going to get negatively judged the same way a Hispanic would. Whereas vice versa, if a black person was dressed like a total bookworm, they’re going to get judged as such, not as a criminal.) But blacks being judged more often solely on skin color is 100% true. Black-skinned people have been demonized throughout our nation’s history (and many other nations) and this demonization, along with insidious, covert attacks on black communities by those in power, have caused two things (among a plethora of others, but two for the sake of my point). 1: It’s caused non-blacks who are not racist but are just recognizing the patterns they’ve been force-fed by the media, to unintentionally relate black-skin with ignorance, violence, and criminal behavior. And 2: It’s brought about disparity, anger, and emotional trauma in the black community that is the cause of the higher crime rates in those communities and more black-on-black crime than white-on-black crime (by the people, I mean. I’m not counting by the government because that’s a whole other fuck-storm of shit that isn’t only aimed at blacks, but at any who are considered “lower-class,” which, yes, the majority of blacks in our country are. That’s not to say there are more poor black people than poor white people. I really doubt that’s the case. But the percentage of blacks or other minorities who are poor vs the percentage of whites who are is likely leaning in the direction of exactly what makes “white privilege” a valid argument. But I’m not a “facts” guy. The numbers are just ways to distract from the problem, so you’re not gonna catch me quoting them to cry foul on the BLM movement. The reality is that yes, there are probably more poor white people total than blacks in this country, but the psychology, the demonization of blacks, is a real thing.)

But there’s a problem with looking at this as “white privilege.” Number one: if we do that we (unintentionally) discredit any white person who is or has suffered. Those who are, or have suffered, will absolutely not take kindly to being told that they are “privileged”. And what happens when they are told this? It makes anyone with white skin who has suffered or is suffering (and there’s a fuck ton of us) think to themselves, “Oh, fuck no! You think I got it good? You think you’re the only one who has problems? You think you’re the only one who’s getting fucked by the system? Well fuck you, and your white privileged bullshit excuse to whine to the guilt-ridden middle class to get your free handouts! The government has fucked me over more times than I can count!” And what does this mind-state do? It creates a racial class-war between those who have white skin and are suffering, and those who have black/brown skin and are suffering. And who wins in this scenario? If you guessed “the upper-class” you get a prize. (Whatchoo want, a fuzzy bear? A goldfish in a plastic tub? G’ahead. Pick something nice out. You earned it.) So now you got poor white people with guns itching to shoot any black person with or without a gun who supports a movement that indirectly claims that their suffering is invalid. And what does this “civil class war” accomplish? It creates more “criminals” for the fucking private-owned prisons to make money off of, further separating the upper-class from the lower, creating more suffering, more anger, more hate, MORE RACISM.

So is white privilege real? Psychologically, yes, to the extent that our society psychologically favors white skin over black/brown. But has it ever made me any more money? No. Has it ever stopped the cops from pulling me over and searching my car? Fuck no. I’ve been detained, searched, followed, fined, towed, impounded, harassed more than most people you know, regardless of your color. I’ve lost count of how many damn times I’ve been harassed by the cops in my city. Shit, I wrote a goddamn rap song about it back in the early 2000’s called SDPD, smashing on the fuckers for harassing a guy who was just trying to get by. And I was NEVER a criminal. I NEVER had any weapons or hard drugs (ok, some pills and plenty of pot, but…), I was NEVER robbing anyone or breaking into cars or homes or gang banging (maybe just a smidge of graffiti, but that shit’s art), or causing any kind of…ok, no, there was some drunken shenanigans, for sure, but that was mostly my boys, not me. Lol The point is, being white DID NOT stop me from getting constantly harassed by the cops in my city. You know what did? A new car, less homies in the ride, no smoke blowing from the windows, and a slightly more tempered demeanor while driving. I still bump my rap music, but I’m not in a car full of teenage “trouble-makers”. I still speed, but I come to a complete stop at them signs, bruh. I still run red lights, but I look reeeal fucking carefully when I do. I still zip in-and-out of lanes on the freeway, but I keep it below 80 (mostly). So the only thing that’s changed is that I “appear” to have more money (with a nicer ride), and I show more maturity in being on the road. My skin color hasn’t changed, but my run-ins with the cops have.

The bottom line: Crying out “white privilege” ain’t gonna help anyone but the rich who’re sitting back and raking in the dough off all the drama and weapon sales and fines and arrests and damaged property that needs to be rebuilt. So don’t make our society’s problem about a skin color. When you do that you divide people into groups when you should be uniting them. Divided we fall. I know most of your intentions are righteous, (and this goes out to white people too who’re acknowledging their “privilege”), but you’re doing it wrong. You’re creating enemies by unintentionally discrediting anyone with white skin who has suffered at the hands of the system, claiming that you own the rights (the privilege?) of deciding that they’re the ones who are privileged, all while they’re slowly rotting in inequity right beside you.

THE ENEMY IS NOT A SKIN COLOR. THE ENEMY IS A CLASS.

And that class is the rich. The 1%.

Are most of them white? Yes. But will that stop them from stealing money from poor white people? From bankrupting small businesses with corporate industry? From putting blue-collar white people out of work and replacing them with machines? From taking their homes when they can’t pay back their loans? From putting them in prison when they fight back right next to you for equality? No. Because the 1% only care about profit, and they don’t care who they have to manipulate, rob, demoralize, or demonize to get it, or what skin color those people have. Let’s get our heads right. Open them angry eyes and see who the enemy really is. And fight THAT enemy, not the enemy that their manipulation has created for you.

How? The real solution to “white privilege” and inequity and inequality is a very simple concept but an incredibly complex task. It involves creating a society where money is obsolete. When this happens there will be no more inequality. There will be no “superpowers” or 1%. There will be no poor. There will be no rich. There will be no profit other than the profit of betterment, progress, knowledge, discovery, science, quality of living. But there’s only one way to make money obsolete, and that’s by removing labor from our society. Sound crazy? That’s because you don’t realize how close we are to doing it anyway. A fully automated society is right around the bend, my dudes. We have the technology to make ALL LABOR OBSOLETE, in which case no one will have to work, in which case money will have no significance. What will have significance? RESOURCES. But this is a topic I’ve discussed before and will again soon and more directly. So for now what can we do? We demand a society that serves the people’s interests, not the corporations’. Unfortunately I can’t tell you how to this because I’m not into politics, I’m into actual change, not perpetuating the same system that’s fucking us all. My advice? Start spreading the concept of a RESOURCE BASED ECONOMY as loud and as often as you can. This type of society eliminates corruption and inequity and is only just now becoming possible thanks to advancements in technology. Look into it. Spread the word. AND STOP CREATING SEGREGATION AMONG OUR PEOPLE. Please, for fuck’s sake, stop adding to our problems and start moving towards eliminating them. #fightsmarter2020 Thanks for reading. -cc

[florbelles]

🌸 🎀 💗 🌺 🌷for queen Lyra if you have the time!

thank you lovely!! sorry this took so long.

(disclaimer that a few of these were similar to questions i’ve answered previously, and i’ve more or less duplicated those responses where applicable xx)

🌸 what does your oc’s voice sound like? their laugh? are they good at singing? do they have an accent?

lyra’s voice is breathy, light, and airy; it’s either soothing or agitating depending on who you are and, to some extent, what she wishes to convey. she consciously pitches it lower when she wishes for her words to carry more gravity, but her natural pitch is fairly high — her voice is quietest and lowest at its most menacing.

she laughs ready and easily. loudly with her head thrown back when she’s delighted and genuine; humorlessly and with curling lips when she’s patronizing or dismissive; with bared bloody teeth in combat; soundlessly with her lips pressed against her husband’s shoulder, throat, mouth; short and gasping when she’s upset; harsh and barking when she’s angry. melodic and haunting when she hunts her prey, echoing through the woods or the judge chambers.

lyra’s singing voice is pleasant enough, but it’s rarely heard outside of her murmuring along to her records.

she has a slight affected accent, the result of life in and out of boarding schools in new england, london, and paris ( the resulting cadence and tendency to drop hard r sounds — her “darlilng” is never DAR-ling — is vaguely transatlantic, but smoother & softer ). she speaks to beguile or agitate, she has no in-between.

🎀 do they wear a specific accessory with a special meaning behind it? what is their usual fashion sense like? what do they wear when they want to be comfortable and what do they wear when they’re going to a fancy party? or do they just not care?

she wears project cross earrings, the only gift she ever allowed john to give her ( ostensibly they are her wedding gift/a welcoming gift to the family; they weren’t bought, and they carried significance beyond ornamentation, so she permitted it despite her aversion to gifts of jewelry ).

she wears dresses & heels exclusively; she only dresses in shades of white/ivory/dusty rose/pale lilac or other muted colors — she never wears black, red, anything too dark or too vibrant. her style is ethereal and soft and romantic. she likes to wear clothes that show off her tattoos, so her arms are bare, her slits are high, and her necklines plunge. she doesn’t like anything too restrictive, so her fabrics are usually draped, light, and airy. it’s been said before, but if it doesn’t evoke aphrodite or persephone in spring, she doesn’t want it.

lyra doesn’t really alter the way she dresses terms of styling choices, so the main shifts that occur are in fabrics; during the day she’ll favor airy and unornamented dresses, for formal occasions she opts for tulles, detailing, and lace-up or faux corset tops. if she’s at home with nowhere to be she’ll walk around naked or in her boudoir gowns/lingerie. she does not own pants, long sleeves, or anything that restricts her or clings to her limbs, structurally.

💗 what would your oc say is their best feature? why? what do their friends / family / lover(s) think is their best feature and why?

her tits. lyra’s hair is the pride of her life, but she considers her eyes her best ( and most useful ) attribute. john is partial to her neck, where she has his tattoos initialed; wes is appreciative of the snake tattoo running from her left thigh to her ribcage for personal reasons.

🌺 does your oc have any tattoos or other body art? does their body art have any specific meaning behind it? do they have any scars? how did they get those scars? any birthmarks?

her first tattoos were stick and pokes she gave herself in boarding school in one of her various schemes to get expelled ( most notably scrawling “harlot” across her arm; they were poorly done, so even without coverups they would be faded and warped, but you can still see edges of some of them under the lilies of her left arm if you know where to look ).

her arms are entirely covered with lilies & vines ( all black lineart ), intertwined from the backs of her hands up to her shoulders & chest; on the left side they go up her neck. they were done when she was sixteen, after she was officially disinherited by her parents ( for rebirth, yes, but also purity; a sly nod to how she was perceived — she had already been conning men on the road for a year — as well as a reclamation ).

a serpent twined with carnations spans from her upper left thigh to her ribcage ( also thin black lineart ). it was done when she was 19 years old and working in biker bars ( the serpent in the garden imagery needs no elaboration; perhaps a bit ironically, she was using the tattoo artist — her girlfriend at the time — to get close to a target ).

roses and thorns cover her right shoulder and the right side of her upper chest & neck ( thin black lineart, minimally designed ). she got them when she was 22 and wildly successful in what she did. ( what she did was blackmail, con and murder, but still, wildly successfully ).

her wrath tattoo covers her upper breasts ( as her per request; not crossed out because i. she believes she’ll have reached atonement when she sees her family successfully through the gates of eden and not before but ii. she’s spying on the resistance and can’t very well have a crossed out sin when they know what it means ). she was 26, recently arrived in hope county, and joining the project.

she has john’s initials on the left side of her neck, just below her jaw and near the top of the highest lily; she was 26, and she has the tattoo in place of a wedding ring. in fairbrooksverse she adds wes’s at the base ( meaning of both the lily and her neck ) when he joins their marriage.

she has the eden’s gate cross on the back of her right hand; she was 26 and got it when she assumed the role of the judge, sealing herself as the right hand of the heralds and her position as a seed ( coinciding with her marriage ).

virtually all of them tie into the theme of how she's perceived/her presentation vs. the reality of who she is/considers herself to be; the lilies have a degree of toxicity and are strangled by vines, the roses & thorns ( beautiful, associated with desire & passion ) will bleed you. the seen vs. the unseen and the physical vs. the intangible are heavily prevalent to her, and her body art reflects that; she has them in defiance, in a way, to balance out the duplicity that she privately loathes ( which is why she only ever lies by omission or redirection and allows everyone to make their incorrect assumptions ). i've shown you what i am, she’s saying. i warned you, i wear it on my skin, it isn't my fault you didn't interpret it correctly. it’s why the marking concept immediately resonates with her; it’s also why she always has them on display.

she’s scarred everywhere, the result of her complete lack of self-preservation instincts, but three scars of note. one on the inside of her right palm/knuckles from where she grabbed a blade ( from her first kill; she was 18 ); on her right side, slashing deep across her rib cage towards her naval ( from the first night of the reaping; she fell on broken glass in a shattered truck window with her full body weight. this one never heals properly and gets reopened multiple times during the holy war — it’s a weak spot/hypersensitive area for the rest of her life ). post-collapse she has a jagged facial scar that runs diagonally from her forehead to her jaw. ( tw self harm/mutilation: she cut it herself in the bunker; a horrified joseph stitched it up as best he could, but it never quite healed properly, which was, of course, the point ).

she has freckles across her nose and shoulders and a small birthmark near her left eyebrow, but none of any significance.

🌷 in what ways would your oc alter their body if they could? how would they do it using mundane means (hair dye, surgery, make-up)? what is their ideal look for themself?

she wouldn’t. lyra is not quite as vain as she projects, but her appearance is one thing she has never wished to alter; she puts on no airs of humility, she is very aware that she’s generally considered to be exceptionally beautiful, and she has never had qualms about exploiting that and using it to her advantage; she was exploited for it early in life, after all, why should she not use it for her own means?

she’s shockingly low-maintenance in her beauty routine, all told. she’ll curl the ends of her hair, but john holds down the hair product use quota of the fairbanks-seed household ( which is, perhaps, partly because of the sheer mass and quantity of her hair; if she styled it obsessively she would do nothing else ). she’ll use serums and moisturizers and toners, but she applies makeup sparsely; she doesn’t like anything too heavy, nothing she can feel on her skin; as with her clothing, breathability is her priority. she never wears lipstick.

her eyes are the exception, she never uses makeup for concealment, but for impact, and she styles her eyes dark and heavy; she wears black shadow in her crease, thick winged liner, and mascara.

[taperwolf]

I’m seeing a lot in the notes of a recent post about the Twilight series arguing about Mormonism. (The current church authorities dislike the church’s members being called Mormons but I’m going to continue to ignore them.) To make my biases and allegiances clear: I was raised Mormon, mostly in states surrounding Utah; I served a mission (to Guatemala), though my mission ended early for medical reasons; I subsequently left the church due to disagreements with their teachings and behavior. I’ve studied the church’s history both from within and without. So I’m going to go over some of the arguments happening.

Claim 1: Mormonism is a cult.

The problem here is that “cult” is a term without widely accepted meaning; it’s essentially, in common discourse, just a slur for a religion that’s not very big, or exists on the fringes of society. 

Stepping back for a minute, though, it’s helpful to look at why we think cults are bad. I’m going to use a definition of a “destructive cult” from Dr. Steven Hassan of the Freedom of Mind Resource Center:

A destructive cult is a pyramid-shaped authoritarian regime with a person or group of people that have dictatorial control.  It uses deception to recruit new members and does not tell them what the group is, what the group actually believes, and what will be expected of them if they become members.  It also uses undue influence to keep people dependent, obedient, and loyal.

He also has what he calls the BITE model -- questioning how and to what extent a group controls the Behavior, Information, Thoughts, and Emotions of its members.  There’s a breakdown of these categories and how aspects of them apply to the Mormon church on his website -- and it ranks very high on the cult-o-meter on all counts.

The one (joking) refutation of Mormonism’s cult status is that a cult is supposed to have a charismatic leader, and the Mormons haven’t had one of those in a long, long time.

Claim 2: Mormons belive PoC are the seed of Cain/are destined for Hell.

This one is kinda false.  Kinda.

It’s absolutely part of Mormon teaching that Blacks -- everyone of African descent -- have as their ancestor Noah’s son Ham, whose wife was a descendant of Cain, the first murderer, and that their dark skin is the Mark that God put on Cain. Native Americans, in contrast, are supposed to be descended from a group of Jews who left Jerusalem around 600BCE and went to America in boats; half of the family turned out evil, so were cursed with dark skin in a completely separate incident. (Dark skin being a mark of evil is a recurring theme.) No-one of African descent could be a full member of the Mormon church until 1979.

However, Mormonism doesn’t believe in a traditional Christian Hell, nor does it have a concept of original sin, so nobody is Hellbound -- they’re just naturally evil and lesser beings.

(It’s probably fair to point out that the idea of dark skin being the Mark of Cain, or at least of Ham, was by no means unique to Mormons, and was indeed pretty popular in 19th-century Christianity. )

Claim 3: Joseph Smith invented the religion to get access to underage girls to rape.

Mormon apologists will claim that the church didn’t practice polygamy until the 1843 “revelation” (recorded as Doctrine and Covenants chapter 132), which history bears out as false; Joseph was teaching “plural marriage” as early as 1831, and potentially practicing that early as well; there are accusations of liasons with Fanny Alger (age 16) and with Marinda Nancy Johnson (age 16) in 1831.

However, it’s pretty clear that Joseph Smith came up with the golden plates-new bible-new religion thing not as a gambit for underage sex, but simply to get money.  He certainly took advantage of having loyal followers, whom he could send out on missions and then sleep with their wives and daughters, but that seems to have been a secondary consideration.

Polygamy was publicly denied and privately practiced until 1852, when it was declared once the Mormons following Brigham Young were safely in Utah; it then was the open practice until “officially” overturned in 1890, and then really-no-we-mean-it denounced in 1904. Existing marriages weren’t dissolved, but persisted until the 1950s, and of course splinter groups continue it to this day. It’s still considered church doctrine that plural marriage will be the rule following the second coming of Jesus and in the next life.

Claim 4:   Mormon genocide against Native Americans.

This one’s not in any doubt, sadly. Brigham Young displaced and killed a lot of Native Americans in setting up Utah, and participated in the trade of young Native Americans as slaves. Part of Joseph’s original plural marriage project was that some of the Mormon leadership’s wives should be Native women, in order to help accelerate the time that their descendants would become “white and delightsome”; this seems not to have been seriously followed but was in the zeitgeist.  Even in the 1950s-1990s, the church ran the “Indian Placement Program”, which took young Native students from their homes and placed them with Mormon foster families, providing an education on the condition that they convert, with the expressed intent to keep them from their own culture and make them “white”:

In October 1960, [later Mormon President Spencer W.] Kimball discussed the program at the General Conference. He said that Natives who participated in the program were gradually turning lighter, becoming 'white and delightsome.' "The day of the Lamanites is nigh," Kimball said, claiming that Navajo placement students were "as light as Anglos" and, in one case, several shades lighter than parents "on the same reservation, in the same hogan, subject to the same sun and wind and weather."

Heard any other claims about Mormonism?  Feel free to ask me or follow up here; I’ll try to answer as best as I can.

[armsdealing]

@neotropical​ sent: 10, 12, 15, 18, 26, 26 for Shiro | 28, 31, 36, 40 for Fenrir character development questions / inbox cleaning.

SHIRO.

10. what energizes and drains them most? shiro is introverted. heavy social interaction can drain him really fast, especially inane social interaction like small talk. paradoxically, being idle can also drain him. if he's not sleeping or eating, or reading or using his mind in some fashion, he'd rather be out there in the field, investigating cases and trying to solve them. he's a bit workaholic, and feeling like he's doing nothing worthwhile can affect his mood.

12. how are they bodily expressive? how do they use nonverbal cues such as their posture, stance, eyes, eyebrows, mouths, and hands? he's more expressive than he gives himself credit for, though most emotions tend to be negative, like annoyance or irritation or suspicion, if not outright anger cuz he's grumpy as fuck. he has expressive eyes even in wolf form, and since they are devoid of color the dilatation of the pupils is very clearly visible when he's agitated. body wise, he also goes tense, hackles proverbially raised, fists balled up, mouth pinched into a frown (or flashing fangs), standing tall or slightly crouched as if to lunge. his body language is pretty authoritative, typical of his species. and though like i said most of the emotions can be negative, he's not above showing emotional vulnerability. if he feels moved, he can truly start to cry right then and there (albeit stoically) without carinh, and if he's content/pleased/happy he's not above smiles -- though they are rare.

he's also easy to make blush if flirted with too heavily.  :/

15. what kind of inner life do they have — rich and imaginative? calculating and practical? full of doubts and fears? does it find any sort of outlet in their lives? mostly on the practical side, that's for sure. he tends to be motivated toward concrete goals, and is very good at staying focused. of course, he is not above occasionally daydreaming and losing track of things. this happens especially when not engrossed by something; his mind is full with grief regarding his past, as well as wariness toward the future, and that can lead him into brooding. his main outlet for his thoughts is his job as a social worker and private investigator. he finds it very rewarding that he can put his skillset to good use for the benefit of the community.

18. what kind of person could they become in the future? what are some developmental paths that they could take, (best, worst, most likely?) what would cause them to come to pass, and what consequences might they have? what paths would you especially like to see, and why? best case scenario shiro becomes a more tolerant person of humans, learning to understand and accept the gradations to their morality and that some humans are okay, while also learning to cope with his trauma in a healthy fashion, growing all around more emotionally open. along those lines he also accepts that he can have romantic feelings for someone without negating his sense of purpose and identity as a vigilante slash undercover god dlfkjdkf.

worst case scenario he distances himself more from the warmer side of him and opts to become a cruel and punitive deity that sees things mostly in black and white terms (something he already does to an extent) and doesn't form actual relationships with anybody, opting instead to dedicate himself to slaughtering humans he deems evil. basically it's a regression: going back to the same place where he was before making it to anima city and turning his life around.

both are likely, but of course the most likely is the former one if things go ideally -- like if he has more positive contacts with humans, and if others manage to get through to him emotionally. basically friendship and love will save him.

i'm good with either path tho of course i want to see him become healthier. i'm not opposed to him getting worse before he gets better, because i do love myself some drama.

26. how do they view and feel about relationships, and how might this manifest in how they handle them, if it does? he doesnt have many of them. most are purely incidental and tho they are positive they're not very deep. it's mostly work related or people that leave in his apartment building that he chats with from time to time or like, the owner of the coffee shop he frequents ddfjh. he thinks they are okay but at the same time he feels awkward and doesn't know how to go about them. he feels distant (his past and status as a god play a role no doubt) and even tho occasionally he wants to be closer to people he doesn't know how to even start. he's also a bit of a jerk and that doesn't help.

27. what do they strongly like and dislike, in any category? why? shiro greatly dislikes humans as a result of his past, being a victim of a massacre where all but himself died (purely on incident, since he was beheaded). he thinks they are all an irredeemable and violent bunch who sees his people as lesser. he also doesn't like beastmen that work with humans, seeing them as just as bad as humans too. in a more casual note he does not like the cult that has formed around his person, he thinks it's all a bunch of scammers trying to make money off his image. he wants to do something about it but isn't yet sure what.

he likes seeing anima city prosper and thrive and see beastmen happy; it genuinely warms his heart. and he likes children a lot. he has worked with the city to find many orphaned children better homes. he also has an affinity for boots and sweaters. 😌

FENRIR.

28. what are they likely to do if they have the opportunity, resources, and time to accomplish it? why? i mean if he had the opportunity resources and time odin would be DEAD already dfjgdhjfg prophecy be damned. he would've already put down a lot of asgardians, if not asgard itself. other than that... he's off and on about the idea of forming a legitimate pack. he could do it but it's a risky move considering gods are always cutting him short whenever they think he's getting 'too powerful'. but those things aside he doesn't want for much and he DOES already have the resources and time to do whatever he wants... to an extent.

31. is there anything that counts as a “dealbreaker” for them, positively or negatively? what makes things go smoothly, and what spoils an activity or ruins their day? why? fenrir has a short fuse and on bad days if you get on his nerves he will kill you. i mean he will really just shoot you dead for annoying him if he doesn't feel like acting civil. disrespecting him is a big no-no, he has a low tolerance for idiocy and people who think they can act all insolent around him. if you think you're close enough to get away with that you need to give yourself and ur relationship with him a long hard look because chances are you're wrong. acting like you're better than him/superior to him? dealbreaker. pitying him in any way? also a big dealbreaker. it truly annoys him. he will sooner stop talking to you than entertain your sympathy, even if what he's going through is worthy of it. he doesn't want anything to do with it. other things that can ruin his day is pain flares due to his bound status -- he deals with chronic pain 24/7, and it's the source of most of his bad moods.

as for things that makes situations go smoothly -- if the pain is unusually mild that given day. nice food or drink, or completed jobs, and presence of people he likes (family, or lovers)

36. how much do they rely on their minds and intellect, versus other approaches like relying on instinct, intuition, faith and spirituality, or emotions? what is their opinion on this? fenrir is more instinct and intuition than intellect, but he is by no means dumb. he is hypersensitive and hyperaware of things and is constantly processing amounts of information that would knock out the average human, and acting accordingly to it all. his hunches are usually correct and he's quite capable of analysis and deductive reasoning when necessary -- take for example when he quite correctly guessed that asgardians where trying to trick him with gleipnir. emotions play less of a role when it comes to serious decision making, tho yeah like anybody sometimes he will act purely on passion if its something that affects him to such a degree. he doesn't feel any particular way about it, and is confident in his decision making (perhaps sometimes overconfident but yh y'know, that happens), since it tends to work for him.

40. what do they wonder about? what sparks their curiosity and imagination, and why? how is this expressed, if it is? for a long long time(pre-binding) midgardian culture truly sparked his curiosity. he wanted to learn about humans and how they operated and the things they liked to do. after this curiosity was satiated he doesn't express wonder over many things. he has unanswered questions about the fate of the world and how fate will play out but virtually everyone does. he would rather spend his time in the present than invest a lot of time simply thinking about the future. simply put, he is not an imaginative person. 

[tetrakys]

Dragons and Daemons - part 2

Prologue

Part 1

“This is a serious matter,” Miiko said in a firm tone, “the crystal is unstable, I’m containing the situation for now, but it won’t last forever. We need to repair it and, even then, we don’t know if it’ll be enough, but we have to try. We knew there was a black market for crystal fragments out there, and we now got a tip-off about its location.”

Excited whispers were exchanged between the members of the Light guard. This was great news, it was vital to obtain all the missing pieces of the crystal and stop any new possible contamination. But… why did Miiko specifically asked me to this meeting? I wasn’t in the Light guard, and she didn’t usually confide in me for important matters. I was just the bait.

Ah, of course. She needed a bait.

“We can easily organise a mission to burst the place and…” Valkyon said, but Miiko interrupted him.

“No, we can’t play this by brute force. They’re using a public location, the people involved surround themselves with innocents, we can’t take any risks.”

“It’s clearly a work for me then,” Nevra said with a cocky grin, “I’m going to infiltrate the place and…”

“Unfortunately, you can’t.” Miiko added with a frown. “It would’ve been ideal, but you’d be kicked out as soon as you step in there.”

“What?”

“The place is…” she stuttered flustered. “The Dream House.”

Silence fell into the room.

“What?” I whispered to Kero. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”

He was blushing from head to toe, his eyes to the ground, hands fidgeting.

“W-well…” Miiko continued. “The tip is pretty solid, but we need to make sure. That’s why I called you all here. We need two people to pose as costumers and infiltrate…”

“No!” Valkyon got up immediately, looking at me in shock. “I know what you have in mind and the answer is no.”

“Valkyon!” Miiko reprimanded him, surprised by this sudden outburst from the person who was usually the quiet one in the room. “Everything is going to be fine. Erika will be perfectly safe…”

“Are you both talking about me?” I asked. I was actually surprised to be considered for such an important mission, I was tired of trivial tasks like cleaning around or helping the Purrekos. But why was Valkyon so opposed to me going?

“Yes, Erika. We need your help.”

“No!” Valkyon burst out again. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m capable of making my own decisions, Valkyon. Thank you very much.”

“You don’t understand, this place… The Dream House… is not for you.” He paused, as if looking for the right words. “It’s a sex club.”

Oh.

I… didn’t expect that.

“What do you mean by… sex club?”

“It’s exactly what it sounds. A normal nightclub on the ground floor, with a private area on the upper floors. It’s led by Cardon, an incubus, they feed on sexual energy.” Miiko explained.

“And what does it have to do with me?”

“Apart from a few exceptions, generally people can only access as couples, and there is a long waiting list. It’s a very famous and sought-after place.” Nevra seemed to know quite a lot. “That’s why I think it would be impossible to… oh…” he looked at me. “I get it now. Yes, it’s doable.”

“Yes, that’s why we need two people to get in,” Miiko added.

“Can you please explain? Why me?” this wasn’t exactly the type of mission I was looking for. “Can’t anybody from the Guard go?”

“First of all, Cardon hates the Guard,” unfortunately this didn’t surprise me one bit. “He joined us briefly a few years ago before he opened his club and… let’s just say we didn’t part in the best terms. “Also, we can’t really advertise that we are going, that would defy the whole point of infiltrating the exchange. You are new, no one would recognise you as a Guard member and… there is another detail…”

“You’re human,” Ezarel said with his usual bluntness. “You’re something of a rare treat for an incubus, and even for all the patrons of the club. They would probably welcome you with open arms. No waiting list required.”

“They did. We requested membership and got it immediately.”

“Wait… you did it without even asking me first?” I would get mad if it wasn’t how they normally operated.

“I’m sorry Erika, we had to. There’s no time to waste. The tip said an exchange is going to happen at some point this week. We won’t be able to come up with another plan.” Miiko this time seemed genuinely worried. “I know this is a horrible position we’ve put you in, and if you really don’t feel like doing it, I will understand. But know that you won’t be alone and we don’t expect any danger, it’s a recon mission.”

“If she’s going, I’m going with her.” Valkyon jumped in immediately.

“You can’t. Cardon knows you, you are aware he was an Obsidian too. Ezarel is well-known in Cambria, he’s been there on a mission several times. And Nevra…” she looked at him with displeasure.

“Yeah, I’ve been banned,” he looked really regretful, “damnit!”

“Why…? Were you a member?”

“Never mind,” he cut me off.

“So, who am I supposed to go with?” I asked unsure. Certainly not Kero? I couldn’t even begin to imagine him in a situation like that.

“With me,” a calm voice replied, and I jumped in surprise. Leiftan looked at me straight in the eyes and I felt myself blush from head to toe.

What would it mean? Leiftan and I… pretending to be a couple… attending a sex club together… we were only going to investigate, nothing was requested of us, right? Except… who knew to what extent we were going to pretend to make everyone believe our story.

Was I really willing to do this? The mission was important, vital even.

But this was Leiftan, I’d never seen him like that. He was a friend, probably my best friend here at HQ. He’d always supported me every time I was sad because of my family and the many betrayals of the guards. Would I be able to pretend we were a couple?

And Valkyon… he kept pacing around the room nervous. He wasn’t happy about all this. But we weren’t officially together. I didn’t like how he was trying to take the decision away from me earlier.

And finally… those dreams. I kept seeing Ashkore and the Demon… Thankfully I hadn’t had another vivid experience as the one from a few days before, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to go away for a while.

“So, what do you say Erika?” Miiko asked. “Are you in?”

Without unlocking my gaze from Leiftan’s I nodded.

“I’m in.”

[maikatc]

Black Sun Tale | Ten Dollars

alright, here we go y’all

remember that this is a first draft and i’ve only barely edited it, but comments and reception is heavily appreciated!

(also @rhyseoshaughnessy because they said to) --- There is always a time in someone’s life that’s the lowest, it’s a given. Those who break down from their faults and failures, ones who are toyed with to the point of numbness, the occurrences are common to an individual’s extent. 

However, ultimately the question is how to break away from the cycles, and it takes lifetimes for some to realize. 

It all boils down to the differences in people and what they want to achieve in the end. Though for some that desire is left unknown, or they were left with no certain answers, including Oliver Holguin. 

The day lengthened in time for Oliver by the early morning as per usual. His tired eyes slowly waking as he played through repeated melodies. Practicing throughout the nights, the song ringing out from the ukulele was beautiful to the ears. And as he continued onwards, his sight began to lighten up the bedroom. 

“As lovely as you are, I will have to go,” He sang with whispers tickling his throat. His bed-hair blocked him from catching somebody in the corner of his eyes, though the light greeted him with a shelf of books and a tablet on a nightstand instead of the man.

The complicated tabs and chords flew by with his fingers. The ease of the song left him concluding his mastery. “I’m sorry to let you down.” He rung the last lyrics and strings leaving the room in echoing silence. Taking a moment of pause, he placed the ukulele back to the side. He stood up from his bed. His sore legs fumbled together to go and grab a charger. His tablet turned on to a low percentage once he connected the two together. 

I need to stop using this at night, he thought while he searched for a tablature site. He pulled back his auburn bangs to read better, scrolling through lists of songs to learn. “… I need to find a new site too.” His voice croaked with soreness.

He sighed, letting the device charge. He stretched his joints in a yawn and walked out of his room. His left arm pounded asking for a scratch and reminded him to check the bathroom. The early morning traffic blasted noise through the apartment when he scavenged the cabinet filled with multiple vitamins and medicine. 

His tiny arms tried to recognize the feeling of what he wanted, and he debated on just getting a stool considering his height. However, he finally reached what he was looking for and opened the cap. 

Crap. The ointment cream container held almost nothing. “I have to get more before she finds out,” he muttered. His eyes stuck on the little bottle for seconds until putting it back in its place, ignoring his irritating arm, as well as his always ignored stomach.

***

Oliver sat on his living room couch, doodling on schoolwork and watching television. The velvet cushions pinched him by his skin in discomfort, though he’d been adjusted for years. Cartoons played on an overpriced T.V. as background noise with the occasional screech harming the boy’s ears. He worked with barely a care, only thinking once a question tugged his head hard. Eventually, to no avail he had to turn the entertainment off. What the hell is up with kid shows nowadays, he scowled.

Checking the clock, the arrows pointed to be ten in the morning. Oliver yawned. Twenty minutes of sleep couldn’t cope with boredom. However, from the amount of ‘good sleep’ he had gain from the past days, some rest could be assuring.  

He laid down, resting his body to the cushions he sat on. His mind rang until it blurred, nothing will happen, right?

His heavy eyes shut in only half a second. 

***

The sound of soft sizzles woke Oliver up. He rubbed his eyes, sitting up to see his mother standing in the kitchen across the room. 

“Seems like you were tired?”

Smile, smile. “Yeah, I slept a little late last night by accident.” He scratched his head while forcing a chuckle.

She cut up vegetables from the counter, assuring him, “You know that’s alright. It wasn’t even a school night.” 

The crunch of the plants getting cut up could be heard all the way from where Oliver’s mother stood. Oliver himself checked the time again to find the clock pointed only a half hour after five. Dear god that was a long time. “How come you came home early,” he irked.

“My last patient’s parents called in and said that she wouldn’t come today so my boss said I could take the rest of the day off. Hope she’s alright, though.” She placed her knife down to go and walked over to him. 

“You’re talking about Lavinia, right?”

She sat with him. “Yeah, the one with her phone.”

Oliver eyed her, “Didn’t you say that she’s been starting to act weird?”

“Mhm…,” she drifted, “But you don’t have to worry about that,” she messed Oliver’s hair with her hands. 

“Stop!” Oliver moved her hand away sluggishly, giving a warm smile to her satisfaction. Though her own chortles told him that he did all right. 

She stood up again, shifting back to what she did prior. “So now that I’m back early, do you want to go somewhere?”

Oliver shrugged, “We can go out somewhere if you want, where do you wanna go?”

“Oliver, it’s your choice, not mine. Don’t you want to hang out with a friend from school?” She opened the refrigerator, taking out prepped meat. “Your teachers say you get along with them but you never mention anybody to me.”

“It’s fine, Mom. They��re just kind of…” He avoided her eyes, “people that I wouldn’t hang out with privately.” He tried to laugh it off though his mother’s eyes sent concern instead. 

“Is this about Rowan and Ann? Because you know that that kind of stuff isn’t common-”

“Mom, that was three years ago, I barely remember it.” That’s a lie. “They aren’t the reason. Heck, I didn’t even get along with my class when I skipped a grade.”

“Well,” she placed the meat in a heated pan, “you’re almost eleven and you’re still cooped up in the house all the time.” The meat sizzled in the oil. The scent flowed through the air as they spoke.

“No, I’m not,” Oliver scoffs, “I go out to walk… sometimes at least.”

His mother clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “I have to check up on you more often.” Oliver’s eyes widened. “I’ll bring you somewhere later today after I get some paperwork done.”

The boy’s eyes lowered without facing her. “Thanks, but you really don’t have to bring down work. Uh, your patients really like you, don’t they?”

“But I should be taking care of my only kid, shouldn’t I-”

“They’ll miss you,” he interjected, squeezing his vocal tone to be reliable. “Besides, you can get more money to pay the mortgage here faster doing so.”

“Stop making smart words with me.” A click in the stove caught Oliver’s ears. “Anyways, food’s ready.”

After setting plates and utensils, they ate together in a plain table of shiny marble. The meat turned out to be pork chops, and the taste would have been mouthwatering. 

“Ah, this came out perfectly. Hope you like it.” She beamed, taking another bite in the process. 

Oliver cut off another piece, biting his lip. “Yeah, it’s great like always, Mom.”

“You really need to invite a friend over sometime,” she exclaimed. “It’s not fun only cooking for you and me.”

He looked down at the food, sighing, “No clue when that’ll happen.”

They went to venture through stores after lunch, only for Oliver asking to leave an hour in.

***

Oliver skimmed through video posts online, scrolling past multiple in his disinterest. Crying sweats sank through his skin, though he ignored the occasional occurrence. Chirps of his mother babbling at her friends’ calls echoed through the apartment like every other night while Oliver listened in the back of his head.

“No! Jamie, you’re getting the wrong idea,” she snorted. “He’ll bring someone home at some point… hopefully.” The sight of her crooked smile could be imagined by Oliver in a mere second. 

The redhead placed his tablet to the side of his undone bed. A deep breath was enough to function himself, same went for staring at the dull ceiling. 

His mind dimmed from his usual racing thoughts, taking time to go at a complete blank. His hearing and sight blurred spacing out. His eyes continued to close and open, the emptiness making it difficult to keep his eyes open wide. To stay awake, he raised his hand towards the ceiling, using any muscle he had to keep it up. The warm air of the heater blew against his arm and long-sleeve. With every joint and wrinkle on his fingers, all he could observe with thought was his skin, which had paled from his constant brown. 

“Damn.” Oliver clenched his hand. The arm fell down as he hopped out of his bed to the rugged floor with his bare feet. The room was already heated for Oliver, though his decision was an exception to the discomfort. Picked up from an unused chair, the boy dressed himself in a crimson cardigan dangling down to his knees. As he fitted the oversized attire, he nabbed his tablet back to his hands and sat on the floor. “This’ll probably be better,” he slurred.

Reloading the site, a certain video caught Oliver’s eyes:

Alexa Katzmann Found Dead Indoors from Area Death. The thumbnail of news made Oliver’s eyes widen, his cold sweats rising as he clicked with doubt. 

The reporter stated the repeated script about area deaths. Of course, nobody could find the real reason of the death like always. While the woman explained the exact story, the camera panned at the body. Alexa was about five as the news said, daughter of a celebrity, though they censored enough appropriately.  

However, what played over Oliver’s screen made his heart beat faster, louder. 

Alexa’s stomach had been ripped out, blood scattering all over against her clothes and pale skin. Everyone in the room stepped on the organs without realizing they were there. Nobody could see the same scene Oliver viewed. 

He muttered to himself as the video continued to play, “No, no, no…” His breathing grew as his throat continued to burn from the air and panic. 

“This is the first report where an area death has occurred indoors.” Stop saying anything. He stopped the video and tossed over his tablet as his mind raced for answers. 

His scratched his arm over and over, his heart pounding over his ears to the point of needing to scream. “When?” He barely breathed out. “When did-? “

Oliver looked around his room. Now. He jumped at his ukulele case in a split second, unzipping it in barely any time. Fuck the ointment. He reached for an inner pocket, unzipping it until he heard a voice. 

“You really do get scared quick, huh?” The voice stung obnoxiously, making Oliver pause and enter back to reality. 

Oliver twisted his head, still shaking from the previous seconds. His mind already clicked together who it was, however. A taller figure stood right behind him, leaning against the wall with hands behind his back. The man’s messily styled hair and dirty trench coat brought more memory to who he was. The boy took a gulp before completely coming back to his senses. 

“… Why are you here now, Vittorino?”

Vittorino shrugged, popping out of the wall and walking towards him. “I was bored. ‘Wanted to see what you were doing.” His dark eyes darted Oliver’s position. “I see you’re about to have fun,” he scoffed

“Shut up.” Oliver slammed his ukulele case shut. He crawled back over to his bed, turning back on his tablet and biting his lip. Of course, he’s here because of that.

Oliver continued to scroll around on his tablet, his heart still pounding loudly in his head. The screen grabbed Oliver’s attention completely.

“… You know,” Vittorino spoke after Oliver’s ignorance, “You really don’t ever go out.”

His smile could already be seen without looking. “And you mention this because?” Oliver sighed out, his head refusing to turn to Vittorino. He typed up a video to re-watch in attempt to distract himself later on.

“Because are you really going to be cooped up like some nobody?” His tone was readably different from previous conversations, from what Oliver noted. Expectations for what to come next jotted to more limited possibilities. 

 “It’s better like that.” No turn made again.

A grumble could be heard before a sudden, “Come on!” Vittorino appeared right to Oliver, the boy’s body flinched and turned in the process. “Enjoy life a little!”

 Oliver’s shoulders lowered. “You’re being pretty persistent than normal.” 

“Come on, Oliver.” Vittorino dug his hands to his pockets, a sly grin creeping through like always. “Let’s go. Just a walk with me is alright, right?”

Oliver’s eyes squinted, his mind boggling at the possibilities that could happen with the decision, considering the teen-nuisance that is Vittorino. “… Fine.” But just why would he want me to go, was the only question in his mind that moment.

After drudging out of bed and to the living room, Oliver told his mother that he was going off to a walk. Vittorino followed behind him but she made no comment, gladly telling Oliver goodbye without noticing the teen’s existence. 

Obodo City was always a bustling mess.

The tourists running around, the teenagers crying over late trends and messages, the children hyper and shouting at the tall buildings and stores, even loud, annoying traffic that’s at a constant. Oliver paced through the sidewalks, crimson hood over his head as gusts of October winds blew before him. Buildings stood tall and jagged against each other that formed unimaginable shapes in the air. Balconies stood in neighboring apartments filled with laundry or autumn plants, some even blasting music while the owners took a cig. The sounds screamed at the boy’s ears while the scent of street food caught his nose easily. As Oliver’s instincts pressured him to take a bite of something, he refused, his teeth clawing at his lip. 

“So,” Vittorino ignited the conversation, “How’s your day gone so far?” He took no look at Oliver and instead viewed the sites ahead, to Oliver’s bewilderment. The only thing up ahead were greyed alleys and crosswalks, similar to everything else in the city aside from the intense smoke in the area. 

“… Have you been hungry lately?” The man snickered, snatching Oliver’s attention despite the rude comment. 

“I just ate.” He stated, looking ahead himself, “The question wasn’t needed.” 

“Just wondering,” Vittorino bent down to Oliver’s height, still walking, gleaming by Oliver’s sour expression. 

Oliver’s sight of Vittorino disappeared as his figure jumped up in front of the boy in a blink. “You have to admit,” Vittorino said, wrapping a stop sign around his arm. “This city really is awesome to look around in, right?”

“I’ve been here for the past ten years of my life, Vittorino. Best that can happen is controversy protests and holiday decorations.”

“Really? What kind of stuff do you guys decorate?” Vittorino’s brows risen up, curiosity almost purring from him. 

Oliver walked passed him as the crosswalk glowed green. A small crowd surrounded him as he shrugged. “Lights for the most part, nothing special.”

Vittorino appeared right next to him. “Sounds nice.”

Silence covered both of them. Oliver pondered over Vittorino’s past actions as Vittorino turned all over to view the sights of the city. Oliver followed him though the teen stared aimlessly at such miniscule of things. A tiny convenience store barely seen by a tall building and a worn-down restaurant included. Someone older than him being intrigued by such things made Oliver question his identity more than before. 

Entering a cleaner street, Oliver queried, “Vittorino?”

“Hm?” 

“What do you have to do with Faustus?”

The man with the trench coat stopped at his steps. Oliver took a gulp down his throat. 

“Who’s Faustus,” he pondered.

“You know who I’m talking about,” Oliver spatters, “Emo kid, probably sixteen or something by now. Pale skin, white hair, blue eyes but he never shows one of them?”

“Oh! I know who you’re talking about now.” He sneered, “That isn’t actually his name, you know.” 

“I figured,” Oliver murmured. “But aside from that, you have something to do with him, don’t you?”

“And what makes you think that?”

Oliver threw his hands forward. “Nobody except for me can see both of you! That’d be obvious enough.” He crossed his arms. “But you both are weirdos out of anybody that I’ve ever met.” 

“That’s rather judgmental, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out who Zach is and where the hell he went since I was seven. I barely had any kind of way to figure out until you started popping up in my life.” Oliver’s unfastened hood flew out from the wind as he turned his sight to Vittorino’s eyes. He pleaded with brows furrowed, “Just tell me how you guys are related and why you both are really here in the first place.”

Vittorino’s mocking expression deepened. “Well, I guess I can admit one thing.”

“And that is…?” 

“You can say that I’m hanging out with you for two favors,” He raised two fingers down to Oliver, lowering one quickly after, “but one of them is for ‘Faustus’.”

“What was the favor for?” Oliver’s head drifted to the side. 

“One of them was more of an assignment out of anything, actually, but the other was so I could get some favors back.” Vittorino leaned by on a sign pole. “The one that wasn’t from the guy was basically just to check up on you from time to time. The assignment I can’t really tell. It’s about to be done though.”

“I swear to god, if you’re gonna screw me over somehow-”

“Don’t worry,” Vittorino rolled his eyes, “It’ll be beneficial for you.”

Oliver shook his head. “I don’t trust that at all.”

Vittorino chuckled and shrugged. “Fine then.” He stepped towards Oliver, slamming something to Oliver’s chest. 

Oliver coughed at the impact, but caught the item he handed. He opened his hands to find a ten-dollar bill. Turning to see Vittorino, he already found the mystery to be walking away from him. He dashed to catch up with him. “Where’d you get this?”

“I asked a guy and he just gave it to me.”

“But nobody can see you…?”

Vittorino lifted a finger. “I can be seen if I want, I just usually hide myself for the sake of it.” He dumped his hands into his pockets. “You needed ointment, right?”

Oliver tensed. “Yes…” he nodded, guilt building up inside of him again. 

“Go buy some then. Get extra stuff if you want,” Vittorino told. “Have fun, kid.” 

He was gone before Oliver could say anything. The red-head was left alone in the street. He looked back to his hand, covered over by a single bill. Pulling up his sleeves, he stared blankly and sighed, a small puff of cold air seeping out of his breath. 

“Might as well.”

-

Next >>>

[hugleikinn]

how would you personally describe each of the 7 planetary angels in terms of appearance, behavior, the feelings and visions you experienced under their influence etc

First of all,thank you for your question and secondly, I apologize for taking almost 2 iceages to reply to it.

Excuses aside,the reason is, that my first gut response was: „I am sorry, I am notcomfortable sharing aside from the odd personal anecdote“, but then I thoughtagain and figured I could take that answer and at least make it helpful to youand other readers, perhaps, my sharing some of my methods, personal experiencesand yes, the odd anecdote. I am happy sharing older experiences, as they are inthe past and worked though, but my work with the planetary angels and entitiesis ongoing, and therefore private.

So probably thegist of this reply will be different ways, one can sense and perceive andcommunicate with spirits, as I dare guess you are not really after my stories,but more likely trying to reconcile your experiences based on comparison.(Which is in general fine, if done in moderation and as control, not for goalsetting). I hope I am not overreaching here though. If so, I apologize.

Also, as I amwriting this, this is my second attempt, as I deleted the first one at cca 2 A4pages long. Yikes.

To begin with, Iwould like to reiterate, that I consider myself, to the most extent deaf-blind,when it comes to contact with spirits and entities. Meaning, I am rarely ableto glimpse the form they are taking or perceive actual words or sentences (outloud or with my minds eye), outside of full on rituals or trances etc, and eventhen, I feel, my experiences are far from what is described.

To compensate, Ihave developed other methods to tell one spirit from another and I am also ablewith quite some accuracy to place a spirit within an egregore and even name it,the accuracy depending on whether I have studied or worked with that egregore /tradition before or now. For example, for traditions that are not so known to me, likeeastern (Hindi, Japanese etc), I’d probably be able to place that spiritgeographically to eastern Asia, and perhaps find some possibilities based onthe “feeling of it” or its energy and attributes (?) I am able to tell (likelove, destruction, sun or other keywords).

Other times, I receive actual names, especially with lowerspirits.

As a personal anecdote to illustrate what I mean and howthis can work as well as how to think critically and to figure out whether whatyou are experiencing is personal projection, imagination, wishful thinking ORan actual encounter.

Around 13-15 years ago, when I was learning tarot, I couldn’tshare the feeling that I was followed or even being influenced by an entity,when reading (generally, that is a whole story on its own for another time).But to make sure I was not lied to, or manipulated, I really REALLY wanted tofigure out what or who this was.

And so, one evening I dug my heels in and said that I am notstopping until I figure out what is up. And so I slung cards, and chanted, anddid who knows what, head stands perhaps too. But I swear the only thing I could think about during that almost 5hour process was: Heliopolos. Who are you? Heliopolos.What do you want? Heliopolos? What is your name? Heliopolos. Whatis Heliopolos?! Heliopolos Heliopolos Heliopolos Heliopolos.polosHeliopolosHelioHeliopolosHelioHelioHelio,

I swear at one point I was even repeating it out loud and it was the only thing I could think about. 

And so I stopped and thought. What doesthat mean? Am I projecting something into this process? I was aware that Heliopolossounded somewhat ancient Greek, but at the same time I was aware, thatcorrectly it would be “polis” not “polos”. And if I am aware of this “mistake”,why would I repeat to myself something that I knew was wrong? It did not makesense. 

At the same time, while being roughly aware of the possible meaning of Heliopolisfrom a linguistic stand point, as in Helios + polis, and also considering thefact, that it sounded like a legit name of something or someplace, I had no knowledgeof a city of that name. And so I decided, after some deliberation, that no, itwas not me. It was a foreign thought.

And so I googled, and after an extremelyshort search chain,  happened upon anancient Egyptian creation myth originating in a now lost city of Heliopolis,whose central figure was a deity named Geb.

I don’t see a reason for going further intothe story, as the point of it was first of all learning to distinguish, whatcomes from within oneself and what is a foreign feeling or thought. Because many other times, I got similarly consumed with my own thoughts, wishes and projections into the process, that I had to stop, leave it to reast and try again anew.

A lot of us have very many preconceptionsand expectations on how certain entities will look or behave. Or we havecertain wishes, that those same spirits and entities will behave a certain way,tell us specific things, validate what we are saying and in many cases thoseexpectations and wishes can cause us to imagine our encounters whether partiallyor fully. They cause us to interpret our confirmation-divinations in a certainway and that only serves to hinder our progress.

When dealing with magic and especially withthe spirit model, I am a huge advocate of taking at least as much time analyzingoneself and getting to know what kind of thoughts in what form tend to pop upin our heads, as dedicating to actual practice.

It serves not only for the magician to recognize,whether he has been successful, especially in the beginning, but also as a failsafein case something goes wrong and one becomes subject of oppression, possessionor just pure harassment. If you know what you are like and how you think andfeel and see and dream, then you will instantly know if something changes andwhether it has a legitimate reason you are aware of or not.

That said, to give actual thought pointsfor you to mull over, and maybe open our mind to different possibilities ofexperiencing spirits aside from visions (as those will inherently be unique toyou anyway and mine will probably be nothing like them anyway – I have readquite a few encounters of other practitioners with entities I have myselfworked with, and each of them was so different than mine to a point that if Iwasn’t sure about the legitimacy of mine, I could begin to doubt myself).

Some ways of experiencing spirits andentities aside from full manifestation, that I have had:

When working with Sif many years ago,whenever she was present, I felt my head spin and almost like fainting, but ina quite pleasant way, like when you are a bit tipsy.

When I worked with Odin, I would get astrong vibration on my forehead, sometimes to the point of pain and sometimesaccompanied by pain in the left eye. At times, I was sure that I would goblind, if I worked with him for a very long time. But actually, my eyesight hadimproved a bit at that time.

When it comes to angels though, I do believethat even outside of my case, full manifestation is quite rare aside from DSIC (and even a manifestation inside a crystal can be debatable in terms of “full manifestation) etc. and unlike goetic spirits, so the following will be more of my accounts ofdifferent “tells” they have for me personally when they are present, and Icannot see them for one reason or another.

When I work with my current patron, of thecelestial sort (again, ongoing, so private, but can very easily be figured out:D) I feel heavy on my spine, and it prickles almost like when tightening bow sometimes.

When encountering the big A, as in theangel that begins with A and ends with **ael, parts on my body felt like theywere asleep. Not just legs, but ribs, cheeks, and other odd parts.

When I have been in the presence ofMichael, the perceptions are sometimes different, but often there is asensation like you step into the sun, or someone aims a hairdryer in your face.

Gabriel is still a little bit uncertain forme in the department of “tells” but I have to say, that I do not share thepopular perception of them being in anyway terrifying. If I were to have areason to be afraid of an angel, it would be Michael or A**ael.

Raphael is in some ways similar to Gabrielin the way that he is quite uncertain for me in specific tells of his presence.I do however have quite a problem concentrating when trying to work withMercury, as in I usually have to write the whole procedure down before hand andresort to reading, because I can get so scattered with different ideas. But physically? Not sure yet.

Anael makes me feel HOT. Like sweating,heavy breathing. Ehm.

With Sachiel at times I get the feeling ofbeing in a drugged up formal business situation, like Wolf of Wall street orsomething, and my hands shake, I do also get the heaviness between theshoulders and a bit dizzy.

In all honesty, I have worked with Marsprobably only twice in my life, and at this time I have no intention of doingmore work, so my experiences with Samael are limited. Too limited to share. However all my work with Mars had leftovers on the rest of my day, and I am naturally quite feisty, so the combo with Mars does not suit me at all. 

My work with Saturn and Cassiel is nowongoing, so I will probably share my experiences at some later time, but generallywhat sums it up for me atm is “black velvet”, from the black velvet of the deepcosmos, through the black velvet of the death card in tarot to black velvet pyjamas and all the thingsbetween.

Metatron is sarcastic and cryptic at the same time and all respect, but ….. At the same time, I had no business, so touché. 

I do hope this helps you anon at leastsomewhat and I hope this can be also helpful to others to one degree ofanother.

I think the most important message I wantto instill is, get to know yourself, and learn to distinguish what comes fromwithin you and what comes from without you. The other stuff – encounters,feelings, messages, perceptions, visions will be subjective to you and yourunderstanding of the world.

Like dreams.

[yoshi-p]

everyone and their dog is doing it and everyone is absolutely allowed to share their opinions so i want a turn but first let me clarify:

hello im yase, been around since 1.0. I am of turkish and nogai descent and i can speak fluently in tatar, turkish but my english doesn’t hold 100% so i will be all over the place.

Unfortunately this will all be word of mouth and may be taken as vague posting, but I have experienced issues since the release of 4.0 and would like to give my opinions. I want to let this all off my chest this is just a huge vent basically so i guarantee my english will be terrible.

the most important point: NEVER EVER SPEAK FOR ANOTHER CULTURE. NEVER EVER SPEAK ABOUT A CULTURE YOU DON’T KNOW. YOU HAVE SPREAD FALSE INFORMATION AND I AM SO HURT.

another point is ITS A VIDEO GAME GUYS (does not apply to everything but some people really need to take a step back because people are concerned.)

Here’s the hot topic I’ll talk of first: garleans. I personally do not play one as I prefer to play characters that would never be involved in a sense with the political agenda because in real life im too stupid to comprehend anything like that so i wouldn’t even know how my character would behave with the hot topics. I really do think people need to take a step back and see that everyone who is putting in their input is making solid points but personally I would never compare them to nazi germany though I see why people are generalising. I always saw it as tsardom of russia with the use of roman influence as well, something obvious in naming conventions and the way the ranks/monarchy(?) works but it’s not so clear what the main influences of most places in this game if you have a look at the bigger picture. Without like full on spoiling, its weird to have this view to me with the knowledge that ascians are behind this. Are you implying anyone who plays or was influenced by ascians is also under this umbrella? 

Also why THE HELL WOULD YOU TAG SOMETHING KNOWING IT WOULD GET A LOT OF TRACTION AND RESPONSE THEN BE LIKE “you guys misunderstood, I was expressing my feelings” lol no. “ I don’t understand where this is coming from, and at this point, I don’t really want to.” then why did you even fucking bother do it in private dont tag it.

You are COMPLETELY valid to feeling uncomfortable, it is fine because with how much of this world we have there will be aspects some of us don’t like. You are not inclined to involve yourself with someone if they roleplay as a garlean but you do not need to start publicising it in a way that will paint the community in black and white when its truly a wider spectrum.

YOU CHOOSE WHO YOU INVOLVE YOURSELF WITH AND WHO YOU PLAY WITH, PLEASE GET AWAY FROM PEOPLE WHO GIVE YOU NEGATIVE FEELINGS OR YOU’LL SPREAD IT TO OTHERS.

from that initial and very brief tagged post there popped up many others and new discourse is arising, opening discussions about many things which is better then being blind to it all. but if you have personal grievances with someone and you state its over, let it be over. It’s not healthy behaviour. it’s also troubling to see someone complain a lot about the game and continue to play, no one is forcing you or holding a gun to your head. take breaks if you need to and play less frequently. like, real life is so much more important and there are people in this community that prioritise relationships with players etc.

Also, please stop fucking talking about mongolian/turkic/turkish culture like you know things. 99% of the big mouths in this community are americans. like majority are white americans. 

over the course of this expansion i have had many people of varied backgrounds share with me some terrible experiences and i myself have seen some truly stupid shit. 

WE ARE HERE TO HELP YOU LEARN OF OUR CULTURE AND WHERE TO CONTINUE DOING SO. DO NOT INTERPRET MEDIA AS ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF CULTURE.

it is absolutely not hard to tag a post and ask around, someone will pop up. I’ve been doing my very best to let everyone i know that i can help with learning about my culture or to find someone who would be more then happy to explain and share with other cultures. But when you go off of a documentary you saw of Genghis khan or only know of the tourist white people scenes of istanbul you as a community say some TRULY dumb shit.

I like to try and be patient because i myself when approaching someone of a culture i admire and am curious about i want that in turn. But if you say to me things like “Ainu aren’t real” or “Tatar people have nothing in common with tribes from the Altai mountains” its hard to do so.

FFXIV regions are not just “Germany” “Turkey” “Mongolia”. If you think this, it’s clear to me you don’t know shit and are too lazy to explore, further just google shit its not that hard. I had someone tell me that my people could never be in this game since its “Straight up mongolia” fucks sake NO ITS NOT. The designs vary and i can see the differences in simple things like words because i actually bother to do research even coming from a turkic culture. There were some beautiful little things dropped that linked to not only my people but others like Uyghur and Altai. The only place in FFXIV i think could only have a singular influence is Kugane, because from a foreigner’s perspective that’s already interesting enough. Many people have grievances and real issues with how SE has handled Doma’s influences and no one ever talks about that. Representation for asia in media has turned into this mess of specific east asian countries, the trio that even then gets categorized into China/Japan with brief mentions of Korean culture. 

Its frustrating. There are people who are happy to teach you. Who are willing to show what is wrong with the picture.

I have read several posts about Turkey/istanbul/Antalya. Yall fuckin weird you guys seem to think its in U.A.E or some shit with how you act. It’s in the Mediterranean/Europe/Asia/Middle East and there is no such thing as a specific looking Turkish person. You claim everyone is specifically white/brown, HELL NO. It’s a mixed nation and that’s the history of the land, if you had ever fucking stepped in turkey and spoke to any person on the street they’ll say their heritage that lead them to there. People claim Ala mhigo’s influences are turkey but i have yet to see that. As someone who has lived there and has heritage there and is strongly connected to that culture, i dont see it. sure the ala mhigan gown had patternings but thats also present in my nogai culture too because parts of turkey’s society descended from the line of the Kayi tribe. Just fucking LEARN TO READ GUYS. None of you guys even know what the altai mountains mean and i could sit and explain over and over again if you let people SPEAK.

Look at Thavnairian items. We have outfits that are completely different, a full length dress and then a bustier. you can’t start generalising things in video games to be one culture you have to realise most places in this game have several influences. We don’t know a lot but everything we have been given has been varied enough to pin point it to ONLY one influence.

I don’t want to just keep going about this simply because im growing frustrated.

The thing with Viera complaints. I think some are valid but some are stupid. For one as I make this post it hasn’t even been confirmed so there is no reason for policing Viera to a severe extent. Considering all the Ivalice content in game has been an alternate universe kind of thing its dumb as shit. But feol viera being made without understanding the knowledge that people who have played rw picked up is quite frustrating. As a community, its important to help people when we have information that others may need that they cant understand the context of.

I know people are worried about them being fetishized, that is my legitimate fear too as a huge ivalice fan. But this is a repeated cycle especially when we consider generalizations like miqo’te especially seekers and belly dancing or when au ra arrived and people thought xaela were genghis khan basically. 

The game is not solid, there are so many holes in the lore and the plots and i know people hate that but we fill the gaps with our own opinions and theories. While I understand some people think we need to move forward in 2019 because “japan is xenophobic”, its a very difficult thing to do. THEY DO HIRE PEOPLE FOR CULTURE ADVISING. THEY TRAVEL OFTEN AND DEVELOP WITH THIS. IT’S NOT LIKE THEY WENT ON GOOGLE AND SAID “yeah a japan land would be fun” they literally have people hired specifically for this stuff. however, at the end of the day its a company that has yet to show it can evolve with the times. Its becoming more and more evident with the recent patterns of main titles in FF and side projects having so many issues in story/lore/management. remember 1.0 basically died being absolute garbage and this is salvaged from that.

its really late and i had a terrible evening so i may not be making the most sense but theres more important things to worry about then to make this game a miserable experience when it could be a huge learning opportunity for everyone. There’s no need to generalise people into categories because of characters they choose to develop but its important to note with majority of people standing up higher on the pedestal are those speaking for the minorities groups that have direct influences in the game.

also lol if you fucking say ainu aren’t real to me one more time i will fucking throttle you

[badmousestuff-blog]

The problem with Free Speech (Script)

One day I was helping out with the Free Palestine stall on Church Street. About an hour in a young dude came up to me, and gave us the usual conservative drivel.

He told me that he couldn’t support the left, because to him we were against free speech. Right below me were flyers detailing the extent of Israeli war crimes against Palestinians, and how little the world still hears about their plight. He stated that he wasn’t interested in our campaign, and bid me farewell. For, of course we must have our standards.

(Rowan Atkinson speech)

There’s never been a more unshakeable dogma in my lifetime than that of Freedom of Speech.

The real test of a country’s standards is if it allows people to criticise one another, especially the regime. The foundation of Liberty and Freedom and Friberty, is the story of free expression, after all, if you want to know who has the power, just look at which group you’re not allowed to criticise. Right?

Well no, I’m here to say that Free Speech isn’t just some base, flatline, monolith from which all societies are to be judged like an angelical truth, its a political concept, thought up by human beings, subject to critique, and frankly is in great need of one.

Let’s start with something simple.

Your concept that Free Speech is good, is only possible if your opponent also agrees with you, i.e. they’re not going to kill you if you disagree.

So therefore if your opponent doesn’t ?? and will use aggression against you, then you can’t really argue for free speech can you?

The conditions around you need to be such that nobody is going to die.

Right, whats next, oh I gotta do the Hitler bit, right…

Y’know the story, Weiner Republic, Full suffrage, large democracy, massive instability and debt caused from the prior war, enter the Nazis, and the German Communist party. Yes everyone seems to forget that the Commies were there too, headed by Ernst Thalmann, and at their peak gained 16% of the vote in 1932. Whilst Ernst was forward in his Anti-Fascism, the Social Democrats, and their newspapers, didn’t seem to understand the concept of a united front, they refused to confront the Fascists in an effective manner and simultaneously denounced the KDP as being a bunch of Muscovites, sporting the famous Iron Front symbol, The third arrow originally meant Anti-Communism, mind.

The SPD’s failure to effectively confront Fascism aided Hitler’s rise to power, sent the KDP underground, and Ernst to 11 years in the hole, followed by a firing squad.

So don’t tell me free-speech exists in vacuum, it doesn’t. In this video we’ll ask the necessary further questions.

Who dictates the media, who controls which advertisements we see, which views are more profitable? Does the removal of speech in given scenarios serve a common good? And if the enlightenment was correct why did Liberalism fail in its mission?

(Rowan Atkinson)

This clip was one of the first main intro points for me as well as many others into the realm of Super Free Speech, and it’s strange looking back just how dated it is. It’s not like we didn’t have the arguments back then, but moreso that nobody really cared, we were all swept up in the dogma, to challenge free speech would be on the same level as strangling a baby.

Anybody can go around today and talk about the joy of free speech, but it means nothing to a person who has no power with that speech, Freedom to Beg? That's not a freedom; that’s institutionalised sadism.

I’m not a believer in Maslow’s hierarchy but hypothetically, this really wouldn’t go number 2, it’d be right down at number… 27. Why do I say this? Well in the words of some philosophy guy people say I look like, “No rights matter if you’re dead”.

Food, Water, Healthcare, and Housing. These are all things you need in order to survive, in other words fulfil the other things that we consider ‘rights’ - rights that are worth struggling for. And despite the fact that the millions end up dying from the lack of these rights, even when they’re universally agreed upon, ever notice how this struggle goes very very quiet… Suspiciously quiet.

Sargon on the Socialists

I wonder…??? I wonder why the left seems to be largely committed to these causes, it’s something you find scantly addressed in the middle and right spheres with the exception of private individual charity (OSCAR WILDE), and Carl may find himself wondering why it is that these ideologies can barely create a solid solidarity towards these topics.

You might be a Liberal and say “Yeah yeah, I support that too though” but fact remains there’s no confidence here.

I see no outpouring of condemnation coming from you when Politicians like Bolsonaro press forward their restrictive measures, unlike what you have to say about this powerless Redhead. Why is that?

Count Dankula, who interestingly I had a couple scuffles with a while back without realising it, last year taught his dog to do a Hitler Salute, and he got fined £800. Now that’s probably one of the most petty excuses for a sentencing I’ll admit, but again this isn’t about whether it was justified, it’s about people’s standards.

Dankula received enormous support from, well, everyone, and he’s now more famous than he ever previously was, enough to be at the forefront of the free-speech festival later that year, and even use his fame to help push the emergence of UKIP. This is attention that people would pay top dollar for, way more than £800. He should be proud that he got a court hearing.

Frankly, me and my colleagues didn’t really care about this whole thing too much, just ask my IWW friend who I was with when this all went down. What happened around the same time that did catch some of our attention though was the plight of the J20 protesters who got arrested back during Trump’s inauguration.

Some of these people are on the butchers list to serve 60 year sentences for standing against a president who’s, a real dick, like I get the whole Liberal opposition is fucking corny but still he’s a dick, they’ve all been dicks, he’s just continuing what every dick who ever stood on centre stage ever started, this is America, you think Bernie’s going to save you? You think reforming the democrats can change the number one imperialist power?

Apologies. If you’re at all concerned that I didn’t give a toss about Dankula’s pug joke, if you’ve ever had friends like him this stuff isn’t too surprising, I know these are highly political times but a guy who votes UKIP is really not our number one concern right now.

I didn’t give a toss, but I know somebody who did, Mike Stuchbury, who you’ll remember from his childish twitter ramblings and dealings with Watson. Who proclaimed that the left needs to stand with Free Speech, A free-speech that is largely in the teat of Right-leaning discourse.

Sargon who was there with him, earlier that year got de-platformed by lefty-liberals in his debate with Muke.

The dogma is enforcing itself here, the left is all supposed to throw up our hands in swich liquor, of which vertu engendered is the flour, and decide Whether we should allow freedom of speech to our enemies, or not allow it, when the actual thing we should be doing, is taking hold of the narrative and putting forward our own ideas as the new talking point of discussion, instead of fucking Nazi Pug.

“Hey, you, what gives you the right to determine the narrative?”

Thats a good question, the hegemonic propaganda of our status quo is already setting the narrative, Noam Chomsky “I’m bored bye”

How can I make this more interesting… Ah ha…

IT’S TIME FOR FILM THEORY!!1 WOOOO

-

The Pursuit of Happiness.

In 2006 Will Smith told the story of Chris Gardner, a black man who struggled through poverty, separation, and fatherhood whilst living in San Francisco.

He gets an internship with a sales company and despite having to put up with a lot, by the end of the film he passes and at this point, we’re supposed to feel happy and redeemed, but to those who’ve watched it (surely I’m not alone) was it really a happy ending?

I’ll say that I walked out of the viewing feeling very uncomfortable and sour, but why is that?

Well for starters, that Internship he got was a 6 month unpaid one, in the most expensive US city might have something to do with it.

Then he’s got to deal with his wife leaving him, then he’s got to take care of his son, then he loses his source of income, then he’s got to deal with eviction, sleeping rough, not sleeping at all, by the end of the movie sure he gets his redemption but the message of ‘when life gives you lemons, just keep getting pummelled with those lemons and don’t ask why’ ultimately seems hollow.

Contrast that a more traditionally Anti-establishment film which was made by a literal Communist, where the exploiters are treated as they should be and thats what comes across on screen, with surprise horse-dick, and while Happiness doesn’t treat them like saints, they sure don’t come across as devils either.

6 months of free labour he and 19 other people who did not make the cut that they are effectively giving away for free.

What about those other 19 people, who ever tells their story?

The way his superiors always act like total dicks pushing him around and getting him to be their lobby boy, they lost nothing. And now he’s going to work for them.

Is the message here supposed to be “Well if this guy can survive the moon falling on him, what the hell are you complaining about?” Actually yeah, I think that consciously or not, this is what’s being said… Don’t worry we’re getting to the point of all this.

The extent of exploitation is naked, yet in the way the movie is presented I’m inclined to agree to this, and take it into my home, and sleep with it.

Now name me as many pieces of media that regurgitate this same old theme of rags to riches through adversity, to look at the man on centre stage, yet pay no attention to the millions locked in a cage.

Sure, say it how you will, Art is merely what you make of it and there’s not necessarily any devious agenda being pursued at any time. That’s one perspective I guess, another might be that there’s no such thing as Art for Arts sake, it all gears itself to differing political lines.

In a society based on private, individual enterprise, it's no surprise that Art would also foster themes that would support society as the normal and natural, even if they appear on the surface as radical.

Case in point, well the entire Hollywood Catalog.

On the Waterfront is literally Mccarthyism on celluloid, The People vs Larry Flynt guises pornification and billionairedom with a story of libel and freedom of speech.

And ironically enough probably the worst offender is, well I’m gonna lose some of you now, Billy Elliot, the Movie.

In which 2/3rds of the way through Billy’s dad strike breaks as a way to pay for his son to go to a prestigious arts school, y’know rather than maybe having him stay and use his skills to improve, embolden and enliven the downtrodden community, rather than leaving it to die.

Jackie’s very sympathetic in his devotion towards his son, except Striking is caring for your family, you’re fighting for a better future, together, as one, and it’s thrown away in favour of a much more individualistic get out of your circumstances, go and live your dream.

Now I’ve read Lee Hall, I know he didn’t intend for this to come through, but he is also no more aloof than any of us, we’re all susceptible to this ‘Common Culture’.

Just see the way our ‘Common Culture’ infiltrates into how Communism is talked about, in 2015’s Trumbo. The Hollywood screenwriter who was blacklisted for 2 decades for being a member of Communist Party.

Could make for some groundbreaking stuff right?...

Well no, instead we’re left with a film that focuses entirely on freedom of expression, which is ironic because if they represented him truthfully it would’ve resulted in a much more nuanced movie.

All we get is a 2 minute scene talking about Communist ethics and god its done in the most sanitised, unradical, storybook tale way possible, that doesn’t in any possible regard represent who the actual Dalton Trumbo was.

“If a book or play or film is produced which is harmful to the best interests of the working class, that work and its author should and must be attacked in the sharpest possible terms.”

I think I have a case that profit incentives are steering the way in which media is presented…

We have no problem pointing out the subtle propaganda messages in Soviet children’s cartoons (Cheburashka) but reverse that onto our society, prepare for some awkward stares.

You may argue that none of what I’ve just spoken about here has anything to do with censorship of free expression but this is the problem, our notions of censorship are stuck firmly behind the Berlin wall, and thats far too simplistic not to mention outdated.

Undoubtably Coca-cola has a far greater reach of expression than I ever will be able to ascertain, what says who can speak on a public forum, decide the content of a documentary, of a publication, of a movie, or a political campaign?

If a book is blacklisted by all publishers for political reasons, what difference does it make having 1 publishing house or 100?

If 90% of the movie market alone is controlled by just 7 companies, what kind of advice is “Just start your own business”.

If we want to talk about the free flow of expression and information, what little are these flyers (Free Palestine) when Zionism has a whole nation, and 2 continents supporting it?

This is the kind of expression we’re dealing with today, not the voices of individuals, but of multinationals. The fact that we had in any way an outpouring of sympathies towards one of these companies, Sony, for having their movie The Interview possibly censored by DPRK agents is a testament to how lost in the plot we have become.

And if by chance the media cannot direct the status quo by monopoly, it brings out its tried and tested method.

Commodify it.

I present to you Guerrillero Heroico, this photograph was allowed such free spread not simply because its bloody badass, but because there was no IP designated upon it, by Korda’s intention as a Communist himself he agreed with the free-flow of art. And what did this result in at the behest of Capitalist Corporations? The pastiche of revolution, to be bought and sold many times over.

Take any form of media, word, an expression, it will be hoisted away, slapped on a shirt, and sold back to you at a handsome price. You cannot escape this.

The moment that this (my tattoo) becomes the new Che it loses all its power, resistance is reduced to at worst LARPing, at best Nerd Fandom, and the winners are the profiteers.

If profit is the aim of the game, the speech that is supported will inevitably favour that which nurtures the economy, not destroys it, unless in farce. Speech ain’t a level base of which a country is determined by, its an apparatus held by those that dictate the game.

This is why there is a necessity for us to control the narrative, control the message, because if we don’t, they’re still going to.

-

Obligations:

When armies with unequal numbers go into battle, a draw is a defeat for the lesser side.

Make believe it or not Radical Centrist politics have their political leanings as well, even if just by effect.

Look I like free speech, I love it, I’m a goddamn youtuber, but I’m not stupid, I know what’s coming, I know that groups would try and silence me if they could. That’s politics.

You might go “All we’re talking about is the legal sphere”. Firstly the legal is the political, pure ideology to say otherwise, but second it’s difficult for you to call yourself a fighter for free speech when as I’ve explained there’s sooo much more to it than simply the judicial.

Many proponents will even side-step the judicial boundaries anyway when monopoly becomes involved, and if I have to explain how Monopoly is not an externality of our system but an inherent part of accumulation then… sigh.

Strange how we’re usually all skeptical of an Economic Free Market but the Free marketplace of ideas unlocks your inner Libertarian.

Its when I see stuff like this that I begin wondering if this is all just a trend that will eventually die off when people realise the complexities of their circumstances. I remember just a few years ago how many Libertarians were speaking the merits of free speech until they discovered that methodological individualism wasn’t actually achieving their goals. I count down the days when Lauren Southern finally calls for limits on speech just like her limits on borders. After all freedom is not free it must be defended right?

And btw folks usually aren’t as brave to actively advocate limits so they’ll always present justifications, such as that these views are mental disorders, or they’ll destroy civilisation, or these people are Degenerates.

This is a historic moment in political discourse, at this point ultimately we’re interested in picking sides, and you’ll do this just as much as anyone will.

On the left we like to talk a lot about Left Unity. I’m not necessarily against the idea, but a lot of the time people make a religion out of it, glossing over the fact that many aspects of various factions (???) contradict. It might not be immediately obvious, but when push comes to shove these conflicts become very apparent. There are some principles in which each side certainly doesn’t see eye to eye.

“Politics is pervasive, everything is political and the choice to remain apolitical is usually just an endorsement of the status quo”

If it wasn’t obvious, I’m a Communist, yeah yeah say what you want, I believe in the liberation of those who do all the work through armed struggle based upon material conditions. I’m going to therefore be in favour of real mass culture, the stuff that gets people focused on achieving liberating aims instead of just appealing to markets. Its for this reason that I’m not interested in defending the views of right-wing nationalists, fascists, reactionaries… my enemies in other words, the ideas largely speaking which regress the people and they’re not interested in defending me either, wouldn’t expect them to.

If all you’re talking about is the centre, you’re gonna get flanked, sorry.

You might bump in when I denounce Dankula stating “His punishment showcases the system is at fault” and I would agree. This system is at fault, its been at fault since before our constitution was written, and it’ll never stop being at fault until you solve the contradictions.

Liberalism did fail, its ideals never came to fruition and that’s the reason why Socialists bring forth the praxis to achieve it, sometimes that’ll involve using words, sometimes it’ll involve lots and lots of guns, but let me tell you, you can’t always fight a war by playing nice, sometimes you have to use a diversity of tactics to achieve it.

Maybe we need 11 of them? (Shows book)

But thats more of a material answer and I know that most you don’t give a crap about some dead Chinese guy., but getting back to the original idea about responsibilities behind our speech, well, here’s something to think about.

So… here goes nothing.

If you’re a straight white male aged 11-16 in the UK and weren’t brought up to fit into the standard male dynamic, chances are you got picked on, sometimes a lot, sometimes that’s every day, not necessarily violence but words from numerous mouths are highly unnerving.

I did not have a particularly fun time adolescence. Every day was horrible, I never had a feeling going in that this would be exciting or, this would be a day where things would be different, everyday was a total black smudge with no end in sight.

Unlike other people, I never got to have a group that I fit into, so I had no escape, nothing to take my mind off things.

Looking back I don’t know why I bothered going in, I wasn’t getting amazing grades anyway.

When I went to Drama school and other clubs on the weekends and after school, I would also get picked on, but it wasn’t in spite, it was just general, friendly teasing. But there wasn’t a difference in my mind, because when you’ve had to deal with so much constant abuse, and paranoia, and humiliation 30 hours a week, it fucks you up.

So when Id say to the weekend buds “I dont like this” theyd go “Oh come on man its just a bit of fun, its okay, dont worry about it, its just a joke, its all okay”

Back then I didn’t have the nerve, I just put up with it, but if I could go back, Id say. No, actually its not Okay, because you don’t know for the life of me how much I have had to deal with this shit, to me that doesn’t come across like you’re being funny, like your laughing with me, it comes across like you’re a psychopath who wants to get pleasure out of my misfortune.

Of course the response to this would be obvious “Well what am I supposed to do? Just talk to you like a robot. You should just get over it, leave it in the past. Your making it harder for everyone” or some other faux-victimised response.

And sometimes y’know they might be right, maybe I should’ve not made worse a bad situation, but fact remains I still bleed.

To you, this is just having fun and games, to you and your other friends its normal, but to me its a threat.

Now today you can call me what you want I don’t care, I’m out of that place now and I’m all the better for it,

But even though some 7 or 8 years since then I’ve been able to recover, I still carry a hangover of it all, and it affected my decisions later on in life sometimes to a dire extent,

Its had the effect of making me feel both distrustful of people, and also like Im a burden to be around other people,

I never feel I should hang around for too long, I never want to take chances in friendship for fear I’ll embarrass myself, I say one thing out of tempo and suddenly flashbacks and an enormous shadow of mordor conjures over me. And I think most of all its been very difficult for me to express my emotions because I used to do it a hell of a lot.

Those 5 years were the single handed worst years of my life. And if you were at any point responsible for adding to that devastation and humiliation, then a large part of me wants to lash your goddamn skull inside out.

Because as trivial and generic as my story may be, that part of my life has been stolen from me, and those 5 years I will never get back.

So what’s the point of all this?

“Ossidents are sometimes surprised that, instead of buying a dress for their wife, the colonized buy a transistor radio. They shouldn't be, the colonized are convinced their fate is in the balance. They live in a doomsday atmosphere and nothing must elude them”

I want you to place the relatively minor experiences I received as a child, and translate those into other groups, victims of domestic abuse, victims of colonialism, racism, sexism, queer phobia. Like I said I’m out of that place now, but others aren’t, for many people they still live day to day in this ever pressing struggle, trying to just tell people “Please, just don’t do this”.

It’s not okay. But maybe together you’ll help me out with solving these problems?

My conclusion to this is simple,

Free Speech is not just something you can fling around to score political points, it doesn’t materialise simply because we all decide it should. If we want free-speech we need to break a few eggs to make an omelette.

We need to be sure that the conditions in society don’t proliferate toxic ideas that might even lead to the downfall of said society.

This very Tattoo that 90 years ago would’ve been Anti-Communist as hell has become a Pan-Left symbol against Fascism. Its living proof that with the correct methods the conditions of words, symbols, ideas can be resolved.

When class struggle subsides, when our social divides have been solved, when the conflict doesn’t oppose the existence of certain folks, then maybe, we can well and truly say that we can have free speech, and we’ll stand at a comedy show and yell “Yes, lets talk about those BEEP BEEEEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP” and be met with cheering applause from all sides. But until then, Don’t be a dick.

[marginalgloss]

notions of conduct

‘…It was Burton, I think,’ he said some minutes later, ‘who observed that there were men who sucked nothing but poison from books. And who has not met youths and even maidens with ludicrous ideas of what is the thing for persons of spirit, and with permanently distorted notions of conduct that is acceptable and conduct that is not? Yet may not authors be even more poisonous?’

Some three years after I started, I am finally reaching the end of Patrick O'Brian's best-known series of historical novels. Even now, far from the beginning, I feel confident in claiming that The Yellow Admiral is the weakest in the series so far. I had mixed feelings about Clarissa Oakes for related reasons — principally the lack of direction — but it gives me no joy to say that this book is where the series really starts to show its age. With the best of his work there’s a sense of settling into a sort of comfortable groove, like listening to a favourite piece of music performed well, or sinking into an old armchair on a rainy evening. But nothing here sits easily.   

The story is sketchy to the point of being barely extant. The war against Napoleon seems to be coming to an end, and for much of the book Jack Aubrey is plagued by a couple of great anxieties. He's afraid he will be made bankrupt, due to unexpected penalties associated with illegally capturing slave ships in the previous book. He is also worried that for political reasons at the end of his career he will be made a 'yellow' admiral, which is a covert form of disgrace – a promotion to a leadership role ‘without distinction of squadron’. There's a lot of other stuff going on — most notably, the promise of another privateer mission to South America — but for the most part this is a strange sort of in-betweener novel. 

Some of it is very out of character. A great many words in the first half are expended on enclosure (or 'inclosure', as O'Brian insists on spelling it). The widespread adoption of enclosure was perhaps the most significant change ever made to the landscape of Britain. It refers to the process of fencing off areas of common land, and turning it into strips of smallholdings assigned to individuals. The old commons were open to all and could be used for grazing, hunting and gathering; a tenant forced to trade access to commons in exchange for a few small pieces of private land might see an increase in the assets on his theoretical balance sheet, but they might also see a great nearing of the horizon of the opportunities afforded to them.  

The economics and history of enclosure are complex, and my understanding is limited to what I remember from school. But the author’s dedication to pursuing it so doggedly here seems out of character, especially considering that for the most part these books have given a great deal of leeway to the political issues of the day. Politics is only usually brought up as a matter for idle philosophical speculation — usually by Stephen, in the comfortable confines of the cabin or the gun-room. 

Enclosure has serious, active consequences for Jack and his tenants, but for me the question still remains: why are we only picking up on this now? Were a reader to encounter it for the first time in this book they might think it an invention of the nineteenth century. In fact, enclosure had been going on in fits and starts for hundreds of years in England; it’s scarcely conceivable that Stephen Maturin would need to have it explained to him, as he does here. It seems a strange topic to choose as representative of the age. 

As it stands, enclosure becomes a useful hobby-horse in this book. It’s hard to feel that O’Brian actually cares very much for the consequences to the individual smallholder here. Rather, the question of whether Aubrey's local common should be enclosed makes for a diverting exercise in the novel’s own libertarian philosophies. There is something unashamedly pastoral in this vision of a free and open corner of England, largely unaffected by government interference. At first it seems ironic that the only way this can be defended is by Aubrey effectively invoking his rights as Lord of the Manor; but I would suggest this is an indication that the novel's sympathies lie with a much older model of government. It is feudal, or as good as. Perhaps this oughtn't to be surprising – by this time we should know well that democracy doesn't come out of these novels looking well:

‘Everyone knows that on a large scale democracy is pernicious nonsense – a country or even a county cannot be run by a self-seeking parcel of tub-thumping politicians working on popular emotion, rousing the mob. Even at Brooks’s, which is a hotbed of democracy, the place is in fact run by the managers and those that don’t like it may either do the other thing or join Boodle’s; while as for a man-of-war, it is either an autocracy or it is nothing, nothing at all – mere nonsense.’

For all that it has very little to do with the rest of the series, the stuff about enclosure here at least has the benefit of being memorable. Much of the rest of the book is sadly ridiculous. The absurdity peaks early on with a scene in which Bonden must win a bare-knuckle boxing match, which ends up being so violent I thought he might not survive. We like Bonden – of course we like Bonden! – but it is one authorial self-indulgence too far to turn his character into a nineteenth century brawler. It feels like fanfiction. 

The remaining passages on land in this book are long and dry and largely without character. The one thing to be said for them is that we do at least get some scenes with Diana, but otherwise it feels as though O'Brian had no clue of how to continue the series from here. There is the period of Napoleon's escape from Elba to be covered, but we can't get to that just yet, so our heroes must be dispatched to the most boring region of the war which has formed the butt of many a joke throughout the series so far – the blockade of the port of Brest. It is largely uneventful. There isn’t even a decent battle at sea to liven things up.

I think O'Brian would have been about 81 when this was published. Interestingly, it's at this point in his career that I think he was beginning to get some very serious literary recognition. He was being invited on speaking tours and having his work championed by a weird mix of writers and politicians from across the political spectrum — everyone from Charlton Heston to Christopher Hitchens proclaimed themselves fans. If I was inclined to be cynical I might argue that this book is mostly O’Brian playing to the gallery, without any clear sense of how these novels ought to be concluded. 

The parts where the author seems to be having the most fun are the novel’s idle moments; I don’t believe these books have ever seen so many comfortable dinners with shipmates or cushy evenings at Blacks club as there are described here. And how interesting that these are not comfortable dinners spent at home with family, but semi-formal occasions with colleagues. This, perhaps, is where the author really feels at ease. Even though we spend many pages in England in this book, there’s a haunting sense throughout of being perpetually at a slight discomfort at home. To some extent that was always the case — O’Brian always did stress the escapist quality of the naval career as paramount to the happiness of his heroes — but now this is tinged with a strange melancholy as it becomes clear that we can never spend a lifetime fleeing from life as part of a family.