#empathy does not negate violence

[shallowseeker]

@ahundredbillionheavens - This might be a reductive answer to your question, but I think souls are empathy.

Empathy is what powers a story (and the Hollywood grind cycle), so it works pretty eloquently.

For someone to “become soulless” is simply for something to happen that turns that empathy off.

✅Could be a head wound (that one young man in Dream a Little Dream of Me, I think it was [?] or akin to how Amara injured Donatello)

✅ It could be a trauma that causes a character to withdraw / completely sunder / shut off their emotions (a la soulless Sam). Sam is vulnerable to this…he often shuts off his emotions/distances his own emotions by intellectualizing others.

✅ It could be torture and pain (demons).

✅ Or the coldness of time and distance (angels).

In this way, it’s very possible for demons, angels…anyone to have “a soul.” After all, “grace” is like a soul in that it can be wielded in violence or healing. Angels are just sold the line that “grace doesn’t count as a soul. It’s stoic, powerful, not nurturing or healing.”

And demons are sold the line, “it’s too late for you / you don’t matter anymore.”

(But we see family and friends heal each other again and again, even demons and angels, through great loyalty and sometimes terrible sacrifices.)

///

Humanity is often shorthand for empathy.

✅ When you “sell your soul” to an entity, it can power itself vicariously through the “soul,”eating/draining all the hopes and dreams, spending it like dirty vice money (Hell) or powering a whole grand enterprise (Heaven).

I think this works in a very real meta sense, and it’s also how we see Chuck use Sam in 15x09 The Trap. It is not until Sam is drained of hope that Chuck is rejuvenated.

Why then, are humans more valuable than demons/angels? I think a clue is with Amara’s hunger in season 11. She laments that humans are mostly (cosmic) empty space. (Which is true of us and the universe.) But! She eats angels and demons too!

I think… The metaphor is that, in the world of story, human “empathy/experience” is compressed inside the narrative character. (Indeed: characters are avatars for multiple writers and audiences, “compressed” into a single, often morphing character/idea.)

Ergo, the human souls of SPN are so compressed that they’re simply more filling/less empty space. They’re like bite-sized, high-calorie gold nuggets you can eat. (Demons are maybe low-calorie, thorny, hard nuts to crack. Angels are too vast to tap, disconnected from their emotions like a perpetual state of alexithymia. Or like an ore field with no tools to get at the usable stuff.)

When angels get “compressed” into human vessels, their grace probably feels more. When they are compressed, they’re perhaps literally more in touch with their own emotions. A nice nod to how our own bodies help us identify/“feel” our emotions. (Angels are deadened by too much inhibition, a loss of free will and denial of the emotions through shifting those emotions onto a grander cause.)

And demons are “cured” by transfusion, which essentially cuts through the prickly shell of not-caring. (Demons are numb via the disinhibitory loss of free will and the shame of non consensual choosing disguised as purely the fault of the exploited. This generates righteous anger that can be wielded, especially if it becomes blind.)

///

Anyhoo! Empathy powers stories! Souls are empathy.

Grace, souls, corrupted souls are the same star stuff, but perhaps souls are neatly packaged/compressed so that we’re (generally) “in touch with” our energy and emotions.

Soullessness is any barrier to empathy.

Or being “out of touch,” too maybe…

I might be delirious but i am bored in my hospital room.

///

In a narrative, empathy may be much of what matters in a very real sense. Nihilism and apathy are supreme enemies of the story. They cause it to spiral into a neurotic mess of, “why bother?”

(They all died and nothing changed / it was all a dream / all writers lie and this story is a big lie / shaggy dog story etc. is boring and cowardly. “Playing it safe” and “Keeping things up to interpretation” can dissolve meaning and backbone. When ppl say “it didn’t stick the landing,” this is what they mean.)

///

Aside/// Plenty of characters have emotions, like how Lucifer has been shown to have turbulent ones. But he lacks empathy for his peers.

His bitterness causes his emotions to be terminally self-focused, and purposefully blase. Even the deeper emotions he feels for Jack are akin to a dingy in a sea… and Lucifer would drown that dingy to stay afloat.

“Soon I’ll be me again,” he says after feeding off Anael, seeming genuinely rattled by the act of feeling his own emotions and seeing his own true motivations (that is, contrary to his rebellious streak, he valued fitting in…pleasing his dad). I think that’s a nice Sam parallel.

Lucifer was chronically used and victim-blamed by Chuck, (as late as s11), and he’s unable to connect to others in a real empathic sense because it’s unsafe. He only feels alive in the heat of battle/fighting a bigger enemy than himself (Amara, AU Michael). It’s safer for him because the chaos of the battlefield offers security and built-in allies…so long as that war keeps waging.

[herejusttosufferalong]

Ehhh totally understand if you don't post this because it's depressing af. I'm choosing violence today. I was awash with lovey dovey feelings for our couple after re-watching L&N interviews, re-watching B3, re-watching BTS footage. I was full to the brim with LOVE. These guys had me in a choke-hold. Actually had me reviewing and reflecting on my life and relationships, adding so much joy and self-acceptance, reflecting on my self-worth, improving my world view. Allowing me to breathe in deeply, and expand myself in ways I didn't expect it to.

BUT yesterday was a mess. For so many reasons, not just because of L&N-related content. There were some bad vibes circulating. Then I made a really poor life decision last night. I decided to do some stalking of third parties, which I don't normally do. And of course, it had to be the night where said parties were posting and I saw all things unfolding in real time. My predictions were coming true in real time. It was like the granting of a wish in reverse. And look, I'm not naive to think that these things aren't happening, but when you see it unfold in front of you, it just hits differently. These people are so. fkn. toxic. It drains the life from me. The same occurred this morning when I awoke to see a timeline of HBS. I knew about it, but seeing it, with receipts, fkn disgusted me to my core. It was a visceral reaction. All of a sudden, what looked cute and puppy dog became unsafe and ugly. My empathy dissolved. The thing that gave me the most discomfort was the possible connection to the young dancer who was in B3. It made me think such awful things. (the worst being, is he just a fuck boy who was starved during tour?).

But why, why does it have such an effect? I don't interact with these people, no real relationship. So why? I think because we have been sold a certain narrative, through B3 and the press tour, that being authentic, having depth, focusing on 'the real bones' of people is paramount. Beyond the aesthetic. 'The truth will set you free' kind of thinking, right? And here we have the literal antithesis to that. People who promote and value aesthetic over substance. People who are egocentric and appear to have a very limited worldview. People you expect more from given they sold that 'depth narrative' looking you in the eye. People who are old enough to know better. People who choose to surround themselves with younger folk so that personal growth is disallowed. People who care more about their shallow life fulfillment, their hedonistic desires, than the feelings of others whom they purport to love and care about. People who hide behind ignorance, as if that negates them from consequence. The stereotype celebrity. It's truly deflating. I expected so much more.

And my original thinking of 'oh it's ok, he needs to grow and learn from his mistakes, he needs to find himself...", well, I'm finding it more and more difficult to believe. Because why give him grace? Why is he deserving of grace? Because he acted real well? What does he add to society? What do these fked up people add to this already fked up world? You've got N literally changing a whole landscape, waving her wand and creating light in darkness, urging us to think deeply while laughing at the same time. And no, we don't all possess that kind of magic, but hell, shouldn't we all be striving to be authentic, kind, thoughtful people? Shouldn't we try to promote these things if we believe in them?

Look, in this life, people are always showing you who they really are, telling you exactly what they value, what fills them up, and it's up to us to really look and listen. I'm disappointed in myself for not properly seeing what was in front of me all this time... You can't change those who do not want to be changed. My respect and my fucks given need to be earned, and honestly, we need to reflect on our own self-respect if we are willing to fawn over or idolise someone undeserving. As always, I have hope for people, but I'm no longer holding my breath.

Please, give me that Xanax and wake me up when September ends.

#fkeverything #ohthereyouareteenangst

.

[good-to-drive]

would you say the vilification of john in the media is somewhat related to a widespread lack of understanding/empathy towards mentally ill people & drug addicts?

he obviously fucked up and hurt many (if not most) people in his life, that goes without saying. that pain he caused is very real and valid. he WAS violent, understanding 'why' doesn't take that away. i mostly refer to the "he was unredeemable; hate him or you're as bad as him" mentality.

Thank you so much for this ask, I think that's a really good point! To me it sometimes feels like a lot of people think of blind hatred as a moral high ground, and feel that speaking with compassion or understanding about someone who’s done something wrong means you may as well have done it yourself.

I think sometimes we want “bad guy” and “victim” to be mutually exclusive roles, in the sense that acknowledging that someone like John was acting from a place of pain can be very offensive to people who feel this negates his “badness”. Blind hatred feels like a moral high ground by comparison because it makes no attempt to see a victim in a bad guy, or vice versa.

But acknowledging that trauma and/or mental illness can sometimes mean you don’t know how to relate to yourself or others – and that this likely doesn’t make you irredeemable if you have the right kind of help – does a lot to prevent people from actually engaging in destructive behavior. Which is enormously helpful for the people who love them and are exposed to their destruction. So in a practical sense I don’t think it’s harmful to have or want an understanding of what drove John’s actions. And I don't think that's the same as justifying, either, but I guess that's just a personal feeling.

All that being said, there are definitely some people out there who I will never be willing or able to have compassion for, so I’m not putting myself on a pedestal here for not blindly hating John. It’s just that, in my life, understanding the really fucked up parts of mental illness and addiction – even when it’s harmful and off-putting and disturbing – is actually more helpful than flattening the horrible complexity of violence and addiction down to “it’s because he’s bad”.

Which is also not me declaring a moral high ground – I’m just saying that blindly hating him and rejecting any desire to understand where his fucked up shit comes from probably isn’t a moral high ground, either.

I think I basically just said what you said, but wordier lol. My only real point is that acknowledging the link between pain and maladaptive behavior shouldn't be offensive to people. It's one of the most basic things about being a human.

(I actually think this mindset is somewhat prevalent in analysis of Paul, too, though in the opposite direction. Less “you’re making excuses for him by acknowledging his maladaptive schemas may come from a place of pain” and more “you’re trying to negate his pain by acknowledging that it may have resulted in maladaptive schemas.”)

[sahsahhh]

im reading foucault but i cant make annotations in the book because i borrowed it so im gonna use tumblr as a notebook

My thoughts about Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison by Michel Foucault, Part 1 - Chapter 1

red is for key concepts, green is for parts im confused abt, purple is for stuff that isnt in the book but i correlated

it starts by contrasting two really different punishment styles: a dismemberment and a prisons routine

Punishment Economy spread in Europe and US (late 18th century/early 19th century)

scandals

reforms

new law and crime theories

new moral and political justifications of the right to punish

old ordinances abolished

habits supressed

modern codes <- new era of criminal justice

body as the target of repression disappeared -> this process was brushed off as humanization

less directly physical punishment

Supression of the Punitive Spectacle - understanding of the punishment rite as equally or more cruel than the crime itself, approaching the spectator to a violence they desired to be far from, inverting the roles and turning the judge into an assasin and the condemned into a victim

punishment as a cruel reality -> punishment as an omnipotent force

death and pain caused by the Justice is an intrinsic consequence which it (the Justice itself) is ashamed to impose; so it watches from the distance, encharging others of this burden and mechanizing the punishment execution - the Justice system as a religious system

Theoric Negation - no judge will ever say the objective of a sentence is to punish, but rather to reeducate

end of the public torture -> Extinction of the Mastery over the Body; not touching the body, or touching the bare minimum, in order to shake someting that isnt the body; the body becomes an intermediary to deprive the individual from their liberty

the executioner was replaced by guards, doctors, teachers etc who guarantee the justice system isnt aiming to cause pain - they use ways of annulating the pain, ex. annesthesiating somebody condemned to death

double process: Supression of the Spectacle/Annulation of the Pain

equalization of the punishment to every condemned: the death penalty would only occur by decapitation, by the gallows <- start of the punishment system mechanization and reduction in the contact between the executioner and the condemneds body

The Death Industry and Hannah Arendt"s Banality of Evil

the condemned should wear a veil when being decapitated - a crime without a face. you cant develop empathy when you dont see whos suffering

The Era of the Punitive Sobriety

The French Revolution turned the gallows into a spectacle again - the governmemt had to take action to contain this popularization

liberty deprivation as a penalty has never really worked without some mastery over the body as a complement - innevitable consequences of the prison? should the criminals suffer more? what would be an intangible punishment?

Relaxation of criminal severity (goal change)

"May the punishment, if i say so, hurt more the soul than the body" - MABLY, G. de, 1789

division between the allowed and the forbidden

by judging a crime, the problems that led to the crime are also being judged -> "second hand" villanification of defects and differences, of the "shadows" -> the criminals whole history is brought up during a judgement, being a decisive factor for their sentence, not for explaining a fact, but for qualifying an individual -> these "shadows" are punished in order to change the individuals core and turn them into a docile member of society

the scientific field may back up a condemnation by showing the individuals biological inadequacies, thus providing the judge with a reason to punish not the infraction, but rather the infractor for being who they are, the infractors soul

the evolution of the criminal procedure:

"what was the crime?" -> "what does this crime mean? how should we classify it?"

"who is the criminal?" -> "how was the criminal made? where, inside his soul, is the crimes origin?"

"whats the laid down punishment?" -> "how can we correct them? how can we make sure theyll get better?"

The Question of the Madness in the Justice System

1810 french code: "theres no crime if the infractor was in a dementia status" <- many judges misinterprted the code, treating madness as a mitigating factor, not as an annulating factor

1832 french code: any crime includes, as a legitimate causative factor and as right to use, the possibility of madness <- implies an appreciation for normality and the sentence gives a precription for a possible normalization

the judgement process is divided, shared between many people - psychiatrics, teachers, cops share the right to punish

judges dont judge crimes

judges do something other than judge

the right to jugde isnt exclusive to the judge

the judgemet doesnt involve only legal aspects -> the figure of the judge isnt only the one who punishes

Punishment and Social Structures by Rusche and Kirchheimer

political economy of the body -> punitive systems adapt to them

the history of the body: how do historical events interfere in the biological basis of existence? - political investment in the body to use it in the economy as a production force in a submission system. the body is useful only if it's productive and submissive at the same time. this submission may be established through ideology, but also through direct action, which is not necessarily violent - power microphysics

power isn't a propriety, but a strategy - it's a web of dynamic relations. poqer isn't a privilege of the dominant class, but their strategic positions which are reproduced by the dominated ones. this power infiltrates between the dominated and these, even fighting against this power, sustain it. profound, multipolar relations of power. the fall of these micropowers doesnt obey the law of all or nothing, they aret extinguished because of the fall of an institution, and no significant episode happens without the effects induced by them.

power produces knowledge and knowledge produces power - Political Anatomy: study of the materials and techniques that sustain the power relations

the king had a double body: mortal and immortal; but the condemned has no body, only a soul - the "soul" is where the power effects are, its thetool used to control and punish through a complex system. the men thats invited to free is in itself an effect of a profound submission.

[gillespiejr]

"You have never seen the effects of war and are now probably dealing with secondary trauma caused by social media's saturation with war videos specifically coming out of Gaza"

That's what you tell yourself, huh? When THIS is your response to a photo of the headless body of a child, you know your moral compass has truly spun out of control.

Does reblogging this kind of thing help you sleep at night? "Secondary trauma caused by social media's saturation with war videos specifically coming out of Gaza" - wtf is wrong with you? How did you get like this??

You are going to be so ashamed of yourself when you grow up.

It's actually unhealthy to be constantly exposed to gore and violence, no matter how it came to pass. It is unhealthy to force yourselves (or force the expectation on others) to see face-to-face incredible and sickening violence. It is a cult-like, self-destructive mentality.

It is possible to talk about these tragedies without traumatizing ourselves. We, the general populous, do not need to see these things to know that they happened. We do not need to lie, exaggerate, distort, or take advantage of these victims to further our causes.

None of the above negates the tragedy that was being discussed.

The pro-Palestinian narrative online is saturated with pictures of violence to evoke an emotional reaction- as it should! But these tragedies are not unique to any one ideology, as the narrative has twisted it to be. We must also think rationally. The OP of that post said, irrationally and falsely, that this was because of genocidal imperialism (you and I definitely don't agree on the truth of that statement). In reality, it is because of a war that Israel did not start and a war which Hamas refuses to end. I want to re-emphasize that every death is a tragedy and I have never said anything on the contrary. We should not manipulate those deaths for our own propogandic means.

Because you have no empathy for Israelis, you assume we have no empathy for Palestinians. That could not be further from the truth.

[troquantary]

Edward Cullen: That Boy Ain’t Right

So I was doing a reread of @therealvinelle 's collection of Twilight metas, as one does, and in "Edward, Denial, and a Human Girlfriend" she mentions that she doesn't believe Edward is sane. I thought, "ha, yeah, he's definitely not," and also, "but wait, what does that mean exactly, please say more about that." But since she's already inundated with asks, I've decided to use my own head-muscle and explore this idea. (TL;DR: I start out more or less organized, synthesize some points Vinelle has made across several posts (and have hopefully linked to them all where relevant but please tell me if not), touch a little on narcissism, then take a hard left into the negative effects of being a telepath.)

Just a couple things to note at the outset, though. Theses have been written already (probably) about Edward as an abuser. Edward being insane doesn't negate that at all; he's definitely an asshole and just...a disaster of a human being. (I find it more funny than anything, but YMMV.) I'm also going to try to avoid talking specifically about mental illness and how it relates (or doesn't relate) to abusive behavior -- that's territory I'm not really equipped to discuss, like at all. My starting point is "Edward has a deeply warped perception of reality," not "Edward has X disorder."

So: deeply warped perception of reality. The evidence? Goes behind a cut, because my one character trait is Verbose.

Vinelle provides a great example of it in the post linked above, which I'll just quote because she does words good: "[Edward] keeps acting like his romance with Bella is a romantic tragedy, and all the cast of Twilight are actors on a stage making it as sublime as possible." Edward's the one to pursue Bella, but he does so with the full belief, from the very beginning, that it will never last; Bella will "outgrow" him, go on her human way, and he can spend the rest of eternity brooding magnificently over his too-short romantic bliss. [Insert premature ejaculation joke.] Turning her is never an option, even though Alice, Noted Psychic, says that romancing Bella will either end with her dead (exsanguinated) or dead (vampire).

This framing, where he's a dark anti-hero in love with -- but never tainting! -- the pure maiden and eventually leaving her in a grand, tragic sacrifice to preserve her soul? It's fucking bonkers. Bella isn't a person to him in this scenario. As Vinelle points out, Bella's never really a person to him at all; he falls in love with his own mental construct, cherry-picking from what he observes of her behavior and her responses to his 20 (thousand) Questions to convince himself that she is the ideal woman.

Bella's not the only one who gets the projection/cardboard-cutout treatment. Edward sees everything and everyone through a highly particular, personalized lens. He filters his entire reality, which we all do to an extent, but the thing with Edward is that he starts with his conclusions and then only pays attention to the evidence that supports those conclusions. Often that evidence consists of what he admits in New Moon are only "surface" thoughts -- but recognizing that limitation doesn't keep him from taking those thoughts as representative of what people are. Edward then becomes absolutely convinced by his own "reasoning" and won't be swayed from what he has decided is Objectively True. It's obvious with Bella; it's also painfully obvious with Rosalie. (Vinelle explains this and brings up Edward's raging Madonna/Whore complex in the same post, so refer to that again -- she's right.)

He also catastrophizes. Everything. Bella's just vibing in her room, rereading Wuthering Heights for the 87th time? She's gonna be hit by a meteor, better sneak into her room while she sleeps. Bella's going to the beach with the filthy mundanes their human classmates? She's gonna fall in the ocean. Jasper's cannibal pals are stopping by for a visit, but know not to hunt in the area? DISASTER, DEFCON 1, ALSO FUCK YOU JASPER FOR EVEN EXISTING IN MY AND BELLA'S SPHERE YOU UNSPEAKABLE BURDEN. Edward must believe that Bella is vulnerable and in near-constant peril, to support the reality he has created in which he is the villain turned protector and maybe?? hero??? (!!!) for his beloved. So when the actual, James-shaped danger arrives, he goes berserk, snarling and flipping his shit and generally not helping the situation. His fantasy demands that Bella remain human, so instead of doing the very thing Alice, Noted Psychic, assures him will neutralize the threat (and not just a threat to Bella, either, but to Bella's family and any other human James might decide to include in the "game"), he vetoes it immediately, no discussion. Bella Must Not Turn, and he sticks to those guns despite James nearly reducing her to ground beef, despite leaving Bella catatonic with depression (but human! success!) in New Moon, despite Aro's order and his family's vote and, let's not forget, Bella's clearly and repeatedly stated desire to be a vampire. It's going to happen. But he doesn't accept it until Renesmee busts out of Bella like the Kool-Aid man and the poor girl's heart finally, unequivocally stops.

Sane people don't behave this way. I don't want to slap labels on Edward, but I can't help but note that he comes across as highly narcissistic. He's the only real person in his universe, the lone player among us NPCs. That probably has a lot to do with him being frozen in the mindset and maturity of a seventeen-year-old boy, but I think it's also just...him, on some fundamental level. His failure to connect with others and recognize them as full, independent beings with their own wants and priorities isn't like Bella's failure -- she's badly depressed. Edward is...something else, and I get the sense that his sanity has been steadily deteriorating over time. And a cursory google of narcissistic traits turns up some familiar-looking stuff. He's self-loathing, yes, but also grandiose; he hates himself for the monster he is (and hates most vampires besides Esme and Carlisle for their monstrosity, too) but still feels superior to humans, to the extent that he felt entitled to human blood and resented Carlisle for depriving him of his "proper" diet. He eventually returns to Carlisle, but he's far from content -- the beginning of Midnight Sun finds him in a state of ennui, bored and dismissive of (if not outright disgusted by) everyone around him, that has apparently persisted for years and years. He doesn't play the piano, he doesn't compose, he doesn't enjoy anything...at least until Bella comes along and then he becomes obsessed to a disturbing degree with her and his new, romantic tragedy spin on reality.

[Next-day edit: I’m not sure where else to fit this in, but the way Edward casually contemplates violence against people who have, at best, mildly annoyed him is...chilling. I have a hard time writing off his strategizing how to murder the entire Biology class as a result of bloodlust -- it’s so calculated, nothing like the blackout state of thirst Emmett describes when he encountered his own “singer,” and that is probably the default for when a vampire is extremely thirsty. But even ignoring the Biology class incident, Edward still does things like consider, with disturbing frequency, how he might grievously injure or kill Mike Newton, all because...Edward considers him his romantic rival (despite Bella barely giving the kid the time of day). He thinks about slapping Mike through a wall, which might be an amusing slapstick image, except as a vampire Edward’s actually capable of turning this boy’s skeleton to a fine powder. So it’s, y’know, kind of sick when you think about it.

But even worse than that, when Bella tells Edward about how she flirted with Jacob to get at that sweet, sweet vampire lore, Edward chuckles and then, after dropping Bella home, flippantly observes that now that the treaty’s broken, why not genocide? I’m not even kidding, it’s right there in Midnight Sun; he seriously thinks about the fact that he’d be technically justified now in wiping out the entire tribe because a teenager tried to impress a girl with a spooky story. That is fucked. Remember, Edward was there with Carlisle when the treaty was first established. He knows how remarkable it is that they even came to a truce in the first place, that it was only ever possible because Carlisle is...well, Carlisle, and that it marks a pretty significant moment in supernatural history. He doesn’t care; he doesn’t respect it, or he’d never think something like “Ha ha, if I went and killed them all, I wouldn’t even be wrong. I mean, I won’t do it, but I’m just saying, I wouldn’t be wrong.”

Again: not the thought process or behavior of a sane person. (Or a person that respects life in general -- sorry Carlisle, big L.)]

Finally, whether he's a narcissist or not, I think the fact that Edward has constant, unavoidable access to everyone's thoughts is a powerful contributing factor to his instability. He can tune out the mental noise to an extent, but he can't stop it -- so he comes to rely on it like another sense. This causes issues with disconnect and lack of empathy, of course, but there's another facet to this shit diamond: he's basically experiencing a ceaseless flow of intrusive thoughts. His narration in Midnight Sun suggests that he "hears" the words people think, can "see" what they visualize in their mind's eye, and can sense the emotional "tone" and intensity of their thoughts. Therefore, perceiving Jasper's thirst through his thoughts makes Edward more aware of his own, "doubling" the discomfort. This would be a lot to deal with even from just his immediate coven members, but Edward gets all of this pouring into his head like a firehose on a day-to-day basis because the Cullens live right alongside humans. I know Meyerpires have galaxy brains or whatever, but that's a ton to process.

Besides the compounding effect on his own thirst when he "feels" the thirst of others, Meyer never suggests that Edward has difficulty separating his own thoughts from other people's; even when he was newly turned, he recognized Carlisle's "voice" in his head as Carlisle's. That would create a whole different host of issues around identity, but it looks like Edward's escaped that particular torment. However, I can easily imagine that what he does experience is just shy of unbearable nonetheless, with an eroding effect on his sanity over decades. He can't sleep to escape it; he's on a dishwater diet and probably (like the rest of his family) experiencing a perpetual, low-grade physical discomfort due to his thirst never being fully satisfied; and he's around far more people than is the norm for vampires -- even discounting all the humans, his own coven is unusually large -- meaning more noise.

Honestly, it would be weirder if he were all there, considering.

And even though I feel like I lost a sense of structure around where I started ranting about telepathy, I've written like 1.5k words about Edward fucking Cullen and I think that's enough for one post.

[hamliet]

Hi, do you think they way people analyze a story in can tell us about their upbringing, social values and their perspective of life? Also, some people on internet (especially twitter) love to shit on some heavily flawed characters whose problems stems from trauma. The story asks us to be empathetic but they still shit on them despite understanding it. Do you think this is how they will treat traumatized people in real life as well?

Sure, but not in the simple 1=1 way fans most often assume. People are highly complex and taste in media is also highly complex, and should not inherently be moralized. Notice the caveat there. And also nuance, because different people can have different standards and have different levels of tolerance because of experiences and beliefs, and that's okay. Most often in fandom you get antis who scream everything you like in fiction is 1=1 reality, when that's psychological baloney, and then you get "fiction is not reality" which works to refute the anti perspective but doesn't hold up to nuance either, because fiction is a part of reality and thereby reflects and is influenced by and influences it--but not in the simplistic way antis assume (see all the "video game violence" panic).

tl;dr it's way too complicated to get into in a post on tumblr.

But, regarding how people shit on abuse survivors. It's true that irl society at large does not like abuse survivors who show signs of being abused (shockingly, abuse does not usually make someone a nicer person! it's almost like having your human worth and dignity denied might hurt lol). It's also true that people consuming fiction have different experiences and baggage and even triggers, and are not required to feel empathy for every single person (or character) out there (that's part of empathy that I think people negate to consider: it's great to feel empathy for everyone we can, but in a broken world not everyone can for everyone; that said, there's a difference between being like "mm not for me, sorry" and "everyone who feels empathy for x character is a fascist abuser!")

I do think people who constantly post terrible things about abuse survivors in fiction are likely not intending to be mean to survivors IRL. However, they might want to consider how seeing that kind of thing makes abuse survivors feel--because, to me, it doesn't feel great to see. Add in a fair amount of moralizing, which usually occurs, and you've got a weapon that, whether you intend to or not, is probably going to hurt those around you.

[phantomrose96]

Origin of a Non-Hero

Pro Hero Deku is not that tall of a man… In a simple white t-shirt and khakis, he’s not imposing at all. His 14 year old son, though much scrawnier in frame, is only an inch or two shorter than him.

Pro Hero Deku is not a cruel man. To the contrary, he cares too much, about all things at all times, about everyone and everything he can save if only it could come within his reach. The family counselor knows this. The counselor is surprised that, of all the world’s burdens Deku carries, it would be his family that slipped through his grasp.

Pro Hero Deku’s arms are gnarled and scarred, endlessly broken and re-broken in his youth from trying too much, and caring too much, and fighting too much for the sake of others. So why do they seem so awkward, so unpracticed, so unused to being wrapped in a hug around his son? Why was this boy the last thing for Pro Hero Deku’s arms to reach?

The counselor asks. The raw hurt of the session starts anew.

(This fic is long, heed the Read More)

...

11 people shared the same rigid wooden bench as Shikinori Midoriya. From the glances he stole, all 11 of them were handcuffed. An equal number of armed guards stood at the ready, crowding a waiting area meant to accommodate no more than 10 people.  Shoulders rubbed shoulders. Sweat trickled from necks and hairlines. Dampness clung to skin and scales and fur and whatever other quirk-manifested coverings the 11 handcuffed men, and 11 guards, and Shiki bore.

A puttering fan spun in the corner, sad and wheezing and ineffective against the body heat of so many. Shiki kind of resented the fan for all the nothing it was accomplishing.

He leaned his weight into the sturdy bench arm to his left, opting to crush his guts into the furniture rather than lean on the man beside him, who was more knotted muscle and snake tattoos than he was man. Shiki looked again and concluded the man may even be more snake than man. Two sharp fangs stuck out from his mouth and tented his upper lip. His unmarked skin shimmered, a rippling repeated pattern of flesh-covered scales. His tongue shot out and licked the air, forked. Slit-pupiled eyes made momentary, awkward eye-contact with Shiki, and Shiki quickly pretended to be staring elsewhere.

The man seemed familiar. Some villain from some news headline. But Shiki couldn’t place a name, so he didn’t bother thinking about it more. He stared ahead, eyes drifting out of focus, hot. Uncomfortable and hot. Damp and stick-to-his-clothes-sweaty. Just…hot. Unnecessarily so. Maybe he shouldn’t be here. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe he’d been impulsive, and foolish, and should leave before he gets in any deeper.

The door beside Shiki creaked open. A wizened man with tiny, deep-set, watery eyes motioned him in. Shiki all but jumped to his feet. He tugged at the spots of his shirt that clung sweaty to his back, and he followed. The temperature dropped at least 20 degrees once he crossed the threshold into this new room. The door clicked shut behind Shiki. He startled, and felt a ripple of disquiet shiver down his spine, but Shiki chose not to dwell on it. He was more drawn to investigating the new room, which, he quickly discovered, came with its own kind of sensory-terrible-silence.

The waiting room had been terribly silent – chatterless and buffed with the sounds of breathing, wheezing, throat-clearing, shifting, shuffling, and the tinkering tangle of chains. This time it was an ambient buzz that blanketed the new room, thick and oppressive and syncopated, like a fly trapped in a jar. Shiki traced it to the fluorescent lights overhead. Under their pallor, the watery-eyed man looked half like death. He sat, and motioned for Shiki to sit too in the wooden chair directly across. A table separated them. On Shiki’s side, there was a set of iron cuffs drilled into the table-top, the sort where, if Shiki threaded his arms forward, he could be bolt-locked in place.

Shiki did not acknowledge the cuffs, and neither did the watery-eyed man. They made eye contact, and Shiki instantly understood: this man did not care about him. This man did not care about any of the other people in that waiting room. What gave it away was unclear – maybe the stiffness in his jaw, or the piercing deadness to his horrible ice-blue eyes, or the sterile too-large lab coat crumpling the man’s figure, or maybe none of that. Maybe it was pure human intuition, an instinct honed for survival, that one feels when encountering another human so bereft of empathy that it sticks along every individual neck-hair.

“Sit,” the man said. His tone was sharp, as though he’d been forced to repeat himself. That was somewhat true. He’d already motioned for Shiki to sit. Shiki had been too distracted by the cuffs on the table to comply. He was still distracted now, but he sat this time.

“I’m Dr. Matsuyama,” the man like death continued. He pulled a loose clipboard from the shelf just beneath his side of the table, and he dragged a slightly-trembling hand from his pocket, gray and liver-spotted, trailing an uncapped pen. His eyes became more like pits in this light, but Shiki could see a blue in them that was definitely inhuman. Which wasn’t saying much, since most of the population walked around in definitely inhuman ways. It was quirk-related, no doubt, but endlessly eerie to stare at.

There came a shuffle from the shadows, a shift in the back-left corner of the room that startled Shiki. He looked, and now locked eyes with a man dressed to the nines in an ill-fitting suit. The man pulled at his own lapel, straightening it, as though reading Shiki’s mind about the ill-fitting suit detail.

“Don’t mind Dr. Himura,” Matsuyama continued. “He’s leading the study, so he is observing. I’m conducting this session.” Matsuyama set pen to paper. “What is your name?”

“Shikinori Midoriya,” Shiki answered. “I go by Shiki, among friends.”

“Is there a reason for that?” Matsuyama’s voice had a papery tremble to it, like air whistling through the slit of a barely-cracked window. Listening to it was uncomfortable. Shiki could feel it like a shortness of breath in his own throat.

“Just preference.”

Matsuyama wrote something down.

“How old are you?”

“22.”

“Your quirk?”

“Gravity nullification.” Shiki raised his hands up, palms spread toward Matsuyama. “I can negate the gravity of anything I touch with my fingers, palms, or pads of my toes. Basically any part of my body that has this ridged skin.” He wiggled his wide-spread fingers. The weird fluorescent lighting threw the ridges into stark contrast, valleys of blackness ribbing his fingers, engulfed like Matsuyama’s eyes. “The quirk works on any sized object, but the time limit is shorter for bigger objects.”

Matsuyama let the silence linger as he wrote. His writings filled several lines this time, as Shiki had little else to do than watch the trail of the pen.

“Is your quirk patrilineal, matrilineal, or both?”

“Matrilineal.”

“How does it influence or impede your daily life?”

“It doesn’t much, really. I don’t need it. I don’t really use it. It’s forgettable.”

“What are the negatives to living with your quirk?”

Shiki shrugged. “None much, really, since I don’t use it.”

“Then what brings you here?”

“I mean, just that. I don’t need it. Does it have to be deeper than that?”

Matsuyama wrote. And he wrote for longer than before. Silence draped them again, and it amplified the buzzing from the lights. It was hot again, Shiki realized with agitation. His seat placed him right below the lights, a veritable stage light, targeting him to bake. His neck prickled with sweat. Buzzing. Like a fly in the jar. Fly in a jar, fly in a jar, that flies against the walls each which way and can’t get out, because there is no out, because the jar is sealed, and being unyielding to gravity is no help when the walls close on every side.

“…here?”

“Huh?” There’d been a question. Shiki had zoned out for--

“Did anyone offer you money to come here?”

“Not beyond the 1,500 yen per day,” Shiki responded, collecting himself. “You know, that you guys offered, that 1,500 yen, to cover transport and lunch. But nothing else. No.”

“Did anyone blackmail you to come here?”

“No.”

“Are there any extenuating circumstances to explain why you’re here?”

“None.”

Matsuyama stopped writing. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Shiki’s neck, lost somewhere between his shoulder blades. He shifted, and rolled his shoulders a little, and edged his hands away from the wrist restraints on the table.

“Do you have any thoughts of self-harm?”

“No.”

“A history of violence?”

“No.”

“Do you consider yourself to be a danger to yourself or others?”

“No.”

“Any history of drug abuse?”

“No.”

“Alcoholism?”

“No.”

“Anxiety or depression?”

Shiki faltered. “I saw a therapist for a bit, a while ago, back when I was a teenager. But it wasn’t anything, like, extreme. You know? Just, stuff.”

“And how do you define ‘stuff’?”

“It—he was a family therapist. My parents are divorced so like, you know, I was a kid – well, a teenager – but that’s still a kid. I mean we saw the therapist when I was a teenager, but my parents divorced when I was 10 before I was a teenager so – the therapist – he was just for, you know, typical stuff. Typical divorced kid stuff.”

Matsuyama wrote, and wrote more, and at length, Shiki said nothing.

“How’s your relationship with your mother?”

“Fine.”

“How does she feel about your participation in this?”

“I dunno, really. I mentioned it to her like once but like, a while ago, before I decided on whether I wanted to do it but like… I dunno. That shouldn’t matter, right? I’m an adult.”

“How’s your relationship with your father?”

“You know, fine.”

“And how does he feel about your participation in this?”

“Like I said, does it matter?” Shiki pressed. He leaned forward, because he could feel his shirt sticking again in back. Under his arms, too. He was grateful for the dark color of his clothing, since Shiki knew from a glance to frumpy Himura that the harsh lighting was unforgiving on sweat stains.

“Is he against it?”

“He doesn’t know about it. Like, he’s busy. And I’m an adult. And it’s not like it’s his quirk or anything since I inherited it from my mom, and it’s my body so I think I should be the one who gets the final say in whether I do this or not don’t you think so?”

Matsuyama left the challenge unmet. It rung through the room around them and petered out to silence. Just an echo left dancing in Shiki’s head. Matsuyama wrote. He only wrote, and Shiki’s heart beat in his own ears.

“My job is to make sure you are of sound mind… uncoerced… unhindered by any self-destructive motivations...” Matsuyama’s pen did not break pace while he spoke, like an automaton. Like a puppet. Endlessly forward, unholy eyes shuffling along line by line. “The Quirk Ethics Board is strict. Dr. Himura has spent the better part of five years at odds with them to get this study off the ground. Be grateful to him, and be patient with me.” And his horrible eyes flickered up, pinning Shiki to the spot. “I can disqualify you, if I think you’re lying to me. So please, some patience, and some cooperation.”

Shiki’s whole body flushed with a shiver, and he realized that perhaps Himura was not the man he should be suspecting of a mind reading quirk.

He leaned back in his spotlight chair, and took a few deep breaths, and wondered how heated his cheeks were. Embarrassment always spiked a blush in them, and Shiki was ashamed to have let his composure slip.

“Your father… wouldn’t you like to tell him, first? There’s no reversing this. We encourage everyone who comes through this room to inform all family, all loved-ones first.”

“No. I don’t want to tell him. Because I know it’ll make him cry. And if I lose my nerve, and back out, I’ll probably never have this opportunity again. I need this decision to be my own.”

Shiki averted his eyes, away from Matsuyama, glancing left and finding himself staring back. A mirror spanned the length of the left wall. A few feet worth of cinderblock stretched from the floor-up, and the ceiling-down, meeting at a mirror that lobbed Shiki’s own reflection back at him. Freckles and green eyes and tousled chestnut hair and cheeks heated with shame and embarrassment.

A one-way mirror. Shiki wondered if there was anyone standing on the other side of it, watching, judging.

The silence lingered, heavier, denser somehow. It took Shiki a few moments to process what had changed.

The scratch of Matsuyama’s pen had vanished. He was not writing. He was staring, instead, at Shiki. Plain to see in the mirror. Waiting for Shiki to face him again. Reluctantly, Shiki looked.

“Your father… is a busy man, you said. He must be very very busy… Shikinori Midoriya.” Matsuyama shuffled his papers into place, and set the clipboard down on the interrogation desk. “If your name, and your appearance, and the leagues and leagues of advertisements, and news headlines, and television specials I see every day paint an accurate picture of who, I suspect, your father is.”

Shiki breathed out, jaw clenched, feeling that familiar dread settle in. He heard a noise from Himura, like a tiny pip, a single note of recognition that Shiki had become well attuned to: that sound of someone putting the dots together, the look in their eyes as they roved over Shiki’s face, as though suddenly giddy to understand his freckles and green eyes and curly hair.

“Midoriya?” Himura leaned forward, pushing himself off the back wall and shuffling a bit forward. His eyes were wide and probing, mutedly eager. “Oh I see – yeah – I see it – you look just like him – but – pardon my interruption, son, but –   why would you ever consider participating – here in my study – why I can’t dream of – I don’t think I could be responsible for -“

“Don’t,” Shiki shot back. He braced his back against the chair once more, letting the wave of dread pass. “Don’t… Don’t finish what you’re going to say.”

“The boy is right, Himura,” Matsuyama said, and he did not look at his colleague. “This is my interview. And you are only here to observe. You are out of line.”

“R-right,” Himura breathed, flushing red, yet still clearly riding out his confusion, his giddiness. He pulled a small kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat along his receding hairline. “My apologies, M-Mr. Midoriya.”

“Just call me Shiki…”

“Yes, Shiki, we should get back on track,” Matsuyama proceeded. He picked his clipboard up once more and flipped another page. Shiki tried counting the number of sheets that wrapped spiral-like over top. More than he had realized – 10 or maybe 12 pages thick, at this point. Matsuyama’s pen tip tapped to paper once more. “I want to be clear: you are entitled to have your own reason for following through with this. But you may not hide it from me and expect to participate. I am the deciding factor here. Do not lie.”

With that, Shiki felt the last of the vigor in his spine drain away. He slumped forward some, and avoided eye contact with Matsuyama, and Himura, and his own reflection in the mirror which he resented so strongly at this very moment.

“So tell me, boy,” Matsuyama paused to pull in a rattling breath, “why do you want us to erase your quirk?”

“It’s complicated,” Shiki muttered.

“I’m quite good at complicated,” Matsuyama countered.

“It’s… My dad… You figured it out already, right? Izuku Midoriya… He’s the #1 Hero.” The words felt plastic, leaving Shiki’s throat. Artificial. Manufactured. A thing repeated en-masse by television hosts and podcasts and commercials and fan events and—

Shiki breathed.

“He wasn’t always. …Well, duh, I guess, of course… That sounds obvious to say but I mean it as – as in that – back when I was born, Dad was the #361 Hero. At least in the one ranking suite that stretched all the way to the top 500 heroes. Most ranking organizations only did top-250 at best. And the National Rankings only do top-75. He was a still a sidekick then. So was my mom. She didn’t even appear in the top 500. And I think being pregnant with me, and me being born, and taking care of me – I think that set her back even more.”

Shiki leaned forward, elbows set to the table, eyes boring deep into the scratched and stained wood. There were deeper gouges near the sharp corners of the arm restraints.

“When I was old enough to start remembering things is around when I got my quirk, because most of my oldest memories are of my mom playing gravity games with me in our apartment. She’d make my toys float and I’d make them float too and she’d bop them, like with her head, bop them all around and I thought that was the funniest thing. I used to think everyone could cancel gravity because that was so much of my world, just me and my mom.”

Ochaco Midoriya was just barely 23, and her hair had grown long enough to wear in a bun every day. Her off-the-shoulder white shirt spelled out URAVITY in bubble letters across the front. A short release. Only 100 shirts sold, half of them to friends and family. Her son Shiki lay on the carpet, small pudgy hands grabbing at fistfuls of air above him, reaching for her, his footy-jammied feet kicking. His fingers were ridged. He’d have her quirk someday. She pulled out the stuffed frog from behind her back (FROPPY logo emblazoned on the tummy) and papped it gently forward. Into the air. Where it hung and spun, lazily adrift. Shiki let out a shriek of joy. Ochaco smiled, and cupped Shiki’s hands in hers, and kissed them.

“My dad… um… he was out most of the day, almost the whole day, on weekdays at least, when I was young. And I was proud of him for that especially when I got old enough to understand what heroes and villains were because like, that was my dad, out there every single day putting in more effort than anyone else, you know? It never even seemed that weird, to like, that I didn’t have him around. I had Mom, and Dad was a hero.”

The little leaguers were all 5 or 6 years old, adorned in fluorescent pinnies and tiny little soccer cleats. They ran the way little kids run – with too much force in every stilted step, no grace, all fierce concentration, feet slamming heavy into grass and balled fists swinging. The ball came above their knees, and they kicked by running into it full-force.

Tatsuya bodied the ball into the opposing goal, and he was met with a chorus of applause from his mother and father on the sidelines. It was the first time Shikinori Midoriya noticed – Tatsuya had a dad. He looked, and saw so many dads. And it was strange. Weren’t they heroes? Weren’t they busy?

Ochaco stood alone. She waved a big wide sweeping wave when she noticed Shiki looking. She whistled for him. The ball knocked into Shiki. He forgot to wave back.

“I remember… Most of my memories of him, from when I was little, were on weekends. But not always, I mean not all weekends. He patrolled through weekends too. But if we got a weekend off, then we’d do some activity with him. Me, Mom, all of us together. It was my favorite. But weekdays, I never saw him. He left before I woke up and came home after I was in bed. I stayed up sometimes, in secret, to listen for him at the door. But a lot of nights I fell asleep first, or some nights he never even came home. I actually, I think I started to see him more on television, from news reporters, than I did in person…”

A head-to-toe child’s onesie which was a flannel plushy mock-up of Pro Hero Deku’s uniform. Shiki wore it, bunny ears and all, sitting in his mother’s lap in front of the television. Ochaco sat with her back against the couch, on the floor. The sun had set around them. The news had trickled on to its fourth recap of Deku’s apartment arson rescue.

~”A civilian recording that is SURE to capture a nation’s heart! As Pro Hero Deku emerges from the blazing building with three tenants, mother father and child, slung across his back – look – there! Oh what a winning smile that boy’s got, hasn’t he? Saving people with a smile! It makes me nostalgic for the age of All Might, to our viewers old enough to remember the Symbol of Peace before his retirement. Maybe Deku is someone who can spark that hope back into the new generation, what do you think, folks?”~

“15 more minutes, Shikinori, then it’s time for bed,” Ochaco told Shiki, bouncing him on her leg.

“But I wanna stay up for Dad! I wanna tell him we watched him on the news!” Shiki pointed a stubby finger to the freeze-frame of his father on the television, all tousled hair and sweat, bearing the weight of three others on his back, a veritable Atlas, smiling. Smiling smiling. Shiki gave the same smile as his dad, beaming at his mom.

“You’ll see him tomorrow; you can tell him then.”

The smile dropped from Shiki’s face. He looked forward to the television again. “I’m not gonna see him tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Tuesday and I don’t ever see Dad on Tuesday.”

~”I hear we’ve got an interview with a civilian who was on-site during the disaster. We’re cutting to him now!”~

“…30 more minutes, okay then, Honey?” Ochaco said. “We’ll wait up 30 more minutes for Dad.”

Shiki’s hand twitched. His eyes were locked on the shackles, and slowly, experimentally, he rested his wrists in the cuffs. Could the table hold him down with his quirk?

“And by the time I was 7, he broke into the top-100 heroes. Within another three years, he was top-50. Newspapers called it mind-blowing to see someone like that jump the ranks so quickly.  He blew past Ground Zero and Ice Razer, who you know are like, #2 and #3 now. It was crazy. Like, he got way more attention for how quickly he was jumping than for his actual rank. The papers said he was working inhuman hours. That even heroes with time quirks and clone quirks couldn’t be as everywhere as he was… I have clippings saved. Or I did. I might have gotten rid of them when Mom and Dad divorced.”

Shiki clinked his wrists against the shackles, metal wrist watch ringing hollow against the cuffs.

“Which is, that was something I found out on my 10th birthday. They didn’t mean for me to know but I was staying up past my bed time to play the new Hero Smash game they got me – the one Dad was finally in -- and I heard them arguing just a bit too loud about something, and them arguing was kinda common at that point, so I paused the game to listen and… yeah… divorce… It was, you know, a pretty tame divorce, I think. Like, I can’t really complain about it, compared to some of the stuff other kids go through. Cuz Mom and Dad still acted friendly and tried to settle things on good terms but, you know, it showed. I’d go into Mom’s room and hold her, some nights, when I heard her crying. And she’d sob and say ‘I still love him’ and I never knew what to say back, but, I’m –that’s, anyway. Anyway.”

Ochaco Midoriya, 32 years old. She kept the last name. It would be easier, in terms of legal hassle, and it would be easier on her son, who she had full custody of.

Her empty bed had been the norm for years, now. Deku had gotten into the habit of working through the nights, stealing naps on his cot at the agency. But now it was the cold reminder, the knowledge, that he wasn’t ever coming back to this bed that stole Ochaco’s breath and made it short. Made her heart squeeze. Forced noises past her lips that she tried to keep in.

“Mom?” Shiki’s eyes, wide with concern, at the side of her bed. He held his hands together, ridged fingers, ridged palms, the little fingers she used to kiss.

He reached a hand out, and patted her shoulder, tip toes, leaning over the bed. He should be crying too.

Shiki pulled his hands back, rubbing at his wrists. His cheeks were flushed, embarrassment creeping through his system as his own words echoed back at him. Those things he’d rarely told anyone. “Am I… is this too much detail? I can dial it back. It’s just, um, I feel like the context is important for you to like… know why I’m—not write me off as—”

“This is fine, continue. If you say anything unnecessary, I can simply not write it down,” Matsuyama waved his free hand dismissively. The pen in his other hand danced, still, across the page.

Shiki cleared his throat. “Anyway, I lived with Mom after that. And when I was a little older she told me more about it and basically just. ‘He loves All Might more than he loves me,’ she said. Not the person, but the… idea. Like the concept of All Might. It’s who my Dad was so driven to be since the very beginning and… My mom couldn’t take being secondary anymore… And I realized then that, I was part of that too. I didn’t need saving, so I came second. My mom put her hero career on hold to raise me but he, um, he just couldn’t do that. Who he was as a person was so, unfixably tangled up in becoming that All Might in his mind that, he couldn’t sacrifice that. Not for me. Not for my mom.

“And when they finally divorced, and he moved out and into this just… terrible tiny unfurnished apartment, which I only saw twice – two years apart – and both times it looked the same. Nothing in there. Almost like no one was really living there. A futon and a closet and a rice cooker in the corner and boxes and All Might merch on the wall.”

Shiki was 11, sitting on a packed cardboard box against the red-brick wall of his dad’s apartment. Still-packed boxes lined most of the walls, like a misshapen and dull lego construction. Red brick, brown cardboard, All Might smiling from every wall. It was an apartment unlived-in, and that aspect was nearly unfathomable to Shiki. His dad had been moved out for over four months.

“Pretty great, huh?” Deku said, gloved finger pointing to the wall of All Mights. Deku’s smile was bright, his excitement genuine. “The one on the far left was a limited release from 50 years ago. One of my super-fans tracked it down for me and mailed it. Can you believe it?”

Shiki nodded. All the posters looked the same to him.

“But um, after the divorce is when he really skyrocketed. Everything before was child’s play. I was… dizzy. I was 11, and starting middle school, and had just lost my dad only to have him be everywhere but… not my dad. Not there for me. But everywhere, on billboards, in newspapers, on television. Kids at school would hear my last name and they’d ask ‘Midoriya – Like Izuku Midoriya? Like Deku?!’ and I’d have to just say yeah while they applauded or like, even smacked me on the back sometimes like I had any choice in that, and would ask questions about him that, I couldn’t answer, cuz he wasn’t my dad anymore. His fans in my class knew things about him that I didn’t. Sometimes little things like favorite color but sometimes big things, whole things from his childhood that I never heard about. They’d ask me things about him and that’s when I realized I didn’t know my dad at all.”

Shiki glanced up, and saw Himura look away in embarrassment.

“He’d been kidnapped, as a kid, had saved Ground Zero twice, took down a murderer with Ice Razer and Ingenium, had his mentor die during a rescue mission. I had to hear these things from people I didn’t know. And I felt just, selfish, every time I learned something new. Especially the things that happened after I was born. Because how do you sit and hear someone tell you a story about the time your dad saved their grandma from a collapsed bridge and just… how can you justify feeling resentful about that? How selfish do you have to be to think, ‘he should have been spending that night at home with me and my mom, and not saving your grandma.’ I hated it. I started to hate hearing about him.”

His hands were shaking now, slightly, Shiki realized. His breathing too came in too fast and too raspy. He set his wrists back in the open restraints, and breathed out.

“And just… by the time I was 12, Dad made Top 20. And then when I was 13, he was Top 10. …And I think at that point he really, truly didn’t feel like my dad anymore. Because he was just, some God to the world. Someone people fawned over by the millions and, just, that was better, actually. Because I could really just act like he wasn’t my dad, had nothing to do with me. Maybe I was at peace with that. I could do the 20-minute phone calls once a week and be courteous with him and answer questions about school and just, move on…”

Shiki walked the same street every day to school, the same route with the same turns, the same backpack slung over one shoulder. But the scenery changed. New advertisements. New billboards. New screens projecting, dancing, twirling, screening, screaming. Deku brand hand cream. Deku brand baby clothes. Deku brand clutch purses. Headlines with stills of Pro Hero Deku printed on the front page. Upcoming: interview with Pro Hero Deku! Everywhere. Growing like mushrooms. The likeness almost like the one in Shiki’s mirror every morning. The likeness of a man quickly fading from memory, quickly replaced by advertisements and stills over flesh and blood. Shiki felt eyes on him, every day, from people who saw the resemblance. Or maybe not. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe no one was looking at him at all.

The wrist restraints were cold.

“And I started to see Mom less and less, around that time. I was old enough to take care of myself mostly so she, she took up patrolling again. Started rising the ranks quickly too… Mostly because the tabloids loved her, and circulated her name as much as they could, as the ex-wife of Deku… They said horrible things that I—still I—even thinking about them just. Vile horrible things about her and Dad, and why Dad left her, and why she left Dad, and ‘Deku fans’ piling on her calling her trash and filth and whore and, insulted her for keeping his last name until, eventually, she did change it back and… I stopped reading those but… that’s how hero work works. Whatever gets your name out there, and gets you recognized, so that your rescues get camera time and screen time and … She at least got to make her own name, once she got recognized. Her own rescue efforts spoke for themselves. Saved over 75 people from the rubble of a collapsed building and, s-she broke top-100 that same year. I wanted to be happy for her. I wanted to… but the house was so empty.”

13 year old Shiki unlocked the front door. He flicked the lights, and they blazed through the pitch blackness beyond the foyer. There was a sterile cleanliness inside, the subtle sting of lemon in the back of his throat. Between his mom’s new notoriety and his dad’s hefty child support, they could afford a personal cleaner now. Twice a week. She must have come. The apartment was spotless.

Shiki turned on the television and rooted through the cabinet and emerged with a box of cereal. He didn’t bother with a bowl. He sat on the couch instead, scrolling his phone with one hand, grabbing fistfuls of cereal with the other. The news mentioned ‘Uravity’ and Shiki turned it up. He listened to the reporters until they spiraled into her failed marriage with Pro Hero Deku, and Shiki listened no further.

He focused on his phone instead, cereal crunching. Most of the forums he followed were Uravity forums. He paused on a particular cross-posting, shared by someone irate over the click-bait bottom-feeding publications that drew readership with manufactured drama. Shiki read the headline. ~”‘She took our son!’ Pro Hero Deku sobs in a raw tell-all about the woman who broke his heart and tore apart his family to launch her own career.”~

There was a boy pictured in the article. The boy wasn’t even Shiki.

“I was 13 still, and we were moving from the apartment into a nice house, because Mom’s salary and Dad’s child support were now more than enough for a proper place. A nice place. And I did most of the house cleaning and packing myself since Mom was now so so busy… And I found, in the attic, my old box of toys, the gravity ball toys the—the ones where—me and Mom used to bop them back and forth and I… think I just… I threw them away. And the old newspaper clippings I kept about Dad. Threw them all away. Never made it to the new house. I hated them. I hated them.”

Shiki pressed his back against the attic wall, suddenly short of breath, static suddenly in his legs and rippling down his spine. He slid down, slowly, streaking the layer of dust along the wall, just like his hands had streaked away the dust on the boxes, gray lint filling the ridges on his finger tips. He stared at the layer of yellowed newsprint, the top article boasting ~”No Longer Just A Side-Kick? ‘Deku’ Makes His Agency Debut!”~

It filled him with revulsion, with a choking hurt in the ways that modern news headlines didn’t. He had forgotten the feeling associated with these old headlines. That old forgotten excitement of knowing that news outlets had come to acknowledge his dad’s existence.

Not his dad anymore. Not his. Izuku Midoriya lived in newsprint now. The media owned him, had stolen him slowly. A superhuman. A god. Not a husband. Not a father. Not Shiki’s.

“He called on the phone once a week. Just once a week, to talk about nothing. Until I was 14, that is. Once I turned 14, suddenly Dad was eager to be on the phone with me. And he’d act like he was interested in talking to me about normal stuff, but it always came back to U.A. Always U.A. Asking if I wanted to. Asking if I’d thought about it. Asking if I had any questions that he or Mom could answer about the school.”

Shiki’s voice caught.

“…Still… still makes me angry. And he just didn’t realize. I realized he had no idea. At all. Whatsoever. That what he’d done was… might have been wrong. I realized and it blew my mind. That nothing he did was ever, ever malicious. He was, is, thought he was a good person. Working so hard to save everyone. Absolute strangers. As many, as much, as endlessly eternally as he could. And he… thought I idolized that. That I looked at him and Mom and wanted to… do them proud and follow in their footsteps. And I saw him through… his own eyes I guess… and he was the world’s hero and the next All Might and the rising Symbol of Peace and he didn’t think he’d abandoned me, or Mom, he thought he’d just left us to catch up… I think he talked my mom back into heroing. Because they stayed friends, or ‘friends’, whatever you call two people who get along great so long as they ignore all the hurt between them. And… he… wanted me to enroll in U.A… THAT… was when I finally snapped at him, and we got family counseling.”

Silently, Matsuyama set his pen down, and he slid across the table a box of tissues Shiki had not noticed him take out. And Shiki took one, shocked to pad it against the stream of tears he hadn’t noticed rolling down his cheek. He stole one more glance into the mirror, ashamed of the puffy-eyed and blotchy-cheeked reflection. His dad’s freckles. His mom’s chestnut hair. He was designed piece-meal from them. No part his own. No part himself. The buzzing, overhead. Fly in the jar. Uncaring of gravity. Eternally confined to the jar’s unseeable walls.

“I saw Dad in person, for the first time in 2 years, when we went to that counselor.” Shiki let out a strained laugh. “I had literally… misremembered things about him. I had remembered him being taller but, the media just loved to prop him up at certain angles that made him taller. In street clothes, in person, he almost didn’t look like Pro Hero Deku. …And even smaller, when he cried. Because he did cry, during counseling, like honestly cried. And he apologized. I’d never – I didn’t think I would ever get an apology from him. Or like I couldn’t ask for one, didn’t deserve one, because that would be selfish. But he owned up to it… Dad cared. Dad was sorry. Dad had no idea I was this hurt. Dad thought I idolized heroes too and that he was making me proud. And I thought it would work. I thought we would finally fix this all.”

Pro Hero Deku is not that tall of a man… In a simple white t-shirt and khakis, he’s not imposing at all. His 14 year old son, though much scrawnier in frame, is only an inch or two shorter than him.

Pro Hero Deku is not a cruel man. To the contrary, he cares too much, about all things at all times, about everyone and everything he can save if only it could come within his reach. The family counselor knows this. The counselor is surprised that, of all the world’s burdens Deku carries, it would be his family that slipped through his grasp.

Pro Hero Deku’s arms are gnarled and scarred, endlessly broken and re-broken in his youth from trying too much, and caring too much, and fighting too much for the sake of others. So why do they seem so awkward, so unpracticed, so unused to being wrapped in a hug around his son? Why was this boy the last thing for Pro Hero Deku’s arms to reach?

The counselor asks. The raw hurt of the session starts anew.

“I was finally able to tell him just, how invisible I felt to him. How selfish it made me feel. He listened. He cared. He stopped shilling for U.A. I went into a normal high school, one without a hero track. And the first weekend of the school year, Mom, me, and him went to an aquarium, and dinner at a fancy restaurant, and a play in the evening. I don’t like plays but, I liked that play. A lot.”

Shiki crumpled the used tissue in his hand, and then hid it beneath the table. It was wet and tainted and felt unclean in his hand, but there was no garbage can in sight, and he had nothing else he could do with it.

“And that was when Dad slipped a rank, that next month. From #7 to #8. It shouldn’t have mattered so much but, it did. He’d never fallen rank before… No actually, even worse, he’d never even stayed the same rank from one ranking release to the next. He was always climbing. For almost 20 straight years, always climbing, and this was the first time, the very first time he… Dad didn’t mention it. I didn’t mention it. But in my mind I’ve always blamed this as the like, as the turning point, toward turning back down. In reality I don’t know that for sure. Maybe our whole family was just, always destined to slip back on old habits, right from the start. It’s not like he or Mom ever went back on any promises or anything. But more like… Dad slowly stopped proposing weekend activities, and so did Mom. Until it was just me putting in that effort, and I couldn’t be the cause of him falling rank anymore. I couldn’t be the bad guy.”

Shikinori Midoriya’s blood ran cold. Red. The name, the arrow, downward-pointing, -1. Red. Red where there had only ever been green. “#8” in red, which bore no value and no merit beyond the unsightly embarrassment of being below #7.

There were sharks in the water.

Shiki knew it would be only hours until the most predatory, the most inflammatory think-piece writers pounced. Until hero forums buckled under every single anonymous layperson’s expert opinion on where, and how, and why Deku had stumbled. Was his rescue count down? Was his collateral coefficient up? Were merch sales dropping? Had his new figurine bombed? Had a hostage died? Had he yelled at a reporter? Was it the joint rescue with his money-grubbing ex-wife? His incident resolution was abnormally low two Saturdays back. Why? Where had he been? What was he thinking?

Shiki read the theories. He told himself to stop, but the scroll loaded endlessly. Some fans honed in on that weekend – the aquarium trip – fascinated by the dip in resolved incidents, circling like vultures, pecking, tearing, probing. They found an Instagram post from a fan spotting Deku in the crowd of the hammerhead exhibit, and the link got passed around like an electric current.

Had this happened a month ago, a year ago, Shiki might have just watched it unfold disaffected. Shiki’s chest ached now. He hurt for the man his mind had reconciled as his father, for the man who mimicked the guppies and pressed against the glass in the aquatic tunnel, cheeks puffed and scarred hands flapping by his ears. Shiki ached for the genuine laughter from his mother, who still loved this man and his guppy imitation. He ached for the reminder of what his family was, and what it wasn’t, and what it was punished for even trying to be.

“His agency and Mom’s started collaborating a lot. They were good together. Like really good. The two of them together, I saw a new story almost every week. Maybe I was even a little jealous but… it wasn’t something I wanted to be a part of, anyway. So I was fine with that. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t – and don’t – want to be a hero.

“I just kind of… tried to figure myself out as a person, by myself, during high school. I kept a low profile. Joined a math club. Only really talked to a few people most days. Had like, two people I sort of saw as friends. I started going by my mom’s name, Uraraka. Never told people who my parents were. And I think that was for the best, because I was still in school – I was 17 – when Dad claimed the #1 spot. …and I swear I would have had to transfer schools if my classmates knew I was Deku’s kid.”

“Front Page” did not begin to describe the explosion, the eruption, the maelstrom of obsession that gripped an entire nation’s heart and soul when Pro Hero Deku unseated the previous #1. The new report came just days after Deku performed his 10,000th recorded civilian rescue. In honor, dedicated fans had gone and compiled every drop of video coverage that ever graced Deku’s career. It was chronological, starting with grainy film 20 years’ outdated of a still-scrawny U.A. sidekick pulling a man out of rubble, and progressed like a time-lapse from there. A rescue counter sat super-imposed on the bottom-right, documenting the rescues as Deku grew taller, broader, more confident, more practiced, faster and stronger and beaming – always beaming – with a smile to instill hope in an entire nation. The whole montage was two hours in length, and it skyrocketed to the #1 trending.

A half-dozen other videos followed in its wake: a clip of Deku shaking hands with the President who pinned a simple, proper, dignified medal to the front of his costume. A shaking, trembling, sobbing hug with the skeletal and spindly public figure of Toshinori Yagi – previously known as All Might – who teared up along with Deku on stage. Chants of “Symbol”. Chants of “Peace”. Chants, louder than all others, of “Deku”.

Everywhere. Everywhere. Replaying. Tagged. Suggested. Trending. Featured. A kiss with Uravity, tender and subtle and full of passion. A handshake with Shota Aizawa, his first teacher, his long-time peer. Endless interviews with rescued victims. Tear-jerkers. A man named Kota recalling how Deku, at 15, saved him from a certain violent death. A woman named Eri detailing how Deku had taken her in his arms and rescued her from the depths of Hell.

Thousands others followed. Spine-tingling recounts from voices, with breath and warmth and life, who wouldn’t be alive without Deku. They heaped their praises on a man so endlessly driven, forward forward forward, that he could save 10,000 people, and 10,000 more, and everyone, and everything he could touch.

Shiki skipped school the whole next week. Hardly anyone noticed.

“So I got away. Far away. I figured out college all by myself, and got accepted to my top choice 1,000 kilometers away from Tokyo, and it was perfect for me, because maybe then I could figure myself out for a bit, away from everything. Mom asked me to reconsider when I finally saw her in person four days after I’d accepted. She’d been on a sting mission for two straight weeks. They saved fifty people. It earned her her spot as the #15 Hero. My dad had saved twice as many people in that time. Not that I heard it from him. I heard it on the news. I didn’t speak to him again until after I graduated.”

Shiki breathed. “College… was good. It was far away enough that I stopped being afraid of people recognizing me at a glance. I made real friends. I had real relationships. Got to know my professors. Took up tutoring and loved it. I… did things on the weekends, like with friends, went places, saw things, I was happy. Genuinely happy. All these things I never realized I was missing as a kid because I never realized I could have an identity outside of being just… Deku’s reject son. I stopped fearing that and started to be me. I traveled during school breaks. Took some pottery classes. Just… breathed.” Shiki’s hands fidgeted. “At least… until I graduated. And I realized there was a whole cliff I was standing over that I was just avoiding. I didn’t have a job lined up. I tried. For absolute certain. I lost count around the 75 application mark. Nothing. My college friends moved away. My funds were drying up. …I moved back home.”

One duffle bag, slung across his right shoulder, was all Shikinori Midoriya brought home with him. This big house from his teenage years was empty. Endless untouched rooms. Pristine duvets across the beds in all 5 bedrooms, including master. Empty dressers. Empty drawers. Not so much as fingerprints on the front doorknob. Only his mom lived here now, and Shiki fought with the blooming certainty he felt in his gut that she spent almost no time here at all.

Uravity was now the #7 hero. Her merch sales were particularly popular with girls ages 5-12. The money she raked it was enough to put her parents up permanently in a beach house in Hawaii. Money would likely never be a worry for her for as long as she lived. She likely never sold this home because it simply wasn’t worth the hassle.

Shiki set his bag down in his old room, bigger and cleaner and newer and nicer than his college apartment, and so much more a cage than it had ever been before.

Fly in a jar.

“Moving home was… a rough choice. I thought a lot, before that, about just asking Mom and Dad for money. They could definitely afford it. But I couldn’t… be that again, the reject son, some unwanted parasite, pilfering money. I just needed enough stability to get back into the job hunt and get back on my feet. I told Mom that much. I didn’t tell Dad. Didn’t even tell him I’d moved back home but, he found out from Mom. He wanted to see me. Wanted to talk to me. I’d ignored all his calls in college… I decided to bite the bullet and just, go into his office and see him. Let him lay eyes on his failure son. Get it over with. I told him about college, and about my job hunt, and just needing enough time to get back on my feet. And you know what he said?”

Matsuyama glanced up. His pen still trailed. “What did he say?”

“’I could use another accountant at the agency, even a receptionist, if you don’t want to deal with crunching numbers. Given some time and training… I could even use another side kick.’” Shiki looked up, locking eyes with Matsuyama, and blinked away the tears blurring his vision. “Math… was my best subject in school. I want… to be a math teacher. I’ve been sending out a hundred applications for teaching positions. Dad doesn’t know that. Dad… is still living in this world where everything is heroes. And of course he is! He’s lived there his whole life! He never left it! And he’s still waiting for me to join. Waiting for me to change my mind. Like time is the only factor. That world stole my parents and he… and he still thinks that, things can be fine, he can get his way. He thinks, I’ll do what my mom did, and play catch up to him. That I’ll come into my own. That I’ll join him in his hero world. Him and Mom both. That I would want anything to do with heroes. He won’t believe otherwise.”

Shiki struck an open palm against his chest. “Well he’s not getting that. He’s NOT getting this quirk! Not now! Not ever! I’m GETTING RID OF IT. I want to be part of Dr. Himura’s Quirk-Erasure study because, until I’m fully stripped of my Quirk, my Dad and my Mom won’t get it. I know – all those guys out in the waiting room? I know they’re all villains. Probably this whole study is villains, yeah?! They’re all people who’ve been offered reduced sentences if they willingly give up their quirk in this study. Maybe you have a few normal people with dangerous quirks who want to be rid of it but me. My quirk. I stand out, I know, I get it. Because gravity control is cool. And it’s harmless. So why would I want to get rid of it, permanently? This is why. Because everything I’ve spouted off, it, all that probably sounds like some villain-origin-story, yeah?? ‘My hero father never loved me so now he will pay.’ No. No heroes and no villains I’m sick of all of them. This ends here. This ends with me! No more heroes, no more villains. No more POWERS in the Midoriya blood line! This is a non-origin story. This is the origin of me! This is the start of me taking back what heroes took from me!”

Shiki’s breath caught in his throat. He felt the tears wetting his cheeks and knew he had no power to stop them this time, not with the mangled tightness in his chest, not with the hurt bubbling long-repressed to the surface. So he wiped hastily at his eyes, and he stared down at the desk below him.

“I’ve thought this through. I know what I want. I’m not being coerced. I’m of a sound mind and body. I just… want a normal, happy, powerless life. I want to be normal. And I need this final leap, to prove to my family once and for all they can’t have me. I need this control. I need this trump card. I need this final, unchangeable, irreversible option to make them get it. That they can accept me quirkless… or they can not accept me at all.” Shiki lowered himself, and set his eyes to his lap. “Please… Please, I’m begging you.”

Matsuyama let the pen clink to the table. Shiki could not get an accurate count, but at least 40 pages had been flipped over the clipboard’s spiraled top. Matsuyama unfurled these pages, and steadied their alignment, and tucked the board beneath his arm. His chair scraped back with an unholy shriek, and he stood.

“Thank you. We will let you know in due time about your candidacy in the study.”

Matsuyama motioned for the door.

“Wait…” Shiki swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. His ears were ringing slightly. “Can’t you tell me now?”

“The decisions have not been made. How can I tell you now?”

“What about just me then? Y-yes or no?”

“You will be informed in due time.”

“When? How soon?”

Matsuyama motioned again.

“Yes or no? Please. Can you let me be part of this or not?”

“The next patient is coming in, Shiki. See yourself out.”

…

Inko Midoriya’s apartment was small, and it was stayed, and it was comfortable. Her son had offered her time and time again to move her into a nicer place, but she always declined. This apartment was where she’d raised her family. These walls had memories. This was her home.

It felt almost like a memory, just now. Out of the corner of Inko’s eye, seeing the young man with curly hair and green eyes seated at her kitchen table was achingly familiar, the ghost of family dinners with her son.

10 minutes had passed since Inko pulled the rack of cookies from the oven, a warm miasma of buttery sweetness, and laid them out to cool. She grabbed one now, quick touches, experimentally, until the heat didn’t quite burn her fingers, and placed it on a plate. She did the same with a second cookie, and carried them like a server to the table where she took the seat opposite Shiki. He watched her, and accepted the cookie with a quiet ‘thank you’, and merely stared at it. He let the warmth wash across his face.  

“I’m happy to have you back around Tokyo, you know,” Inko said quietly. She looked down at her own cookie, smiling slightly, and picked it up. “Happy to have someone to bake for.”

“I’m happy to see you too, Grandma. It’s been a while.” Shiki bit into his cookie. It was warm, and soft, and achingly comforting. Shiki wasn’t used to the taste of homecooked anything. It squeezed something in his ribcage, made him hurt in a gentle way. “It’s delicious,” he whispered, and raised the heel of his palm to wipe the wetness there.

“You can… you know you can stay with me, Shiki. I’d be happy. I want you to. I know it’s not as big a place as Ochaco’s home, but, Izuku’s old room is still here. There’s still… You could still…”

Shiki shook his head. “If I stay with you, it’ll be so much harder to leave. I’m still job hunting. No guarantees I’ll end up anywhere near here.”

The silence spread between them. The warmth of Shiki’s cookie wafted away, sapping off, like steam curling from a lake.

“…You don’t want to end up living around here, do you, Shiki?”

“Not if I can help it,” Shiki answered.

Inko turned in her chair, and motioned her hand toward the rest of the cookies cooling on the rack. Quirk activated, she pulled them each closer, and let them each fall onto the empty plate that sat between her and Shiki. Still gooey, they seemed to melt into each other, taking form of those beneath them. Inko nudged the plate closer to Shiki, encouraging him to take another.

He did. He bit the cookie. Warm.

“…I’m sorry, Shiki, about the study. I know you had your heart set on it.”

Shiki shrugged. “Matsuyama said there weren’t enough slots. He said he needed to prioritize better candidates. People who would really benefit from losing their quirk.”

Silence, again.

“It wouldn’t have changed things, you know. If it makes you feel any better, Shiki. You having a quirk was never the problem."

Shiki paused mid-bite. The lump in his throat made it too hard to swallow.

“How do you deal with it, Grandma? You’ve been dealing with it so much longer, right? Because I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

Inko gave him a small smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. “You’re right, but… I don’t think I have a good answer for you, Shiki. It’s lonely here. I miss him. I’m afraid for him. But maybe I’m just, maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. It’s been like this ever since he enrolled in U.A. Since he was little. It was what made him happy. I’m his mother, and I’m supposed to set aside my own feelings for my child.” Inko nudged the cookies toward Shiki again. “But you, that burden should never have been on you. Especially not as a child. I’m sorry, Shiki, I’m so sorry.”

“So he’s… always been like this, is what you’re saying, yeah? It wasn’t—it’s not just me he doesn’t want—”

“No. Not you. Definitely not you, Shiki,” Inko insisted. “It’s who he is. Who he’s always been. …Who he’ll always be, I think. Even when he was 3 or 4 years old, so small he fit in my lap… He’s… so incredibly kind, and so incredibly driven, and it’s a combination that breaks a mother’s heart. Because it meant he was always sacrificing himself for others in danger. Doing what All Might would do. But All Might doesn’t have a family; he doesn’t have children. I wonder, sometimes, who All Might left behind, to become who he was. If that’s who we are.”

Shiki put his cookie down. His hands curled in, and he looked at them, ridged fingertips, ridged palms, obligated to use them heroically or not at all. Marks he never asked for.

“But why did he have to be All Might? Why him? Why us? Ice Razer and Creati have a daughter. They dote on her. They love her so much it’s embarrassing. I’ve met her, once, at a reunion thing that Mom and Dad had. And I was angry at her. How much she smiled. How you can just see how proud Ice Razer is, in his eyes, every time he looks at her. Ice Razer was on track to be the #1 hero, ahead of Dad, and he’s said publicly that he no longer cares about his ranking if it means being there for his family, because his dad never was. Dad didn’t… Dad never… He was putting in 120 hour weeks, at the time Ice Razer’s daughter was born, when I was sitting home waiting up for him, because old news headlines estimated that All Might put in 119 hour weeks in his prime, and Dad had to be that. Ice Razer visits his mother! When was the last time Dad came to see you, Grandma?”

Inko Midoriya responded with only a sad smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Ground Zero and Red Riot. Their adopted son, I’ve met him too. You wouldn’t think Ground Zero of all people would be any kind of good father but… he is… apparently… And that’s… fuck, you know what? That’s all I want to be. A good dad. That’s all! I want to teach math, and I want to fall in love with a girl, and marry her, and I want to be there. Just be there. For my kid. I want to spend every weekend with my family. I want to be around for every dinner. I want to help with homework. And I want no one – no villains and no heroes – to ever know my name. Is that too much, Grandma? Is it selfish of me to want that… and to want Mom and Dad to still love me too?”

Shiki’s voice cracked. He hadn’t meant for it to. He hadn’t meant for his composure to slip, or for those final words to come out. He hadn’t meant to open up that hollow ache in his chest, where that fear sat deep and rotten.

His next words were wet. “Is it too selfish of me to just want them to be proud of me?”

“Oh, oh Shiki…” Inko shoved her chair back. Hands extended, she rounded the table, and she wrapped her arms around Shiki. Kind hands, kind like Shiki was not used to. His vision blurred, and he pulled a hand up to wrap around Inko’s arm, and he leaned into her.

“I told him, Grandma…” he muttered, voice still wet. “…I told Dad that I got accepted to Matsuyama’s study. I told him I already went through with it.”

“What?”

Shiki shook his head. “I know it was wrong. I just… I hoped. I don’t know. I just wanted him, maybe, for once… I don’t know…”

“What did he say?”

Shiki shrugged, his movement muted under Inko’s hug. “I don’t know. I hung up. I just hung up.”

…

The beach air was cold, and it was briny. Wind curled off the lapping waves, spritzing All Might’s face with a spray of ocean water that was not wholly unpleasant. It reminded him of a time long-since passed.

The sound of footsteps met his ears. He did not turn, not immediately. All Might breathed in the ocean air a little longer.

“How… how have you been?” The voice – the man beside him – asked.

“Oh, you know. Same old same old. I’ve got this pesky ache in my knee that’s catching up to me. Recovery Girl recommends I start doing some swimming exercises. I’ve been considering it. It might suit these old bones.”

“Oh! I know a few gyms nearby with pool facilities. I-I can get you into them, you know, for free. I’m sure I could—”

All Might held a hand up. “What, do you think I don’t still have connections of my own, Young Midoriya?”

“S-sorry.”

All Might turned properly now, catching sight of Izuku Midoriya, a man so accomplished in the public eye looking familiarly helpless at his side. This beach held memories. Izuku was hardly recognizable from the first day All Might had brought him here for training, and in other ways, he looked exactly the same.

“You called me here to talk about Shikinori, right?” All Might continued. He stared back out at the sea, dark and getting darker. The sun has set 10 minutes prior. “You said he lost his quirk.”

Izuku remained quiet.

“He… had it taken away. He chose to do it, he said.”

“Why?”

Again, silence settled between them. All Might looked back, scanning Izuku’s face, taking in a look mangled with confusion and concern, unsettled and helpless. Not the beaming face on television. Not the endless smile to instill fear in the hearts of villains.

“…I think it was because of me,” Izuku finally answered.

Waves, lapping to shore. All Might found himself watching them again. “A quirkless life is not so bad. These past 30 years have been peaceful for me.”

Static settled in the air around them. Rolling ocean. Gentle wind.

All Might let out a small sigh. “What advice are you looking for, from me, Young Midoriya?”

“I… need to know if this is okay with you. If my plan is okay with you,” Izuku answered.

“As your concerned mentor, I’ve found I don’t like most of your plans,” All Might answered. “What is your plan?”

“Shikinori lost his quirk because of me… I wasn’t there for him. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a good father to him, I think. I was waiting for him to come to me but. I messed up. I need to go to him now. I can think of only one way I have to make it up to him.” Izuku looked up. Conflict pulled at his pained expression, and his fist curled. “Maybe, if I give him One for All, I can fix this.”

Another spritz of ocean spray hit the shore. All Might could feel the salt crystalizing on his face.

“I was right. I don’t like your plan.” All Might turned, and took a step toward Izuku, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “No. That’s my answer. No, I do not approve.”

Izuku seemed to buckle, just a little. He curled one hand in and rested it on All Might’s, still on his shoulder. The shadows of nightfall hid his eyes, but not his mouth, pained and strained at the corners. “Then what can I do to fix this?”

“Why do you think that giving Shikinori One for All would fix this in the first place? Do you really believe that his quirk is the root of the problem? Do you?”

Izuku’s hand trailed down. He shook his head, slowly. The words that came out were pained. “Ochaco and I… are back together again. We’re making this work. We’re… we’re putting the pieces of our family back together. We just need Shikinori. I just want him back with us…”

“…I told you this 20 years ago, Young Midoriya, and I’ll tell you it again. And it will hurt worse now to hear it, because you didn’t follow my advice the first time--”

“I thought I could do both.”

“—You cannot be the Symbol of Peace and have a family. There aren’t enough hours in a lifetime. …I left people behind—”

“I know.”

“—people I cared about. People who cared about me. I hurt them, and I knew I hurt them—”

“I know.”

“And that was my choice. I made that decision. Because protecting the peace of the whole world… that was more important to me than the people I hurt. I carry the burden of that decision every day. …I told you, 20 years ago, that you had to make that decision too.”

“I know, I just thought maybe, with both Ochaco and me—”

“And you did. You did make that decision. You’re the Symbol of Peace, and I’m proud of you for that, …and you’ll have to carry that same burden, too, of that decision you made.”

Izuku’s hand was curled around All Might’s sleeve now. He was smaller now than the man who first arrived at the beach, and so, so much smaller than the Symbol of Peace lauded in headlines across the nation. His shoulders trembled. Tears dripped down the curvature of his nose, lost to the briny sand below.

All Might continued. “This is one piece of advice I can give you… Stop saddling Shiki with that same burden… Don’t give him that weight to bear. Don’t trap him in the world of heroes. Let him go.”

Izuku pulled in a shuddering breath, and he steadied his shoulders.

“…I failed him, didn’t I, All Might…?”

Another lap of waves at the shore, forging eternally onward. There was an ache in All Might’s knees, a rattle to his old bones, a pain that never ceased throbbing in his side. He wondered how long ago it had been, exactly, since he first made this decision himself. How many pulls of the tide since he last saw his mother. How many moons since the earth had reclaimed her. How many breaths of wind had passed since the very last time she thought of him.

He wondered, not for the first time, if it had been selfish of him to trade her, and everyone else away for the protection of all the people he’d never known or loved.

All Might reached down, and he pulled Izuku into a hug. Come daylight, Izuku would have to smile again, on every television and every billboard and every broadcast and every rescue. For now, All Might figured, it was fine to let him cry.

“…Yes. I’m sorry. I’m to blame for this too. I pulled you down this path. But… yes. You failed him.”

All Might ran a hand over Izuku’s hair as his cries grew louder. All Might wondered if Izuku had ever held Shiki like this. He wouldn’t know. All Might wasn’t a father. All Might had no son. Whether that was selfish or selfless, he still did not know.

The wind picked up to a howl, and it swept into shore, and it drowned Izuku’s cries beneath it.

By tomorrow, Izuku would be smiling on the news.

By tomorrow, Shiki would be on a train to an interview far north in Akita.

By tomorrow, Inko would be alone again.

[wisteria-underground]

Ok, so. Inuyasha is not my favorite Rumiko Takahashi long-work, but I can now unreservedly say that it is, to date, her best. Despite a lag in pacing in the middle, it is a stunningly tight series whose central thesis is repeatedly demonstrated and sustained throughout the whole length of the story before it is ever stated at the series climax. 

The message is familiar, yet given depth and profundity because of how it is expressed through all the major characters: that a true end to suffering and strife happens only when one acts selflessly. And “selfless” here doesn’t (always) mean self-sacrifice or being a martyr; it means, simply, when faced with a choice between self-interest or acting for the good of someone or something else, whether you choose the self or the else determines your fate. 

And that is the true tragedy of Inuyasha and Kikyo’s love story. It is revealed so sadly and so gently that I missed it the first time around. The tragedy is not that they were driven apart by Naraku, or that they are separated by circumstance and death, or that Inuyasha couldn’t save Kikyo a second time. It is that in deciding to use the Shikon no Tama to create a life together, they doomed themselves. It was never going to end well; Kikyo fundamentally misunderstood the nature of the jewel. The Shikon no Tama does not grant your real wish; it is not that it can be either pure or corrupt, but that its essence is the turmoil of the pure and the corrupt battling, and it does not disappear on the strength of a “good” wish. Even if a wish is a “good” wish made by a good person and seemingly hurts no one, if it is made out of self-interest then the soul will be consigned to torment within the jewel. 

That is what Inuyasha’s intended wish to be human is. It’s not even his wish; Kikyo suggests it to him, as a means to a mutually beneficial end. He’s willing to give up being a youkai to spend his life peacefully with Kikyo, and she wants to lay down the responsibility of being the Shikon no Tama’s keeper (and, I suspect, the burden of being a ‘perfect’ miko to her community). In this sense, it is the sort of wish that the Shikon no Tama craves. The wish is romantic, it is borne of good intentions, and it hurts no one. But it is still a self-interested wish. Either Inuyasha or Kikyo, or both of them, would have doomed their souls, and the jewel’s cycle of violence would continued. 

It is in this way that Kagome is not just Kikyo’s reincarnation. She’s not an imitation or a version of Kikyo. She doesn’t use any spiritual power to understand the nature of the Shikon no Tama. She understands because of the kind of person she herself is: someone who is selfless, who, though afraid, confronts the darkness in herself and seeks to understand others. On the cusp of killing Naraku, she is trying to work out his psyche, and the very act of understanding is, I think, its own form of empathy. 

The legend about the Shikon no Tama does not stipulate that there is anyone fated to destroy it. It states, simply, that the last person to hold it will make the right wish. It could be anyone who understands what the right wish is. It could very well have been Kikyo. But it is Kagome because, of all the characters, she time and again has resisted despair - Naraku’s greatest and most potent lure - and chosen to rise above her own self’s desires in her actions. Only Kagome could have chosen, at the end, to turn away from the self altogether, to not only negate the Shikon no Tama but give her own soul up to the unknown. Takahashi doesn’t have her say that Inuyasha will save her. Only that because he is there, she is not afraid. 

Finally, Inuyasha’s premise is not a prescription for how people should act. It is both simply and profoundly a treatise on human nature and what causes and quells strife. I think Inuyasha suggests that conflict is part of being alive. But a central theme of the series is also the transformative power of social bonds. People do fail to overcome external and internal darkness. Not everyone has what it takes to defeat the ultimate evil. But everyone, through the wisdom and strength of forming bonds with others, can choose to act compassionately, to choose others over themselves, however large or small the act itself is, however high or low the stakes are. Inuyasha makes the argument that we can all make the right wish sometimes, and that is the key to our collective salvation. 

[hidetothink]

Thanks for articulating your issues with “affirming” Christians. I grew up secular but my few encounters with them have been overbearing to say the least. “The Jesus I pray to is full of love and empathy” ok but can we please acknowledge that the main historical source of homophobia is from every organized religion in order to support patriarchy? As a white person I understand not wanting to be lumped in with people you do NOT share values with but ultimately that is for us to prove thru action

“That’s not MY God”

“Not MY Christianity”

Okay...but it was your Christianity. It IS your Christianity. You can’t just separate the longstanding theology of the Church from some “pure” and “true” gospel that’s less misogynistic or homophobic. I genuinely believe one can be a gay Christian without being hypocritical. However, Christians and Christianity have played a major role in instituting and normalizing homophobia across the planet. You don’t get to sidestep that guilt attempting to defend your religious community

Take responsibility. Feel the guilt. For a religion supposedly built on the virtue of repentance, “woke” Christians can love shifting the blame or pretending there isn’t any at all...

You don’t heal a stab-wound by ignoring it. One’s decision to affirm same-sex love does not negate thousands of years of homophobic violence in the name of Christ

[allison-m]

To The Fellow BIPOC Community (yes you, my beautiful Middle Easterners, Blacks, Hispanics, Latinos, Indigenous People and All Others That Get Pushed To the Back and Told to Wait Your Turn), From your Asian Ally

--

I love you. I really do. In light of the horrific Atlanta shootings, a unity has long been called for. This week there was a senseless, violent act where a white man thought he could clear his conscious by murdering 8 people-6 of whom are Asian descent for his sexual addiction. It is so easy for the police and media to cover the man with being at his wit’s end and having no other choice-blatant sympathy and empathy for a murderer.

People of color in America struggle to understand each other’s unique perspectives and at times, can refrain from publicly standing in each other’s corners. This is no different. Since the onset of COVID-19, the racism, violence, and hate towards Asian Americans increased dramatically and it has been an ordeal to even get the public to recognize this. Media coverage is not coverage enough. Why does it have to take many deaths to make front page news when an entire population is hurting from the hate?

What breaks my heart even more are social media comments from BIPOC saying how Asians don’t deserve support, they don’t deserve our help, it’s not our fight type of thing. I get it. Some Asians can be racist- but this doesn’t negate the genuine, good intentions, of the majority of the entire population. Hell, they’re racist towards me because I am Southeast Asian and not East Asian. But you may ask where were we during and ongoing of the BLM? We are right here. I am right here. I have educated myself on the impact BLM carries for Black Americans and donated to various causes and communities. I have carried the BIPOC advocacy through my coursework of high regard in my doctoral program. I have dedicated years of my life educating through blood, sweat, and tears as a former teacher and principal of black and brown children whom I love so much and miss every single day. I have brought animal organs to science class for my students to stir up a love for STEM to become future scientists and physicians because I know how severely underrepresented they are. I recognized that that wasn’t enough because the problem is far greater and deeper than that. I knew that so I left my job to pursue my doctorate in public health so I can have the platform to make these systemic changes. I am dedicating my life to equity on all fronts, especially with the BIPOC community.

So it’s a slap in the face when I read comments of how, I, an Asian American woman, do not deserve support and solidarity after a horrendous shooting leaving six Asian American women-who look like me, my sister, and my mom-dead. The fear, anxiety, and overwhelming sadness has reached a new severe threshold and I know I am not the only one hurting. We must unite. White supremacy has been going on for far too long and must be dismantled. Division between our groups hurts all of our causes collectively. Like in public health, there is always greater strength in collaboration.

Do not let the racists win. Stop trolling. Stop typing out hateful comments. Stop limiting yourself from empathy, understanding, and kindness.

Instead, be willing to move forward. Lend a hand, an ear, or for starters, a simple like or share of a supportive AAPI post. It means so much more to us than you will ever know.

I am telling you I am here for you. The AAPI community is here for you. Please believe that.

Can you all be there for us?

-

*Special thanks for much love and input from: AKS, CS, AT, MM, and NB*

[aspoonofsugar]

I don't understand why everyone is shitting on Eren , Okay his plan is definitely crazy but i really feel like there is more to it than meets the eye ,And even if his plan does kill innocent people I don't think it's that bad, Those people would've lived their entire lives as slaves and in injustice So killing them in a way is freeing them , Also Eren doesn't seem like he expects to live after all the cruelty he s going to commit. What do you think ?

Hello anon!

I do not hate Eren and I am actually full of feelings for him after this chapter, but I do think that he is wrong and that the manga is making it very clear in how it frames the whole situation.

First of all, there is the very basic argument that you can not really justify genocide and that defending a character who is basically going to commit one can be very triggering to people as @hamliet explains here (the post also has a link to another post by @momtaku which can be useful).

Secondly, I think that the way the story is currently being told really frames Eren as an antagonist.

Let’s begin with the fact that he has stopped being a POV character hence we are given very little access to his interiority, while we are given a lot of insights in how other characters feel about him and the whole situation. We know how Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Connie, Hange, Levi and Zeke feel and we also know how Reiner, Gabi and Falco feel and why they are doing what they are doing. In short, both sides are given a lot of space, but Eren’s interiority is not explored at all. He has been the character moving the plot the most recently, but his POV has yet to be seen. This in itself makes him a less sympathetic character, not because it is inherently impossible to sympathize with him (by the way sympathizing or feeling for a character is different from excusing or justifying his actions), but simply because the narration doesn’t give us the chance to do so. We as readers are meant to empathize with the other characters and to wonder together with them what happened to Eren and why he is doing what he is doing.

In a sense, the way Eren is currently framed in relation to others reminds me of how Johan is framed in Monster. Both Monster and Snk are stories which explore the idea of what is a monster and why monsters are born. The point of Johan is to be for the other characters a mystery they have to solve and in order to solve it their empathy is challenged because every easy answer is promptly discarded. When it comes to why Johan became who he is there are not reassuring answers and explanations people can use. I think that Isayama is doing something similar with Eren with the twist that Johan is presented as a negative character since the beginning, while Eren is introduced as the protagonist and so seeing him turned into one of the monsters he despised in the beginning is even more heartbreaking.

Apart from this, the reason why I think Eren is the final antagonist is simply that by this point all the other characters having a conflict with him is what makes the most sense for the plot and which could make the whole cast shine. The SC have literally no one else left to fight because the way Eren currently is he can annihilate all the enemies of Paradis on his own. Why should we have a final conflict where we basically have the Warriors and Marley as the underdogs (and they are going to be the underdogs because they are going to be the major POV characters since we are not given Eren’s POV) while all the members of our original cast are simply there watching what happens? Sure, they can have some conflict with Zeke and Yelena, but let’s be real the stakes would be nothing compared to the Warriors fighting Eren to save the world and I do not even know why Yelena and Zeke should fight them by this point. In short, a final battle where the whole cast is involved and which has the final goal to stop Eren seems like the most plausible solution for me. As usual, I am ready to be surprised and I do think that some minor conflicts will arise (for example conflicts with the Jeagersists, Floch and Yelena), but I also think that everyone will take part in the major one involving Eren.

As far as your second point goes i.e. Eren’s plan being more than just the destruction of the world, I think that there are still two POVs which could give us additional information and they are Historia’s and Eren’s. Up until the moment we are given them, everyone can still be hopeful there is something we are ignoring. That said, the only revelation which could partially change things and which comes to my mind is that Eren is playing the part of the villain, so that everyone can unite to bring him down and that he is acting this way because he has seen Armin, Mikasa or someone else stopping him. This could also explain why he has been pushing Armin and Mikasa away. However, even if that were the case, I would say that, without anything more, Eren would have still gone at it in the worst way possible. Why couldn’t he simply be honest with at least his closer friends? If he is playing the villain, why couldn’t he let Armin and Mikasa know? In the best case scenario they might have been able to avert such a future and in the worst case scenario they could have still helped him in his plan in a more efficient way. A lot of victims could have been avoided if at least a small group of the SC had known of Eren’s plan. They could have let him and Zeke touch each other immediately for example and in this way Zeke would not have transformed all those people in titans and Levi would not have been wounded. Mikasa, Armin and the rest of the 104th would not have felt betrayed and they could have acted without having to process a lot of contradicting emotions.

Finally, I strongly disagree with your last point.

By your reasoning, then why shouldn’t they have gone with Zeke’s plan? Zeke’s plan would have ensured the deaths of all the Eldians and (if death=freedom) it would have freed all of them. What is more, this freedom would have come after easy and peaceful lives and not in a violent way like in Eren’s plan.

Or even better, why should Marley’s solution to kill all the Eldians be so wrong? Aren’t the Eldians living as slaves and in an unjust world? Then why should it be wrong to “free” them from this world?

The point is obviously that taking someone else’s life away against the person’s will is something which negates freedom. People are free because they are born into this world and they can make their own choices.

It is true that the manga has presented some characters’ deaths (Erwin’s and Kenny’s to be precise) as the characters finding freedom, but they are a minority. Most of the deaths we are shown are cruel and painful. Marlow regretted joining the SC just before dying, Sasha died wishing to eat her favourite food, Bertholdt screamed for help. What is more, we have characters like Mikasa or Historia whose arc is about living despite it all. They have both shone when they refused to give up on their lives.

Let me also highlight that Eren himself does not think of what he is about to do as he himself freeing the world. The last chapter makes it very clear:

He remembers that it was violence what took his freedom away to begin with and he is planning to use that same violence against people (like the kid and his family) whose freedom has already been compromised by another war.

Eren knows that what he is about to do is something terrible. He knows that he is no different from Marley or from Reiner, but he has still chosen to keep going.

These are my current thoughts on Eren. As usual, I am open to be surprised in a positive way and as stated above it is true that we are still missing some key POV, but as for now this is what I think.

Thank you for the ask!

[wec0nfus3d]

Part 2: Tik Tok, Gen Z and the world

Hi to the person reading this!

This is part 2 of Tik Tok, Gen Z and the world. Enjoy!!!

What does this have to do with Gen Z and why do I think “what is wrong with people?” Great questions! First, Gen Z prides itself on being one the most tolerant generations thus far. We consider ourselves accepting, understanding, and empathetic. However, this is not always the case. I want to stray from making generalizations but these are patterns I've noticed around me and within my own thinking/beliefs. Whether this be leaving fairy comments on someones post, genuine hate comments, or devaluing someone based off of prescribed ideals, Gen Z negates what it stands for. We understand the shame and danger of cyber-bullying in any form, but when it comes to making a funny joke or proving a point, it’s suddenly okay. It’s okay to leave thousands upon thousands of negative comments on someones page because they called someone else out or did things a little differently. I myself have made allowances towards being hateful. I distinctly remember liking fairy comments under a post that didn’t even affect me. And I passed it off as a joke, but if it were in person, I would be a bystander, and I would be just as guilty as the person perpetuating the bullying.

Furthermore, as “one of the most tolerant generations” we have trouble allowing people to be human and make mistakes. This women may have snapped back at you, but that does not mean that you can’t be the bigger person. You have no idea what this person is going through just as they have no idea for you. Where is the compassion or empathy. Before sending out what you think is a fantastic comeback, why can’t you stop and reflect on how your words or actions might harm others. When Sharon was making her video, she was allowing mean spirited individuals a pass to hate on someone else. While you may have put a comment saying you don’t condone violence and you con’t control people who take it too far, you should’ve been able to use your better judgement to decide “maybe this isn’t the best way to handle something like this”. It’s a bad example to react negatively, especially when there are kids on this app. 

Overall, this brings me to the world. We are in such a devise and politically charged climate right now. There is so much going on around us and we all need positivity. Why can’t we move with peace and love, that everyone loves to mention but never actually means? Instead of seeing negative posts on my fyp, I want to see positive ones. I want to see posts in which you are bettering the world and your community. When you begin to enter adulthood, you are forced with the task of knowing what you want as well as figuring out how you’ll improve the lives of those around you. You want to be able to look back later in life and reflect on the things you’ve contributed to society. We should be challenging ourselves to be better and to stop allowing negativity cloud our judgement. Stop hating on others and love yourself.

Thanks for reading!!!

<333 Katya

[janiedean]

Hi. I haven’t read the books, but I’ve seen a lot of animosity between book!arya fans and Book!sansa fans. Arya’s fans claim that Sansa’s fans demonise Arya to make Sansa seem more moral, but that Sansa actually symbolises everything wrong with high borns (she’s shallow, doesn’t care about small folk, actually bullied Arya, etc). I was wondering what Sansa is actually like in the books? I know the books take place over a shorter period of time, so how much has she changed by the end of ADWD?

premise: I think that’s a discourse that has not much sense existing and that it’s born out of show-related bad readings/show-only stans being... what they are, but:

book!sansa is nowhere near the same as show!sansa and I wish I could find that post with receipts on it but basically she never went to winterell, she never had the QUEEN IN THE NOOORTHHH storyline, she didn’t go around telling theon anything (it’s her friend jeyne poole in her place in the books) and her journey has gone from ‘I’m a shallow 11yo girl same as all shallow 11yo girls are but I’m a good person deep down’ to ‘I suffered a lot because of the circumstances I was thrown in and now I’m in a pretty damn delicate position that challenges my morals but I stayed kind and empathetic and hopeful in spite of all the crap I got thrown at’ for now, and she’s... still courteous and kind and empathetic towards most people she meets, which is not how it went in the show;

also, there’s no way book!sansa goes the way show!sansa did;

that said: the point with book!sansa is that she changes. like, in the beginning of the books she’s more or less like in the show and okay sure she’s pretty shallow and only thinks about boys and getting married and shit, but... that’s like, regular 11 yo. everyone was insufferable at 11yo. and you can see through book one (esp. with her interactions with sandor) that she has a lot of empathy and is an extremely kind person, and she overcomes most of those damned issues throughout the books - she doesn’t care for the smallfolk in the beginning but later when she poses as lf’s bastard daughter she gets a taste of it and that’s after being abused to hell and back in king’s landing, etc. like, there’s an evolution of character there;

that doesn’t mean that she and arya didn’t have a difficult relationship in which they think they hate each other and in which arya feels like sansa hates her and wouldn’t want her (at some point in acok she thinks she’s only sure JON would want her if she showed up which... says all tbqh), and like sansa did call her names and arya did suffer from it greatly/it hurt her self-esteem a lot, but I mean that’s unfortunate regular sibling rivalry and when you read their povs it’s obvious they do love each other deep down as siblings and that if they reunited they’d only be overjoyed of it especially after a lot of time apart;

but I can’t fault a lot of arya stans on this site because there’s... hm... let’s say a certain tendency coming from some prominent sansa stans/the show!sansa stans side of fandom of a) demonizing arya and painting her as a cold hearted heartless killing machine, b) negating that she has love interests (I mean before S8 people legit shipped sansa and gendry and like...no judging but come on that’s arya’s love interest, sansa/gendry is crackship level and that’s it), c) taking all her good qualities and giving them to sansa at random when sansa doesn’t have them or didn’t have them in book canon or developed them later, d) painting sansa as 100% not criticizable and conceiving arya as basically her bodyguard, which... is... yikes.

like: the point is that people don’t... get that the point of those two is that they love each other for how different they are and for how specular they are (I mean... what did ned tell them, you two are like the sun and the moon but you need each other?? XD) and the point is also that grrm is exploring two opposite way of dealing with trauma same as he does with jaime and tyrion - specifically what I mean is that jaime and tyrion are on opposite scales because jaime doesn’t even know he fucking has 80% of his trauma and deals with it by selectively removing memories/dissociating/not wanting to deal with it, tyrion keeps on thinking about it all the time and dissects it instead, right? well, sansa and arya are both about being taken forcibly from their family and being thrown on their own having to deal with it - sansa deals by keeping on being kind (BOOK VERSION) and quietly watching and learning how to play the game at the best of her skills, arya has the child soldier trauma thing going on in which she reacts with violence to violence and risks losing her sense of self, but that’s like.... two shitty situation explored in opposites and they’re meant to be foils. not to hate each other. because the point is that they have to overcome it and find their way back to each other if you ask me. *shrug* 

[aseahorsesinsight]

6/4/2020

As before, I have decided not to message this person again, though if this letter comes out right maybe I will DM it to them. 

I read your post. I understand your frustration. So let me explain my frustration. 

In times like now, people have several options including: speak out on police brutality, stay silent, post videos of good cops, etc. I deleted my last Facebook because I started too many “conversations’ trying to defend my humanity with white people. So understand why I don’t look for conversation. It is exhausting having to defend your humanity. It’s dehumanizing. It sucks everything out of you. You research and you type, diligently explaining your point and sending resources so they can understand. And they meet you with #alllivesmatter and one anecdotal story that they think disproves your entire point. So you research and type again, pleading with them to see your humanity...it never comes. 

I’m done. I’m done begging for (white) people to see my humanity.

In your original post you chose to say a few passive words about what happened to George Floyd was wrong, but the main message of the post was about how good cops matter. That your husband was a good first responder, that you cherish his life and service, and you hate see people call for the injury/death of first responders because of George Floyd. You hoped that in putting a face to people’s hatred you can change their mind and see that there are good cops, and good firefighters, and good medics, and good first responders out there. The issue I have with this statement you think you boldly posted, is that you never address the actual issue directly. 

You did not directly address that George Floyd was murdered. He was murdered because of the possibility that paid with a counterfeit bill. He was murdered while other “good cops” watched and let it happen. It took DAYS of protests to get the cop charged with murder, a murder that happened on FILM. It took an additional WEEK to charge the other men that were complicit in his murder. With your post, you rushed to defend your EMS husband and the violence against first responders, but didn’t talk about the original loss of life that started all of this. You reached to say all lives matter, but you barely gave your respects to George Floyd. If you truly believed that all lives matter, you should be the FIRST to agree that Black lives matter. If your truly agreed that all lives matter, you would be able to see the injustice the Black community faces and would use your platform to explicitly denounce it. 

Do you realize that if the cop that murdered George Floyd was immediately removed from duty without pay and had charges brought against him, we would be no where near the current situation? Do you know that if the police force immediately suspended the 3 additional cops that allowed George to be murdered, and brought charges against them, we would not have the destruction we have now? If other police units, when the news of Floyd broke, immediately released statements condemning the officer’s behavior and BACKED-UP that statement with immediately firing and bringing charges against  future officers who kill unarmed civilians, we would not be in this position. Police have arrested THOUSNADS of civilians in order to protect 4 corrupt cops. If we look at additional Black lives matter protests, TENS OF THOUSANDS of protestors have been arrested in order to protect cops that think murder is an okay course of action against people. And while Black lives matter chooses to highlight Black lives lost at the hands of police, bringing charges against cops who kill unarmed civilians would reduce ALL lives killed by cops, not just Black ones. So yes, Black lives matter focuses on Black lives but through this movement, all civilian lives benefit. 

The movement behind George Floyd was never just to arrest the 4 officers. The bigger issue has always been about ending police violence. I’ve known about this movement for about 6 or so years and the underlying message has always been “we must value Black lives by holding their murderers accountable”. This has mainly focused on police brutality since they are paid to protect and serve the community, but it extends to others as well. Why is it that Dylan Roof can murder 9 people in cold blood and he is arrested alive and treated to Burger King, but I am at risk of being shot because I want to buy a BB gun at Wal-mart? Why did the police wait 3 months to charge the men who murdered Ahmed Arbery, but I risk be shot on site for holding a cellphone in my back yard. White men shoot up schools and are labeled mentally ill (even given compassion) but there was no compassion for Tamir Rice who was shot within 2 seconds of the police arriving just because he was holding a toy gun. Breonna Taylor was shot while in her own home by police, yet those officers are not only still working BUT FILED CHARGES AGAINST HER PARTNER who fired once at the officers. If you walk into someone’s house in the dead of night, wearing regular clothes, and don’t identify yourselves as police officers, how the fuck are we to know you are officers? How can we blame them for protecting their home and loved ones? Isn’t this why the NRA promotes owning guns; to protect yourself, your family, and your property? Why are they so silent? And to make matters worse, that search never should have happened; THE SUSPECT THEY WERE LOOOKING FOR WAS ALREADY IN CUSTODY. Their negligence killed someone yet they face no repercussions. 

But you expect me to “have a conversation” about this when you have not used  your eyes and read these stories for yourself. You expect me to meet you halfway on an issue that is literally about not murdering people. You expect me to have compassion for you and your husband, yet you haven’t shown an ounce for black lives. Being Black is not a choice. Your husband chose his career path because he was called to it. The reward (serving his community) outweighed the risk. However, if at any point he felt unsafe, or that his life was in jeopardy at his job, he had the option to leave. He could choose to hang up the uniform and pick a career path that still served his community but in a safer fashion. I, in no way, have that option. There is NOTHING I can do to make my life safer. Beonna Taylor wasn’t a criminal, in fact she was a public servant saving lives during the Pandemic -- and she was shot in her own home. Tamir Rice was a child playing in a park. Johnathan Ferrell was involved in a car accident and was shot as he approached the officer for help. Ahmed Arbery was jogging. Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. took to non-violent action to help the Black community and was assassinated. My skin color is viewed as a threat and the only way to fix that is to fight for justice. So forgive me if I lack empathy and compassion for first responders at a time like now. Maybe if they were held responsible for their actions, we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in today. 

When I first read your post, I chose only to point out the racism behind all lives matter instead of posting why your post was truly problematic. But you want a discussion so let’s continue to pick it apart. Not only do you use the slogan All lives matter, you use a variation of “I’m colorblind/I don’t see color”, which is another racist microaggression against communities of color. Intentional or unintentional, “I don’t see color” means that you do not see me. I am Black. I will always be Black and Black will always be a part of my identity. And it is not bad to acknowledge that I am Black; acknowledging color does not make one racist. But when you seek to “remove color” you can conveniently overlook and dismiss the issues communities of color face because of their skin color. In the face of racism, you say “well I don’t see color so all your problems must be from something else”. The goal is NOT to be colorblind, but to recognize each race and work harder to remove and unlearn your innate biases to make all lives better.  The goal is to understand that you have learned biases because you live in a racist society, but to make the conscious effort to not let them impact your decision making and judgement. 

You also mention that you would “fight for me, my mom, and my sister” which is also problematic. Not that we don’t want you fighting for us, but your lack of interest in fighting for the whole Black community shows that you have separated my family from the rest of the Black Community. You view is as “good Blacks” and “different from other Black people”. If you cannot fight for the whole Black community, then you do not flight for me. 

You want a conversation yet refuse to admit your own racial biases as growing up White. That doesn’t mean you are a KKK member, flying the confederate flag and mounting photos of lynchings on your wall. It just means that you grew up in a system built for you to the detriment of Black people. If you want a conversation, you also have to meet me halfway, but based on your comment I can see you are not ready to confront that; I see that because when I commented the meaning behind all lives matter, you got defensive. I already gave you the opportunity for conversation when I made my comment. You just as easily could have said “you know, I knew the implications of all lives matter but still wanted it to mean something good for me. I had the best intentions using the phrase all lives matter but I understand your point. My intentions do not negate the phrase’s meaning, and that using it alienates the POC I am close to”. Instead, you got defensive and used your voice to project your shame. You felt my attack was me personally calling you a racist. I never called you a racist; I wanted to let you know that you were using a racist phrase. But a hit dog will holler, so you lashed out with hurt and anger because you thought someone called you racist. You were more mad at the possibility of being called racist instead of the fact that you used a racist phrase. Do you see how that is a problem?

I will have compassion for first responders when I start seeing tangible action. When videos of police beating protestors, tear gassing children, destroying medical supplies, and plowing cars through crowds cease. When the police show up in riot gear, I want them to remove the gear, place their weapons down, and march with us. I want them to refuse to uphold the unjust curfews. I want them to stop viewing the protestors as criminals. Your original post called for everyone to have compassion for and respect first responders, yet their actions show why they do not receive it. During the protests, they had every opportunity to show compassion. They could have let the protesters march peacefully on and worked to defuse and violent situations. Instead we see them line up 10 minutes before curfew starts, waiting for the opportunity to beat people. We are so quick to highlight “good cops” yet very few are condemning the actions of their fellow brothers and sisters. This is why people say “All cops are bastards”. They have corrupted their purpose of serving and protecting, and no amount of “good cops” can fix this. We must dismantle the system and start again. 

Notice how I never mentioned the rioting up until now. Because talking about the rioting is a deflection to paint Black people and those who join the protests as lawless and criminals. Most everyone knows that taking advantage of the unrest is selfish and that they should be removed from the area. But you know what’s worse - 400 years oppression. This is not because of a single injustice, but centuries. 

In this letter, I’ve said so much yet I don’t know if I’ve said enough. This is a complex issue with many facets, so if you read this and are still angry at my comment, I suggest you do more research. Research, and read, and watch documentaries, and talk to other POC from the theater community I once called home. Thousands of people are posting resources to help people understand the issues. You can’t claim to be an ally, without first understanding the problem. 

As I said in the beginning, I am not looking for conversation. With this letter, you can either accept it or not. You can choose to respond or not. You can choose to look at your innate biases or not. But I am done. With this letter, I am -- yet again -- begging for a white person to view and accept my humanity. I am reliving my traumas, researching, pouring my heart into my words, with the likelihood you will type back “I understand your point, but...”. I do not hate you... but I no longer trust you. I gave you a chance of reflection and you chose another path. Well I am choosing my path too. I am choosing justice. I am choosing to fight in the hope that black girls and boys NEVER have to beg a white person so see their humanity ever again. 

[zoobus]

🔥

I dare Tumblr to lose my post again🔫

People in general have a very narrow idea of what qualifies as abuse and who can be an abuser and that makes it extraordinarily difficult to discuss it in places that don't already agree with you. This goes beyond whether there's a difference between spanking your kids vs beating them - The Johnny Depp situation brought this to the front of my mind, the countless people smirkingly telling on themselves - if that shit makes Johnny an abuser, my mom's an abuser 🙄 my dad is. My boss is. I'm an abuser🤪

All said in confidence and in good humor, because they don't actually view what happened (to Amber or to themselves or to the people dependant upon them) as TRUE abuse.

1. It's not abuse because this person loves me/your abuser never loved you or they wouldn't be an abuser. This is a really popular sentiment across the spectrum and I'm not sure why? Maybe people find it helpful, but I don't follow. I would describe my childhood as abusive, my parents as controlling and in that "children are property more than people" camp. They still love me. I don't doubt that at all. Them loving me does not negate the abuse or the damage done. People can love you and still harm you. They are not entitled to your forgiveness or reciprocal love. You love me, okay. What's that got to do with me?

2. Can of worms: I think we should show more empathy to abusers who were also abused. This is difficult to wrap into a single point but this is more about if we accept that victims often don't perceive themselves as such because they have internalized their treatment as the norm, and need some paradigm shift to reconsider otherwise... I feel like that also applies to abusers who don't see themselves as such. A lot of anti-abuse rhetoric amounts to "lmfao just don't hurt people, it's not that fucking hard" and yeah that is not actually useful -sincerely zoo "my father constantly told us of the horrible acts of physical and emotional violence his father committed against him, thus I am now instantly distrustful of anyone who says they want to become a parent so they can be the mom/dad theirs never was, because i already know your barometer for what constitutes suffering is fucked up" bus

3. The tendency to trivialize our problems by way of starving-children-in-africaing is harmful framing. How can you recognize your parents putting extensive child blocks on your computer and expecting you to hand over your phone for them to review because they don't want their 17yo straying from God's path as abuse? My 40 something aunt still has whip burns on her back from her father's style of parenting I'm going to use the same words to describe my plight of being given a FREE phone and pc?🙄🤪 It's an escalation no one wins because

-me, abused? I'm only being yelled at everyday. We're a loud family! It's not like my family is

-removing my door? Come on now, they told me it would happen if i couldn't keep my room clean. There are full grown adults who are

-not allowed to leave the house without their permission and explicit knowledge of where I'm going and who I'm with, with the expectation they will call those people among others to ensure I'm not lying does NOT constitute as abuse lmao😂 their house, their rules, plus they just want me to be safe. It's not like they ever

-locked me out of the house? Play stupid games, win stupid prizes 🙃 was it cold and was i crying to be let in? Sure. Was I obedient from that point on? You better believe it!

4. It is nigh impossible to grasp the full extent of how abuse and constant stress affects you until you're out. Cringe tales time! 😬😎I was a bedwetter well into adulthood. It was humiliating and I was degraded for it often, sometimes publicly, more than likely in the hopes i would stop out of embarrassment. I was dragged to doctors about it, one who pulled an exaggerated face of revulsion, dramatically stepped back, and loudly whispered did I knew that wasn't normal for someone in my age bracket before aggressively insinuating I needed to tell her about the sexual abuse I was definitely experiencing (god i still want to fight this woman). I thought I was a freak, and I researched bladder surgery, anything that would fix me

Anyway, guess what stopped happening after I moved into my own apartment, could financially support myself, and had limited interactions with my family

Go ahead guess.

5. Just to end this on a kinda positive note, it's okay to forgive your abuser and/or let them back in your life if you so choose

I hear people say this is the norm, but I haven't come across it. sometimes people have fucked you over or hurt you in some way, and sometimes those same people can come back as better humans. They are not entitled to their forgiveness and they are not entitled a spot back in your life

But if you are accepting of it, if you are able to recognize that you didn't deserve what they did to you AND that they have genuinely changed into someone you might want in your life, it's okay and you're not a pathetic apologist, you're not a hypocrite, you're not turning your back on your younger self. Life throws curveballs.