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lesbiansforboromir · 3 years ago

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ooohh do you have any headcanons about Boromir's childhood?

OH... YOU KNOW... Just a few.... uwu BUT for this ask I'll use it to talk about something that recently settled for me. And... it will once again be long, I literally cannot do those bullet pointed hc posts so sorry, anyway!

So Boromir was a big baby, heavy and tricky to birth. He did not wean very quickly. As a baby he wanted to be held a lot, he like to be carried about by his parents, never be alone and strangers had to go through a very rigorous vetting period before he even liked them existing in his space, let alone be left alone with them. He actually learned to speak before he properly crawled. He had very good baby instincts. Finduilas and Denethor had no issues really with this, he was just in a sling on one of them as they went about their day, traded often but mostly with Finduilas as she was feeding him. Indeed they both really enjoyed this part of parenthood where Boromir was wide eyed and watching them and babbling and pointing and grasping for understanding, where they would talk to him as they worked.

However, Finduilas had always been plagued with various health issues and her health was something often scrutinised by family, friends and really Gondor at large. And Boromir was often quietly viewed as a burden on her. He needed her too much, was in general 'too much' in a variety of ways and the idea that he was 'making her worse' was pervasive. And this wasn't a vindictive attitude, they didn't want to shame Boromir really, all just felt 'concern' for Finduilas.

But children are naturally perceptive, even more so Boromir who grew up around incredibly complex relationships within his wider family. It was important for him at a young age to predict the emotions of his parents and especially his grandparents, all of which had VERY difficult relationships with each other that could boil over unexpectedly. So slowly, in a hundred different ways, growing wee Boromir came to the understanding that he was too much, that he needed too much and that that was hurting his mother, HE was hurting his mother. And some people were not even so covert, when he was a little older he would be taken aside during family trips or outings and told now don't hang on your mother too much Boromir, you know she isn't well, be a big boy for her today, you can do that can't you? Denethor caught an exchange like this between him and a matron of the house. He was furious.

And to add into that, there was a notable layer of... I'll call it religious to put in context, but essentially elven influenced narratives. Mothers 'giving so much of themselves to their sons that they die' was a very prominent plot thread in many tales both ancient and new in Gondor, Boromir couldn't get away from it, especially not around his faithful elven-idolising dol amrothian family. His Grandfather Adrahil in particular.

And it was confusing and frightening and knotted for Boromir, because he and his mother had a relationship of spending time together, of her loving to be with him, knowing that he loved that as well. They were a close family, he slept in their bed as a baby, regularly still crawled in with them when he was scared at night. So he did not know how to marry what his natural relationship with his parents was and what he was apparently meant to be doing to help his mother. Reassurances from his father helped, but the idea didn't go away.

And then Faramir was born. And Faramir was a small baby, he weaned quickly, he was independent and determined to walk and be about as fast as possible, often following after Boromir. He was quite happy being alone and was gregarious and excited to be the centre of stranger's attention. And all thought the comparison just adorable, it was often commented on, how oh Boromir was so much more 'shy' and 'clingy' as a baby, do you remember? It is a sentimental sweet memory they are sharing, but to Boromir the comparison was devastating and triggering. And was the beginning of his... neurosis I might call it? With his mother dying. Finduilas' health would go up and down but to Boromir he perceived it as her getting gradually worse. He feared his mother's death, not just because he would miss her, but it would be his fault in his mind.

So Boromir responded to this by withdrawing from his mother. He pulls away, he tries to need her less and gets frustrated with her efforts to come closer. To Finduilas, it felt much like Boromir was trying to distance himself from her, that he thought he was too grown up now to need his mother ("At just five years old? what a silly notion my son"). And it hurt her. There would be moments when they had made a plan to do something together they both enjoyed, Boromir would hear her coughing that morning and brush her off 'No, Boromir, come back! I said we will go today and we shall." "No, I don't want too anymore anyway." Finduilas begins pressing to spend time with him, Boromir saying he needs to practice this or that, Finduilas telling him 'Oh let me help you!' but Boromir barely pauses as he tells her he's fine and vanishes out of the door. And yet he will still take help from Denethor and she jokes (to laugh through something painful, just to say it) 'Oh, I suppose you are far too big a boy to care what your mother has to say!' But that hurts him so badly, when he wants to spend all day with her still, a queer little boy who feels so warm to know that his mother likes him. But he can do nothing but encourage that idea in her! And he's frustrated! He knows all the variables around him to such a fine tuned extent, he knows his mother's wishes, he knows his 'duties', he knows how his family works, he doesn't understand we he cant make this work, he should be able too! But he's just a baby...

Denethor, who had suspicions about Boromir's issues around this, tried to talk to him about it, tried to encourage Boromir to talk to her, tried to ask if HE could talk to her about it. But the mere idea of troubling his mother, of telling her that he was behaving this way BECAUSE she was sick (something he already knew she hated very intensely) was unbearable to him. He would become more and more panicked the more Denethor tried and in the end he had to let it be or drive Boromir further away. Attempting to tell him 'no Boromir, you are not hurting your mother by needing her, that could never be true' just falls flat when Boromir is so sure 'no you are lying, she was better before me and I can see her getting worse you are just lying to comfort me, maybe you do love me too much!' (I'm allowed to reference Gandalf's quotes about Boromir at ANY moment) Not that Boromir would have said this to his father, it manifested into panic attacks and fits that Denethor had to calm.

So instead he and Finduilas worked together to just... create ways for Boromir to interact with Finduilas that weren't pressured or centred on him, that allowed him to not feel like this burden. Often it was helping her or engaging in something she was already doing, regularly it was playing with baby Faramir. And this did help, it encouraged Boromir to become less hypervigilant around his mother. But still their relationship was never the same, it was always complex and Boromir was always pursuing a sense of independence and self reliance that quickly morphed into that well known protective eldest sister syndrome we know and love.

And then Finduilas did die. This fear that Boromir had always held onto, the thing Denethor had been trying to coax out of him, it happened! She died and it felt like his fault. His whole family near fell apart and it felt like his fault. Denethor heartbroken and alone, his grandparents and Ivriniel and Imrahil heartbroken and lashing out, Adrahil and Denethor's relationship becoming so toxic that he claimed Denethor had 'killed her by taking her away from Dol Amroth'. But Boromir knew better, it was his fault and Denethor was being blamed for it. It was all so overwhelming for a ten year old, especially coupled with Adrahil's attempting to manipulate him against his father. He lashed out and then he withdrew. Because withdrawal had been his tactic before and now Denethor was the fragile one, and the one he had hurt, Faramir too. No wonder he wanted to join the army as soon as possible.

But still, this wasn't uncombatted by Denethor. And Boromir was not unloved and alone. Crucially, people understood him. Boromir calms, he cools, he thinks, he finds a community of people, he has conversations on rooftops with people about things that have nothing to do with this, but that still make him think of it as he's walking back home through his city. And he does- with the loving foundation his parents gave him, he says no. It wasn't my fault, I was a very young child no matter how adult I felt. And I wasn't killing her. No child kills their parent by needing them.

But that still left the architecture of that belief behind, the instincts and self perceptions that were so unconscious and inbuilt in him now that it would be impossible to separate himself. Boromir has to give everything back and more. Boromir doesn't want to want, he doesn't want to need. It's not like him, it doesn't feel like him, he doesn't feel like himself when he needs. And he cannot talk about it, he cannot talk about how guilt morphed into anger and frustration, some of it at himself, because this perception made him hurt Finduilas. It robbed him of so much time with her, it made her think things about him that were so false.

But when Faramir is an angry young teenager who feels empty in a way he doesn't know how to fill, with distant memories he clings too that aren't enough and a grandfather who likes to reminisce, he says things he doesn't know are impossibly cruel. 'You had her so long, so much longer than I did, you didn't even appreciate her when she was here!' And twenty year old, already a soldier Boromir will let him. Ever Faramir's helper and protector.

Anyway, my brains literally on fire right now, I'm going crazy bananas, in short;

#boromir #finduilas #denethor #tolkien #erran vs tolkien #chats #adrahil #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien meta #lotr meta #soap operas in mannish sindarin

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spaceandfiction · 3 years ago

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How Old is Castiel?

The angel of Thursday is old. Like old old. But fanworks often disagree as to exactly how old 'old' really is. This is understandable, as the show itself is very nebulous about what was going on in pre-biblical times and added more information about the past, some contradictory to pre-existing information, up until its final few episodes. Our friend Cas could be thousands or hundreds of thousands of years old, perhaps even millions or billions. Allow me to answer the question 'how old is Castiel' in the rambling post to follow, which is pointless but ultimately amusing to myself and potentially to others

In the beloved episode "The Man Who Would Be King," Cas describes a variety of memories he's had over his long life, including the line

"I remember being at a shoreline, watching a little grey fish heave itself up on the beach and an older brother saying,

[GIF: don't step on that fish Castiel, big plans for that fish.]

This means that in the universe of Supernatural, evolution took place. Somehow, though, the biblical Garden of Eden and its inhabitants were also real. And not just as the first chosen people of God, or some other cop-out. Season 15 makes it clear Adam is considered the first man, period. Cain, of hair fame, even appears on the show to tell us Cas is Dean's Colette

[GIF: Cain says "then you kill the angel, Castiel. Now that one- that I suspect would hurt something awful"]

That has nothing to do with Castiel's age I just think it's fun. Anyway, if we're going to try to synthesize these two things I think we have to look back to Genesis. Obviously, biblical literalism will get us nowhere close to answering this question. I'm not a religious scholar so things are about to get a bit hazy, but I used an online version of the bible to refresh my memory of chapter one of Genesis. I think if we're going to try and use biblical sources to help us here let's all agree that a "day" in the biblical sense is a period of time stretching for however long that evolutionary process might have taken. God created these things, but he used the regular scientific properties to help them unfold in a direction he enjoyed.

Now the current opinion on when the first fish moved onto land suggests it happened something like 385 million years ago.

BUT WAIT! This is just something Cas remembers, that doesn't mean that's when he was created. We know that Castiel is

[GIF: Chuck calls my beautiful boy Cas "the self-hating angel of Thursday"]

I think this means Cas was the first Angel created on Thursday AKA the fifth day in Genesis. This is the first leap I'm really going to make here, because we don't know this for sure, but I think it would make sense. Not all angels are the same age. We know the archangels, for example, were created before any other angels. I think it would make sense for Chuck to have created different angels with different functions at different times, and a hierarchy established as the archangels incorporated these new siblings into heaven's dynamic. This would make Castiel a relatively 'young' angel, born on the fifth of six possible days of creation. That makes sense in the context of his role: stationed to watch over Earth as a soldier. He became a commander after Anna fell, sure, but he's still relatively excluded from knowledge of Heaven's plans.

We also do not see Cas perform any particular action for Thursday that would explain why it is his domain. The Doylist explanation is that Kripke just picked the angel of the day his show was airing, but that's no fun. I think it would make sense if Cas was created with the dawn of the fifth day and as such, it became his title in heaven.

The fifth day in Genesis is devoted to the creation of swimming water creatures and birds. Birds being significantly younger than fish, evolutionarily speaking, they don't push back Cas' age whatsoever. Fish in general, though, clearly predate their evolution to walk. To get this date, it really depends on what you let count as the 'beginning' of sea life. The first splitting cells in the deep-sea vents? The first fish? Obviously, those writing about these events had no idea what cells were. They also had no idea that a gay angel would one day be a featured character on something called a television show and keep me up at 1 AM over a year after said television show had stopped airing wondering how old he is, and yet here I am

If you were to count any and all living cells in the sea, Cas would sit at a spritely 3.7 billion years of age. If we're starting at not very fishy but still living sea sponges, the figure goes down to about 800 million years old. But I think this seems a bit much. I want Cas to be the fresh-faced cool kid on the heavenly block. To accommodate this desire, I'm willing to say Chuck didn't start counting day five until the first little something one might consider a fish came around which would make Castiel's true (approximate) age 540 million years old.

Do with this information what you will. I have no idea why I provided it. Thank you, Castiel, for being the impetus into scientific exploration

#supernatural #spn stuff #castiel #I don't know why the fuck i did this but here it is #i carbon date castiel for my own amusment #meta #??? i guess?#finished last night posting now to ensure I didn’t create a really embarrassing typo at 2 am

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ladyreapermc · 4 years ago

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Fic: Yes, Father (August Walker x Reader)

A/N: Hey folks. It has been a while. This piece has been sitting on my drive for over a month and I finally decided to post it. I hope you enjoy it. I based all the mass rites on my own experiences, even if it has been a while since I last went to church.

Summary: AU! After much insisting, your fiancé convinces you to go to church with him and you find yourself strangely captivated by the priest celebrating the mass, which so happens to be your fiancé childhood friend.

Pairing: August x Reader

Genre: Smut; AU

Wordcount: 2,9k

Warnings: smut (dirty talk and fingering); It’s worth noting that this is a seriously sacrilegious fic, so if you’re religious and think it might bother you or conflict with your faith, maybe it would be best not to read it.

You were never one to particularly care for going to church or anything like that. You weren’t raised in any faith and if it was up to you, your future children would be educated the same, but it was so important to your fiancé James.

He came from a feverous catholic family and he grew up going to church, Sunday morning mass, and being part of every possible event his church was involved in. He was ever an altar boy growing up and he hoped that he could continue the tradition with his own children.

And after a lot of cajoling on his part, you agreed to start attending mass on Sunday morning with him. He promised that the current priest presiding his church wasn’t one of those misogynist and full of prejudice old farts but actually a good old friend of his.

“I promise you’ll enjoy August’s sermon,” James assured as you combed the inexistent wrinkles on your plain, knee-length grey dress.

James insisted you were being too conservative with your attire choice. That it looked more like you were going to a job interview than mass, but you rather be safe than sorry. His parents would be there as well and for some reason, that made you even more nervous with this whole attending to church thing. As ridiculous as it might sound, a part of you was slightly afraid of busting into flames the second you stepped through the threshold of the building.

“Honestly, it still surprises me that out of the two of us, August was the one that ended up with the collar and not me,” your fiancé declared with a chuckle as he parked the car and you two stepped out to see a considerable group of people, mostly women from the looks of it, quietly making their way inside. “He was such a ladies’ man.”

“Doesn’t seem like much have changed,” you commented as the two of you walked up the steps, making him chuckle and nod.

James’ parents were already waiting and after a quick greeting, you were all made the way inside, miraculously finding seats in the front pews, right in front of the altar. The ample ship of the church seemed to amplify the buzzing of conversation all around, but it all came to a halt at the first chord of the piano.

The silence was heavy and it seemed to you that if someone dropped a pin, it would be heard by the very heavens. Finally, the eerie melody started and you felt your heart beating to the tempo of the music as everyone rose and the procession started.

Front and center, leading the group was a young boy, no older than 12, carrying the processional cross. The dark, shaggy hair and green eyes reminded you of James and you could picture your fiancé in your mind’s eye performing the same task as a child and it brought a smile to your lips.

You watched as the group advanced in time the melody playing, some members of the congregation carrying images of saints and other holy objects and finally, closing the group, Him.

Father August was a tall man, broad shoulders and built like a bull, the white and green clerical robes barely disguising his bulky form. His dark hair was neatly combed, one stubborn curl falling over his left eye but he seemed unaware as he walked and murmured the words of the hymn under his breath, his ocean blue gaze never wavering from the altar. He would look like the picture of a Godsent angel if it wasn’t for the dark stubble covering his face and the abominable mustache that in anyone else would look ridiculous but on him was actually attractive.

Heat rose to your cheeks as you realized your treacherous thought and your gaze fell to your polished shoes. You were really thinking of a priest as attractive? How much of a sinner could you be? Ashamed by the betrayal of your mind, you didn’t dare to look up again, not until the velvet smooth voice of Father August asked all to be seated and the ceremony started.

You let his voice washed over you as mass progressed as expected, taking your cues of when to rise or sit from James, that remained next to you oblivious to your suffering. You barely listened to the gospel reading or the adoration too focused on tracking Father August’s every move despite your best attempts of ignoring the handsome man presiding the celebration.

Finally, the congregation was seated once more to listen to his sermon. You kept your eyes on your clasped hands as August took his place at the pulpit and started speaking. You didn’t hear a word said, only the calm, husky tone of his voice that seemed to set your very soul on fire if the wet warmth between your legs was any indication.

Despite your brave attempts to keep your mind clean, you couldn’t help but daydream of that very same voice whispering all sorts of sinful pleasures in your ear. Clearing your throat, you dared to look up, finding his blue gaze fixed on you as he spoke and that was enough to set your heart racing and lock the breath inside your lungs. It felt as if Father August could see deep inside you, all the unholy thoughts you had been entertaining during his sermon.

Finally, he ended his speech and another hymn began. The congregation started rising, taking their place in line for Eucharist.

“You’re coming?” James whispered, startling you.

“I shouldn’t,” you replied quietly, your eyes darting to the priest feeding the congregation the wafer.

“Come on,” James encouraged with a smile and a wink. “No one will know.”

You rose from your seat against your better judgment. Your brain was unable to reign in the dark desire that pushed you toward the priest. As you took your place in line right behind James, your heart was pounding and your nerves wrecked as each step brought you closer to Father August, until finally, you stood in front of him, under his piercing all-knowing blue gaze.

“The body of Christ,” he spoke, voice haunting as he presented the wafer and your whole body shook as you let your lips part in welcome, eyes focused on his as he set the wafer on your tongue.

There was something so intimate and arousing at been this close to Father August, to let his thick fingers brushing against your lips as he fed you, his eyes darkening and his nostrils flaring as if he could see and smell your sin. Time seemed to stand still for a few seconds as you two stared at each other.

It took the small cough from someone behind you to break you from your spell and you scurried away, shame bitter and acidic in your stomach, drying your mouth and throat as you forced yourself to swallow the wafer and move back to your seat, feeling the weight of your guilt as you waited for the mass to be finally over.

You had hoped to be free from the priest as soon as the proceedings were over but instead Father August remained at the door, exchanging polite words with the members of the congregation, and of course, James and his parents got in line to speak to the holy man.

“Amazing work as always, my dear,” you heard James’ mom, Magda, said as she kissed Father August’s cheek. “But when will you remove that awful thing from your face?”

“I don’t know, mom,” James interjected with a smirk, hugging his old friend. “I think it suits him, gives him a star quality. Of the porn variety.” James’ mom gasped in horror, while August just chuckled.

“You’re jealous because you never managed to grow a single hair in that baby face,” the priest joked back, completely unfazed by the teasing as his gaze set on you. “And who is this?”

“Oh! You haven’t met my fiancé, yet…”

You barely heard the rest of James’ words as he ushered you forward, presenting you to Father August and as his large hand enveloped yours in a warm touch, you could feel the flitting throb between your legs once again.

No man had such an effect on you before, and you wished you could run away, put as much distance between yourself and the temptation in the form of a man.

“So, what did you think?” James asked once the two of you were in the safety of the car, on the way to his parents’ house for Sunday lunch.

“I know it might not seem like it, but it wasn’t my first time in church, James.” Your words earned you a chuckle from him.

“I know, sweetheart. I meant of August.”

“Oh!” You could feel the heat returning to your face as you shifted on your seat, looking away from him. “He seemed nice and you’re right, his sermon was ok.”

“Is ok enough for you to consider coming along every Sunday from now on?”

The look in James’ eyes was pleading, like a little puppy dog that was kicked out of the moving truck. The look of a man that was used to get his way and he knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.

“I’ll think about it,” you conceded it as he pulled the car in the driveway, right behind his parents’.

It wasn’t like you could say no point-blank. Not without a good reason for it and saying you were lusting over his ordained childhood friend wasn’t exactly an option.

“That’s all I ask.”

James smiled brightly at you, pressing a kiss to your cheek before you two stepped out of the car just as a third vehicle pulled in the driveway, and the last person you wished to see got out.

August was donning a pair of black slacks and a black, long-sleeved dress shirt, the clerical collar being the only evidence of this man’s chosen career.

“I’m glad you could make it!” James greeted his friend cheerfully and August smirked.

“I wouldn’t miss this delicious…” he paused for just a second, his eyes flickering towards you, making you gulp and look away. “Meal for anything. Sister Agnes has many talents, bless her soul, but cooking isn’t one of them.”

James snorted, leading the way inside as August walked right beside you so close his arm brushed against yours, raising goosebumps on your skin as it tingled with the brief contact.

“Why don’t I help your mother?” you announced as soon as you crossed the threshold, trying to put as much distance between yourself and the priest as you could.

James didn’t protest. Instead, he led his friend into the sitting room and as you disappeared behind the kitchen door, you could almost feel the cold blue gaze of August on your ass, if that was even possible.

You managed to relax some as you helped Magda with the meal, chopping vegetables and stirring pots as the two of you talked about the upcoming wedding, only months away. You never thought you would be this excited about it, but you loved James with all your heart, and you couldn’t wait to become his wife.

The sound of the phone cut through your chatting and Magda’s face opened into a wide smile as she reached for her phone. It could only mean one thing: Her daughter Mary, who had been in a charity mission in Angola, was on the line.

“Go on,” you encouraged with a smile as you surveyed the kitchen. “I can manage everything.” She flashed you a grateful smile before scurrying off, phone already pressed to her ear.

You hummed to yourself as you worked, tasting the potato salad and adding a little more seasoning before your attention turned to the roast on the oven. You bent over to get a better look, smirking to yourself when you sensed someone standing right behind you, close enough you could feel the heat of his body,

Of course, you thought it was James. Who else would you expect? Instead, As you straightened up and glanced behind yourself, you were startled to find August there, browsing the pots over your shoulder. Too close for comfort.

“Father,” you croaked awkwardly, unable to really move without risking touching the man and that was the last thing you wanted. Your body was already heating up just by his mere presence. Anything else would be too dangerous.

“Sorry for the intrusion, I wanted to give them some privacy to speak to Mary and I thought you could use some help.” His words were innocent enough but there was this edge in his voice… a sort of dark tone that made you doubt his intentions.

“That’s really thoughtful of you,” you managed, shimmying out of the way so you could move to the sink to start on the dishes. “But I got it covered.” The priest hummed in response and for a moment, a tense silence reigned between you two.

You were very aware of every sound, every motion of your body and his. You wished he would leave already or, against your better judgment, press closer, blanket your body with his, let those long, elegant fingers trace the skin of your thigh, inch under your skirt, and towards your throbbing cunt which was soaking your panties.

You let out a gasp, cutlery clattering loudly into the sink as your mind registered the filthy thoughts circling your brain. How could you? This was a man of God, for Christ’s sake, and a good friend of the man you loved.

“You know, James and I were always very close,” Father August spoke suddenly, making you start because once again he was standing right behind you, his hands resting on the marble of the sink in front of you. “We shared everything.” He whispered those words right in your ear.

One of his hands came to your stomach, not yet touching but close enough that you could almost feel it, the ghost of his fingers brushing the fabric of your dress, making your breath hitch and your body shake as it paused right at the edge of your skirt, hovering there so, so close…

“Please,” you whimpered, not sure if you were asking him to move away or touch you, even if your body was obviously aching for him.

Father August decided for you, dipping his fingers below the hem of your dress, tracing your thigh up until he found your center, the brush of his fingers featherlight against your drenched center.

“Dirty little slut,” he mocked, massaging your cunt and making you moan and rest against him. “I could tell all your filthy thoughts when you stood in front of me at the altar. Did you want to get on your knees and suck my cock in front of the entire church?”

“Yes, Father,” you whimpered, rocking against his light touch, desperate for more.

“In front of James?” he asked, pushing your panties aside and dipping one finger inside your hungry little slit that seemed to almost pull his digit in.

“Yes, Father.”

“Whore,” he clicked his tongue, fingering you roughly now, his middle finger buried almost to the third knuckle as the heel of his hand rubbed against your throbbing clit. The pad of his finger rubbing that sweet little spot, and all you could do was squeeze the sink and press your legs together around his wrist, keeping his hand trapped there.

“You better cum soon or James will find out exactly what kind of slut his fiancée is,” August taunted, his voice like smooth honey dripping against your ear as he rubbed his hard cock against your ass.

“Yes, Father,” you gasped, rocking between his hand and his erection, lost in the ecstasy of such filthy action. “I’m so, so close…”

“Do you want my cock, slut?” he asked, his other hand coming to your throat, squeezing just slightly and you nodded desperately as his motions sped up. “Want me to fuck that tight little pussy?”

“Yes, Father,” you gasped.

“You’re gonna come to the church on Wednesday. I don’t care what you tell James. Just be there.”

Even if you wanted, you couldn’t find in yourself to answer, your whole body going taut with pleasure as your orgasm washed over you. The sort of white-out ecstasy that blinded and deafened you to anything and everything around you with the exception of your body quivering and quaking and the gush of warmth soaking his hand, your thighs and dripping to the floor below.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a soft, almost chaste kiss to your cheek.

Father August stepped away from you, hands in his pockets as you tried to recompose yourself just moments before the kitchen door opened and Magda walked in.

“Wednesday. Don’t forget,” he said, his smile, to anyone looking from the outside, was completely innocent but you caught the malice in his ice-cold eyes before he left.

“What’s on Wednesday?” Magda asked, checking the roast.

“Father August is just gonna help me with something,” you managed, brain still hazy with the aftershocks of your orgasm. “For James.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Magda grinned. “He’s such a good man, isn’t he? Our August. A true man of God.”

You could only nod, your voice caught in your throat. If only she knew…

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#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #august walker #august walker x reader #august walker x you

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writingwithcolor · 5 years ago

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Cultural Christianity, Christian Appropriation, and Derailment

Periodically, I discuss the concept of cultural Christianity, the dangers of authors mucking with folklore that is not theirs, and what you have to guard against when you’re a part of a culturally Christian society.

And every time I do, like clockwork, Christians come in and say “but what about [non-Christian nation appropriating Christianity], hmmmmm????? That’s just as bad!”

So let’s talk about all of it.

Cultural Christianity

For starters: What is cultural Christianity?

Cultural Christianity is the fact the Western calendar is primarily built around two things: farming, and Christianity

Our dedicated time off that is mostly guaranteed to all workers are Christian holidays. Easter, Christmas, Good Friday. The time between Christmas and New Year is also prone to being off and this also in some dominions has Christian events.

And yes, I know that most of these holidays actually have pagan roots. Christianity co-opted them and thoroughly Christianized them, to the point their re-paganization only really started in the 1800s… by people who were also culturally Christian, and often wrote whole books on Christianity on top of their neo-pagan beliefs.

It’s how Christmas is considered a “neutral, secular” holiday, when it’s celebrating the birth of Christ. It’s how the concept of “other religions” exist, let alone the fact they have to ask for time off for their own holidays that count against their personal vacation time, when Christians often don’t have to do that. It’s how you see more churches than mosques or synagogues in the West by a very large factor.

There are very few places in the West that are not, on some level, culturally Christian. Some very insular communities might be able to escape a lot of the trappings of Christianity, but still. The government mandated days off are mostly Christian things.

Cultural Christianity means everyone who was raised in a culturally Christian society has a Christian lens. They are aware of Christianity, its holidays, its general story, its values.

This translates to them having to unlearn all of this and learn a whole new framework when they begin researching other folklore (Native religions, in my case, but this also applies to other religions such as Judaism and Islam) cause other folklore/religions do not have the same holidays, values, or even relationship to the deity in question.

Christian Appropriation

So in a non-Christian society, it is possible to appropriate Christianity. Because the same factors that have Christians appropriate everything else in the West are at play with a different dominant religion.

This mostly shows up in Japanese media. Japan has Shinto/Buddhism as a dominant religion, and you’ll often hear anime or manga artists say they simply picked Christian imagery because it looks cool.

And I agree this is disrespectful! It is really not fun to watch sacred imagery of your beliefs be used because “it looks cool” and I would love it if all appropriation of others’ beliefs ended.

But that often isn’t the focus of the posts getting these comments.

Derailment

This is twofold.

1- Very few places where Christianity isn’t the dominant religion exist.

Because Christian nations colonized most of the planet, there are a lot more culturally Christian places than you probably want to admit, if you’re the kind of person who pulls “but what about the appropriation.”. This includes a lot of Africa, a lot of Southeast Asia, a lot of Oceania, a lot of South America, basically all of North America, and basically all of Europe.

You might disagree with how they practice Christianity, but they are still Christian. This means they are culturally Christian. Just not your culturally Christian.

But, as I mentioned in the previous section, appropriation can happen. It just doesn’t happen much in the English speaking world, and I am speaking to the English speaking world. Specifically, the Western English speaking world, which is very much culturally Christian.

The places where Christianity isn’t the dominant religion, however, is mostly composed of non-white people, specifically Arab, South Asian, and East Asian. So these “but what about where Christianity is appropriated” often end up sounding like “why aren’t you persecuting people of colour”, which sounds like trying to justify racism against people over there to me.

2- You are trying to say you are as much of a victim as us, when you are not

If you live in the West, you are culturally Christian unless you have grown up very deeply entrenched in a non-Christian community.

You have grown up with a wide, wide, wide variety of Christian stories, Christian based stories, Christian values/worldviews-as-default told to you your whole life. Some of it has been terrible, some of it you disagree with, but by and large, every story has some infusion of Christianity to it. Some of the most popular fictional texts are deeply religious things, like the Chronicles of Narnia.

You have not had your religion forbidden from being practiced, to you personally.

You have only seen true appropriation in very recent times, because of the influx of non-Western media being imported.

You have not had your sacred places constantly, consistently infringed upon and destroyed for reasons like “an observatory” or “a pipeline” or “a dam” or “a mine”.

You may have dealt with misunderstandings and miscommunications but you have rarely had somebody fundamentally misunderstand what Christianity is (Jesus as lord and saviour, died for our sins, we should try to live a more godly life and a good life to get into Heaven and get eternal happiness).

Native people have not had any of those luxuries, and it has mostly been culturally Christian people who have taken what is ours and turned it into what they wanted it to be.

We have Christian pagans (paganism was founded and codified in the Victorian era, so no, it’s not “ancient wisdom” but more Victorians—who were definitely culturally Christian—interpreting everything to prove Christianity as more universal than it was*) peddle dream catchers and calling themselves medicine people and burning sage to the point it’s endangered, all trying to claim they’re “following Native practices” when they’re not.

So when I’m speaking to somebody in the Western world, 95% of the time I will be speaking to somebody culturally Christian.

*When you start to track the “studied ancient mysteries” things, you either find types like the Theosophical Society that wildly appropriated Hinduism and Buddhism to fit their own ends and often put in messiah figures into them to show how there’s a Christ everywhere on the planet, or you start to dive into people who took Christianized recordings of folklore who may or may not have sipped some “older religions are better for noble savages reason” juice.

It’s very often racist and pulling from records written down by missionaries who had a vested interest in modifying the folklore in question, or from people who’d already been Christianized, so its validity is questionable.

Beginning to Unlearn

If you want to learn more about cultural Christianity and how to be more respectful of non-Christian belief systems, take a look at the this post and the folklore tag in general. Those are great starting places for you to do deeper research into whatever marginalized belief you’re looking to use.

I’d also suggest earnestly learning about other belief structures’ customs, challenging your assumptions of what is neutral and universal and the proper way of doing things. You might find a lot of surprising things that you weren’t expecting, even just looking at Abrahamic religions.

In the end

When I’m speaking to somebody who wants to use Native folklore, I’m going to assume they’re culturally Christian and educate them accordingly.

I am having a conversation to Christians about the appropriation of Native culture and how not to do that.

I am not going to suddenly change topics to make Christians comfortable by proving that I’m a champion for them, because frankly, they shouldn’t be dangling respecting Natives if only they interrupt themselves to prove they’re properly educated on Christian issues. Because that demand is once again centring Christianity above Native people.

I am talking about Native issues, not Christian issues.

I do not accept derailments that are thinly veiled racism or persecution complexes based off “what if”s that have not actually happened in the West. I acknowledge they happen elsewhere, and that’s tragic. I am not the person to talk about those details. I’d rather pass the mic to Christians in the area and let them speak. They are not Western Christians’ shields to use as they will. They have a voice, as well.

I am not going to coddle people who feel that Christian values are diminishing from society because we need room for more than just Christian values and Christianity does not have a monopoly on being a good person.

I am talking about Christians appropriating Native American beliefs.

And if that makes you uncomfortable, to hear Western Christians have protection, insert their own dogma into too much, and have unlearning to do—without being able to tack on a story about how no, really, you’re a victim in the West—then you have more unlearning to do. I’ve given places to start learning above.

We are talking about Native issues right now.

And I will not stop calling Christians out for their religious-based colonialism.

~ Lesya

#guides #native american #culture #cultural christianity #folklore #religion #Christian #Christianity #long post

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omniscientoranges · 4 years ago

Text

Okay but Dean chaperoning Jack's 1st grade field trip to the aquarium. He's kinda grumpy about it because Cas was supposed to be the one to go but he had a headache when he woke up and it's not like Dean was going to make his husband walk around an aquarium all day with a bunch of screaming 6 year olds when he already has a headache so he tosses him some ibuprofen and straps Jack into his carseat at 7:30am so they can make it to the bus 30 minutes early. He acts like an Aloof Dad for the first 10 minutes on the ride there but gets into a heated debated with susan and michelle from the pta about what brand of cherries to use when making a fruit salad (dean INSISTS you have to use 2 different types for variety and one MUST be maraschino cherries).

Anyways so they get to the aquarium and all the kids are supposed to buddy up with someone but there's an odd number of kids :/ so one kid gets left out and no one wants to be in a three person group with them so Dean's like "hey kid don't worry, I'll be your buddy today. I promise I'm a lot cooler than all these other losers, okay?" and the kid's still all pouty but they stand together at the back of the big line of tiny children that always barrels through any and all aquariums/zoos during field trip season and everyone goes through and looks at all the fish but the kid's still all :( so Dean picks them up and puts them on his shoulders and starts telling them a bunch of fish facts he learned over many many many years of watching shark week religiously and at the end of the day the kid is like, all cheered up and goes and starts telling the other kids all the fish facts Dean taught them and starts making friends and Dean watches them talk from a distance while he has a sleepy Jack in his arms and carries him to the car and it's like. He remembers when he was that kid that no one wanted to partner up with and he remembers when Sam was that kid that no one wanted to partner up with because they were new in town or they talked weird or they dressed weird and he wished back then that someone would've just taken an interest in him and cared enough to talk with him, and now that Dean's older he's gonna make damn sure no kid he meets is ever going to feel lonely or outcast like he did and like Sam did.

He chaperones a lot more field trips after that.

#im sorry i-#this went somewhere i didnt expect it to when i first wrote it it was suppose to be a Funny Post but it grew feelings #dean winchester #jack kline #castiel #destiel #deancas #spn #gina.spn #gina.writing #&drabble

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liquidstar · 4 years ago

Note

I'd love to hear some of your recommendations! And I'm good without any content warnings, but since you're posting this for all your followers to see probably best to add them

Alright sure! I’ll be general then and since you’re just starting out this will sort of be bringing up a lot of really popular ones, the really good ones where the general consensus is “you gotta see this!”, but I’ll also try to give ones from different genres so you have a variety of things to pick from, so this isn’t really a list of personal favorites but I’ll throw in a couple of those too lol, but generally think of this as a handy beginners guide with just a little personal bias.

I wrote a lot so I'm gonna put them under the cut here.

Fullmetal Alchemist

Fullmetal Alchemist is a franchise that’s considered a must-watch, it takes place in a world where alchemy is a borderline magical power, but is considered scientific in-universe and follows scientific laws, namely the law of equivalent exchange. Something can’t be made from nothing, to gain something of equal value must be lost. The story follows the story of two brothers, Edward and Alphonse Elric, who at the ages of 10 and 11 committed alchemy’s one and only unforgivable sin, human transmutation, in an attempt to bring their mother back to life. As a result, one brother lost his arm and leg and the other lost his entire body, leaving his soul bound to a suit of armor. However the brothers are resolute to regain their original bodies, and the older brother, Edward, joins the State Alchemists, a branch of the military, to try to gain access to research materials to help them achieve their goal. But was that really such a good idea?

Fullmetal Alchemist can be a bit confusing to get into due to the fact that there are two series: Fullmetal Alchemist (2003) and Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood (2009). The latter is a reboot with a different story that follows the original manga. They both have the same beginning, but diverge paths and tell very different stories. My recommendation for how to watch this show is: Watch 2003 first, and Brotherhood second. Everyone has a different opinion about which is better, but everyone agrees that 2003 has better backstory but a contrived ending, and Brotherhood has a rushed beginning (Because it works off the assumption that you’ve seen 2003) with a great and fulfilling ending. If you can’t do both I say just watch Brotherhood because it will leave you more satisfied and you don’t have to watch 03 to get into it.

For both series the biggest trigger warnings are: Parental death, child death, pet death, war, genocide, dismemberment, religious themes, and miscarriage. For brotherhood specifically: on-screen suicide, and for 2003 specifically: rape (not on-screen) and pregnancy from it. The 2003 series is also a lot darker than Brotherhood which has a more optimistic tone, so that’s worth noting too.

Soul Eater

A show I think is incredibly fun, and a good one for an October watch if you wanna save it. It takes place in a world where certain people have the ability to transform into weapons, and they team up with other people who become their meisters. The characters often travel around, but the main setting is Death City, a fictional city in Nevada based off of Las Vegas but with a huge Halloweentown vibe, and a school right at the top of it called the Death Weapon Meister Academy (DWMA) where a bunch of kids that turn into weapons learn how to hunt down witches and kishins (Beings that consume human souls). The school, of course, is run by the grim reaper, Lord Death himself.

Our main characters for the series are a group of 7 students. Our protagonist Maka Albarn and her weapon partner Soul “Eater” Evans, a scythe. A loud mouth assassin named Black✰Star and his weapon partner Tsubaki, who has many weapon forms. And the son of the grim reaper, Death The Kid, and his two weapon partners Liz and Patty Thompson, who are twin pistols. There are also a bunch of really lively colorful background characters and antagonists, and the cast of the show being as insane as it is really makes it, on top of the great atmosphere and of course the plot, which just builds more and more as the series progresses. Also Crona is there and we all love Crona.

Trigger warnings for this show include: Child abuse (Mental and physical), manipulation, snakes and spiders (The motifs of two major villains), some very surreal moments that can verge on unreality. Also, in the dub and most subs: misgendering of a canonically trans character. Crona is a character who is non-binary, but the dub and subs use gendered pronouns for them due to general ignorance about neutral pronouns in 2008, though this isn’t the fault of the original series and falls on the translators hands.

Also it’s important to note: that the first 3 episodes are prologues and they take themselves less seriously, there’s more fanservice in them than there is in the rest of the series (Except for Blair she stays the fanservice character :pensive:)

Zombieland Saga

Idol anime is really prevalent as a genre, the most popular being Love Live, but my personal favorite is Zombieland Saga. It’s an idol anime, but it’s also a comedy about zombie girls who become idols. It sounds ridiculous but there’s an insane amount of heart in it regardless, it wasn’t a show I expected to get emotional at but I did! It also made me laugh a lot too. The series itself can serve as a bit of a subversion on what idols are, not just because they’re literally zombies, but because of who the characters are.

Sakura Minamoto is a character who starts off as a more typical idol, a peppy pure girl, as the series continues her struggle with depression gets highlighted. Saki Nikaido serves as her initial foil, a delinquent girl with a criminal record who subvers the idea of pure perfect idols. Ai Mizuno, a former idol who has since undergone severe trauma (The way she died). Junko Konno who has ideals that seem very different on what idols “should” be due to the time period she died. Lily Hoshikawa, an explicitly transgender idol. Yugiri nolastname, a former high ranking courtesan, subvering the pure image of an idol by being a sex worker. And Tae Yamada, a completely nonverbal idol who’s still treated with the same amount of importance as the rest of the team. The premise here really is just that these girls don’t fit the incredibly rigid mold of what idols should be and yet they still all deserve love and they gain a fanbase by being their earnest selves.

Trigger warnings for this series aren’t incredibly severe but since they’re zombies there’s still talks about death and they way they died (Including motorcycle/car accidents, plane crashes, getting struck by lightning, and a heart attack), there’s also comedic dismemberment, as in their arms just sort of pop on and off and stuff like that. The most notable thing is the deadnaming of Lily, the trans idol, by her father, but it doesn’t appear to be malicious in any way.

Note: this series is in the middle of it’s second season right now, if you want to wait until it’s over it should be 12 episodes long and just aired it’s 3rd, so about 9 more weeks.

Death Note

This is also absolutely another series that gets recommended to people right off the bat, and for good reason, this show is an intricate game of chess between a serial killer and a detective trying to catch him, and it’s incredibly easy to get super invested in the suspense of what happens next. The story begins when a shinigami, a god of death, drops his “Death Note” into the human world out of pure boredom. A Death Note is simply a notebook where if you write someone's name in it… They die! And who better to pick up such a powerful object than Light Yagami, a prodigy praised for his genius and academy accomplishments as well as his charm and popularity, and with a very strong but juvenile black-and-white sense of justice, likely due to being raised by a cop.

So naturally Light begins his power trip as soon as he finds the notebook, he intends to “fix” the world by cleansing it of all the bad people, but truly he intends to become the world’s new god. Or the “God of the new world” as he puts it. But there’s one thing standing in his way, a detective resolute on catching him with the codename L. The series entire crux is a game of cat and mouse between these two, as they try to outsmart each other and the murders continue, Light loses more and more of his humanity, L becomes more resolute on catching him. There are more twists and turns than a cheetah race, and it’s honestly pretty addictive to see what happens next.

Trigger warnings here obviously include a lot of death and murder, including suicide, but in some cases it’s a forced suicide at Light’s hands. Also abuse, as Light loses his humanity he isn’t above manipulating and discarding people who love him. And one instance of near-rape on screen fairly early on, but the purpitrator dies before it happens and the victim escapes.

K-On!

Slice-of-life is an incredibly popular genre, and K-On! is the quintessential example of it. It’s a series that not everyone will like, because not a lot truly happens, and it can be overly saccharine or “moe” for a lot of people, and that’s fine. But I personally think that despite not a lot happening, the story has genuine substance, more than you may gather at first glance. It’s true that not much in the way of big plot really happens, it’s mostly life events, that’s why it's a slice-of-life. But it’s not about nothing. The real theme of the show is the fleeting nature of youth. It’s about how important the friendships you form at that time are, how they’ll stick with you for a lifetime, and how everything comes to an end. It’s sweetness even becomes a little bittersweet because you knew their after school tea time would end come graduation, and as they realize this it breaks their hearts a little, but they continue on, because they’re still After School Tea Time!

The series itself is simply about 5 girls in a band, Yui Hirasawa on lead guitar, Mio Akiyama on the bass, Ritsu Tainaka on the Drums, Tsumugi Kotobuki on the Keyboard, and Azusa Nakano on Rhythm Guitar (Who shows up later). They’re in a club at school called the light music club where they waste a lot of their time just drinking tea and eating cake, but they’re having fun and that’s what counts! The series has a lot of really great direction and expressive animation despite the fact that a lot of it is just sitting around and talking, it’s incredibly visually interesting so you don’t get bored.

I honestly don’t think there are any big trigger warnings I can give for this series, maybe that Sawa-chan can be a little too forceful when she wants to dress up the girls in cute outfits sometimes but it’s usually not presented as too creepy especially after season 1 where they tone it down due to straying from the manga.

Mob Psycho 100

This series is an absolute love letter to the art of animation as a whole, the artstyle itself may not seem like much to look at but the animation is some of the most expressive, fluid, creative, and vibrant out there right now, it’s the type of series that you can tell was made with a real passion for its medium and it’s story. It’s protagonist is Shigeo Kageyama, nicknamed “Mob”, a term that literally means “Background character”. Mob is a middle school kid and an incredibly powerful psychic, like, insanely overpowered, but he’s currently working part time for a shady conman, Reigen Arataka. Though it may seem as if Reigen is just using Mob for his powers, their bond is actually a very sweet one and you can tell they care for each other, it’s a very important one at the heart of the series.

The core themes of the series itself are what really make it shine, it’s message is stated as clearly as possible in the opening songs, “your life is your own” and “if everyone is not special, maybe you can be what you want to be”. Put simply, you’re the protagonist of your own life, but the other important message of the series is that all the supposed background characters are just as important. The friends you make, the connections you have with other people and the way they impact you, they’re what make you strong. No one is born special, everyone is just a normal person, and everyone deserves kindness. It’s a series that I recommend incredibly strongly for just how powerfully it portrays this message.

Trigger warnings for this series include kidnapping, possession, a scene with a “man in a dress” joke, and a racist design for a background character. Also (spoilers) a scene where it seems like a child was murdered and a scene where it seems like Mob’s entire family was murdered.

Kaguya-Sama: Love Is War!

Hey, speaking of amazing animation, Kaguya-Sama is a romantic comedy series centered around the premise of two incredibly arrogant people falling in love. Kaguya Shinomiya and Miyuki Shirogane are the vice president and president of the student council at the prestigious Shuchi'in Academy, they eventually develop feelings for each other but they’re both simultaneously too proud and too insecure to admit it, so the real crux of the series is the 3D chess they play with each other to try and get the other to confess first. Along with the scatterbrained secretary, Chika Fujiawara, the treasurer in desperate need of Prozac Yu Ishigami, the cast is incredibly fun and they all fit into the comedy great. Every single little game of “do you like me?” that they play is written like the most intense thing in the world, the insane animation absolutely adds to it, making it seem almost like a psychological thriller, the comedy comes from the absurdity of just how much they hyperbolize it.

It’s not pure comedy though, due to a lot of the series being set up around mindgames, the characters are actually fairly psychologically complex with a lot of genuine development stemming from their childhood to explain why they are the way they are. The series may be about mindgames, but the actual narrative frames them as a juvenile way to go about relationships, a way to try to protect yourself from getting hurt because you’re afraid to trust. The entire core theme is that communication in relationships of any kind is the most important thing and you cant replace it with clever little tricks, so the main pair only ever make actual progress when they’re actually upfront with each other. Even if it’s scary to be that vulnerable with someone, especially if you’ve been hurt in the past like they have, the relationships you build off of mutual trust and openness will be worth the risk, and they can help heal you. And one of the things I love about the series is that this doesn’t just apply to the main pair, but it places equal emphasis on the importance of friendship. All the characters' relationships with each other are unique and interesting and they all develop the same way, with trust and openness, and they become better because of each other.

Despite being generally a comedy, a lot of the characters deal with some really heavy things too so trigger warning for: child abuse (not on-screen), child abandonment (again not on screen), anxiety and panic attacks, suicidal ideation- initionally played off as a joke but it becomes very obvious the character in question is legitimately suicidal and in the manga he nearly attempts it but is stopped, this plotpoint will most likely be in the anime at some point as it’s also not complete.

Your Lie In April

Alright I gave you a funny show now I’m going to make you cry. In fact it’s hard for me to type this synopsis because I’m an absolute crybaby and thinking about this show gets me, but I think it’s absolutely worth checking out because it’s a very beautiful sadness. Your Lie In April is a series that follows the stress and trauma young musical prodigies face in their lives, as well as the people around them, and it’s a series about the beauty of music and art, and just how much it affects people. The music in the show is absolutely gorgeous, the way that they convey emotion through it is so beautiful and intricate that it just sticks with you. You feel the music, and you understand.

I’m actually going to give the trigger warnings right now instead of at the end because in order to explain the plot I’ll have to talk about them so tw for: Child abuse (phsyical and mental, on-screen), terminal illness, death, in depth depictions of PTSD, vomiting, panic attacks, the works.

The series follows Kousei Arima, a formal piano prodigy who hasn’t performed since the death of his mother two years ago. Kousei's mother was terminally ill, but she was also incredibly abusive. Kousei has incredibly complex feelings about his mother because of this. The trauma she instilled in him is severe, but because he was a child, he still is a child, and he loved his mom a lot, as any child would, and he didn’t want her to die and he blames himself for not being good enough. He wanted to make her happy, and the only way he knew how to do that was to play the piano. So he played and played and practiced until he was perfect, they called him the human metronome. But he would still get severely punished for being anything less than perfect. He had lost all the passion he once had, and after his mother died it was the final nail in the coffin, his trauma manifests now in a way that makes him unable to play. But all that changes one day in April when he meets a violinist named Kaori Miyazono, a girl full of life and passion for music, she’s someone who according to Kousei “Exists in springtime.” and she’s going to help him play again and refined that love for music whether he wants to or not! Teen drama happens of course, but there are much bigger roadblocks ahead.

Assassination Classroom

This series is thankfully generally more lighthearted… Most of the time at least. The premise is pretty simple, but incredibly ridiculous. An incredibly powerful octopus-like creature is the teacher of a classroom of middle school students tasked with the assignment of assassinating him in order to save the world. The series starts off very slice-of-life as it focuses on introducing the very large cast of characters inside of Class E, also known as the “end class”, but it quickly gains traction and gets a lot more intense as time goes on.

The octopus creature in question, Korosensei, is actually a very kind and genuinely good teacher to all his students. The real crux of the series is that it’s sort of a critique on the educational system, the students in the end class are there because they’ve been ostracized from the rest of the campus, far away in the mountains, to be made examples of. Why? Because they’re students that are considered worthless, instead of getting help they’re only pushed back further down in the system and left to struggle within it fruitlessly. They’re given up on, despite being children with so much potential, because they don’t fit a very rigid mold. That’s what Korosensei wants to help them with, and they’re able to grow as people together. As the series progresses you feel such a great sense of unity for the class, they’re like a family, they stick together and it’s very heartwarming. And watching them work as a team of assassins is so fun!

However the series can get heavy at times too, it doesn’t stray from heavier subject matter at all and i found myself incredibly shocked by it a few times, so trigger warning for: Child abuse (on-screen and off), both at the hands of a parent and a teacher and in one case a parent who is also the principal, misgendering of a character, sometimes as a “joke” but other times played dead serious at the hands of his mother, child death- specifically suicide, a successful one as well as 3 assassination attempts that doubled as suicide attempts by the main 3 characters (weird parallel they all got there huh)

Puella Magi Madoka Magica

Honestly this is a series that is good to go in blind for if you need to tws, it’s a deconstruction of the magical girl genre, but if you don’t want to know more than that you can stop reading here. If you want to know more, it’s a series that starts off very light-hearted and in tune with typical magical girl conventions at first, however by episode 3 it’s made painfully clear that these girls are being led to sign up into something they shouldn’t. It’s heavy, though not incredibly so, but it’s also a lot to explain in a summary. Madoka magica is… It’s Faust with magical girls.

I’ll explain as much as I can without giving too much away. The story begins when Madoka Kaname and her friend Sayaka Miki encounter a creature who calls itself Kyubey, who says it can grant a wish of theirs and in exchange they have to become magical girls and fight witches. Both the girls are hesitant, but Sayaka wants to wish for her childhood friend’s injuries to be cured so he can play violin again, while Madoka is content as she is and can’t think of a wish. Luckily they have a mentor, a magical girl named Mami Tomoe who helps introduce them to everything. However something is stopping Madoka from becoming a magical girl, a mysterious new student who is also one herself, Homura Akemi, is resolute on keeping Madoka from becoming a magical girl by all means possible, for reasons Madoka doesn’t understand. Things get even more complicated when a rival magical girl shows up, Kyoko Sakura, who becomes Sayaka’s new rival. As things get more heated between those two they discover a terrible secret about the nature of magical girls, and what they truly signed up for.

Spoilers ahead but trigger warning for: Child death, parental death (backstory only), decapitation (off-screen), needles, incredibly surreal imagery inside the witch’s labyrinths that may feel unreal, mind control, suicide, depression and despair expressed by young characters. Also don't bother with Magia Record

The Disastrous Life Of Saiki K.

Alright something lighthearted now, there are a lot of comedy anime I enjoy, a lot of series that have made me laugh, but none has made me bust a gut like this series has, it’s absolutely hilarious. It follows the life of a boy named Saiki Kusuo who has psychic powers. His powers are incredibly overpowered, and he absolutely hates them, in his eyes they cause him nothing but trouble. There’s not much in the way of a plot to describe, because there isn’t any, the series is comprised of 5 minute segments surrounding Saiki and an incredibly vast and colorful cast of characters that are just all completely insane, many serve as parodies as types of anime tropes because the series as a whole is very self aware and doesn’t shy from breaking the fourth wall a lot, but the characters surrounding Saiki are what make his life… Disastrous.

Like I said there’s not really a plot to describe but like FMA people may get confused with this one, there are 3 seasons but one of them is titled “The Disastrous Life Of Saiki K: Reawakened” as is a continuation of the first two with just 6 episodes in it. Also for some reason only the second season isn’t dubbed so if you’re planning on watching it that way you’d have to either stop or switch to subs for season 2

The only major tw I can give here is an ongoing joke about a character being into his sister, he’s treated as disgusting for it of course because he’s a parody of that trope but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable, luckily he doesn’t show up much.

Little Witch Academia

Little Witch Academia is a series I personally just adore, it takes place in a world where witches are common and well-known among the people, but the era of witches is over and magic is dying out. However that doesn’t mean passion of magic doesn’t exist, the protagonist is a young girl named Atsuko Kagari, or Akko for short. She’s resolute on being just like her icon, a witch known as Shiny Chariot, as she attends the same magic school: Luna Nova! Unfortunately Akko isn’t exactly a magical prodigy, in fact she can’t even fly a broom, but that’s not gonna stop her, nothing will. Just like Chariot said, believing in yourself is your magic.

Once at school Akko gets into all types of crazy shenanigans with her with her two roommates, Lotte Yanson and Sucy Manbavaran, and occasionally her rival, Diana Cavendish. Akko still struggles a lot in school, in fact her inability with magic is pretty explicitly handled as a metaphor for a learning disability, and though this makes it harder for her she’s still resolute. Though the series is generally episodic, a concrete plot starts to form by the second core. Along with the help of her guidance counselor, Professor Ursula, Akko learns that she needs to unlock 7 “words” to bring magic back to the world, each time she learns a new one it comes with an important lesson to her and ultimately relates back to each of the core themes of the series

The series is pretty lighthearted so the biggest trigger warning I can give is one for bullying, two characters in particular tend to target Akko for not being a good witch and it can really sting to watch. Other than that none come to mind

#if you want stuff out of a more specific genre i can give a list of those too but this is like. general

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captainsimagines · 4 years ago

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Titanic || H.S

Part Five || “No Me Queda Mas”

Disclaimer: I do not own the pictures I use for title cards. Obviously.

Warnings: This book contains mature themes and discussions, such as gun violence, emotional and physical abuse, attempted suicide, mentions of blood, character deaths, heavy sexual content, and reference to the real maritime disaster of the 1912 cruise liner Titanic.

“Exactly. But if you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in there after you.“

Both Harry and Drake were up by seven in the morning, energetic and absolutely starving. They made sure to dress as quietly as they could, careful not to wake their other two roommates. They were men of the same age, around their late twenties, heading to the states to escape religious persecution. They had arrived later that day after they had picked up the remaining passengers from Ireland, both men talkative and equally as excited to start a new life. The four men chatted into the deep hours of the night and discussed a variety of topics. Perhaps the funnest topic they covered was women.

The two men were traveling with their girlfriends and since they were not legally married, they had to bunk in separate living quarters. Except their boyfriends had splurged what money they could to give them the best comfort as possible, and Harry learned their girlfriends were staying as second-class passengers. Drake made the joke about how first and second class weren’t all that different, and that these boys were living every poor man’s dream of being with a woman of practical royalty.

“They scream louder than any woman.”

“What do you mean?” Harry questioned.

“I mean,” Drake nudged his shoulder playfully, “they’re so touch-deprived that they practically melt from any man’s touch.”

“Man, shut the hell up!”

Everyone continued to joke and tease, and Harry wondered if that was indeed true. He had only been with two other women before - his first when he was seventeen and a woman he thought he loved at the age of twenty-four. He prided himself on the noises he caused, but he didn’t quite understand what Drake meant. Did upper-class women really not experience pleasure as often as women in love? Did upper-class women even fall in love? Do upper-class men not know how to perform? He understood the point of the joke, and although slightly misogynistic, Harry pondered on the societal gossip that sometimes proved true. It wasn’t like he was ever going to experience it to compare.

He and Drake tip-toed outside their room and locked it behind them. Breakfast was available until ten, but they wanted first dibs on the freshest stuff there.

It was a buffet style breakfast. They stacked their trays up high, first come - first serve, with buttered bread, sugar cookies, chicken noodle soup, and milk.

“They’re holding out on us. I saw them lugging buckets of grapes and strawberries up to first-class.”

Harry chuckled and sipped his milk, “Because they’re first-class.”

“Either way, this bread is delicious.”

And over breakfast they chatted about their past trips, skills, family, and aspirations. If it was possible, Drake spoke more than Harry. Once a conversation reached its end, Drake would easily glide into a new one. It was quite refreshing to speak to someone who didn’t shut you down or didn’t know how to carry a conversation. Harry paused Drake, however, when he mentioned that he was a trained carpenter.

“You build things?”

“Buildings. I build buildings.”

Harry shoved him, “That’s what I meant!”

Drake laughed along, “Yeah, my father was a carpenter. I built my Montana ranch from the ground up with my own two hands.”

Harry felt like meeting Drake was fate. Now he didn’t have to grovel and beg some New York carpenter to oversee the construction of a London business. If Drake agreed to help Harry build his bakery, he would at least trust the process more. A few sips of soup and some sugar cookies later and Harry considered Drake a closer friend than those he met on the playground.

“I have a proposition.”

“Well, Mr. Capitalist, I’m all ears.”

Harry grinned, “Would you like to help me build my family’s bakery? I would pay you generously and provide you housing during your extended stay in New York.”

Drake mimicked the act of deep thought, leaning forward and swishing around his cup of milk. “Hmm, a generous offer.”

“Or do you have to be back in Montana immediately?”

Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

“My brother has the ranch covered. I can write to him and let him know I’ll be bringing in a little extra cash.”

Harry jumped in his seat like an excited child, “Is that a ‘yes’?”

Drake chuckled and tried not to spill his milk as Harry shook his shoulders excitedly.

Drake was around five years older than Harry, thirty-two and thriving, so it made sense that he had this feeling of being an older brother to Harry. He was actually the youngest of his siblings, having older brothers at his side since birth. It was a blessing, and in a weird twist of plot, he felt like an attentive older brother sat here at breakfast. The way Harry’s bright smile lit up any room and the way he acted as if everything happened for a reason - he was almost tempted to give this kid the rest of his sugar cookies.

“Sure, man. I trust you’ll pay me.”

Harry nodded and while overflowing with joy, he slid his sketchbook in front of Drake and began reviewing the first couple sketches of the type of building he had in mind.

You had been kept up late by your mother’s final walk-through of your stay room, complaining there were not enough towels and not enough space for your accessories on the bedside table. She acknowledged the vastness of the ship and its wonderful hospitality, but there was always something wrong in her mind. And all you could do was nod your head as you sat impatiently in the side chair as she worked the midnight crew through each fix.

So excuse your slow responses and tiny yawns at breakfast. The tables were beginning to clear out, with many still entering for early tea or a late meal. The breeze passed through the open doors and nipped at your cheeks, waking you up slightly from the boring chatter.

As the others spoke, you couldn’t help but think about yesterday and what weird a kiss you and Cal had shared. Was it supposed to feel good? You knew Cal had other women before as he was turning thirty-six just a week after your scheduled wedding. He was never so playful, especially not in front of waiting staff, so you pondered what that change in attitude could possibly mean. Or perhaps you were thinking too much, and he really just had a lapse in judgement.

You could make out talk about the weather, America’s current stock market, and ideas about what the cooks were going to prepare later today. Speak on topics that never interested you and never will interest you carried on for a few more minutes before everyone began ordering their second course. You pulled a cigarette and its holder from your handbag, expertly placed the cigarette inside the silver and inhaled the cooled, mellowed smoke. It woke you up instantly, also calming any nerves from the night before.

You didn’t like when Cal smoked and dusted your flooring, but the presence of a holder made all the difference. No mess, no stains on your fingers - just tranquility.

Your mother cleared her throat quietly as to only alert you, watching the other occupants of your table carry on with their conversation. She unfolded her napkin and placed it carefully across her lap. “You know I don’t like when you do that in public.”

Instead of rolling your eyes at her absurd worry, you inhaled the smoke deeply and exhaled across her view, clouding her face in your personal stress release. It was a power move, a move that you were allowed to execute since she was in control of literally every other aspect of your life. A little smoke shouldn’t anger her as much as it did, but any ounce of independence you still displayed could be interpreted as plain disobedience. And disobedience of your own family meant it resulted in disobedience within a marriage. But before you could establish dominance in one area of your life - your own body - Cal reached over to pull the cigarette from its holder and extinguished it on one of the side plates. You narrowed your eyes, ashamed of the control he proved he had.

“She knows,” Cal chuckled, ignoring your look of embarrassment and instead calling over the waiter who was making his rounds.

A woman you had met briefly yesterday as she boarded from Ireland, Molly, was invited to sit at your breakfast table by one of the men here, yet you couldn’t remember which one. She was a small woman, dressed in a comfortable dress that didn’t quite match the occasion of a late breakfast, but she wore it proudly. She was sweet, strong-willed, and almost always proved louder than anyone else in the room. You liked her personality as it was entirely different from everyone else you had ever met. Although your mother called her “new money” with a nasty grimace on her face, you only saw her for what she was - independent and vocal.

But here you were now, being dehumanized in front of practical strangers, and you looked up to see Molly’s surprised expression. She lowered her arm to extinguish her own cigarette on her ashtray. To continue smoking freely after you had been refused your tiny refuge seemed wrong, improper even. But you didn’t acknowledge her action, ears perking up as Cal restated your breakfast order.

“We’ll both have the lamb, rare, with very little mint sauce.”

You absolutely hated lamb. Any type of meat, really, and the thought of having to stuff it down so you wouldn’t starve maddened you.

“You like lamb, right Sweetpea?”

You plastered a thin, wide smile as you turned to your fiancé, your face almost comical and proving so as Cal took it as a real ‘yes’.

By now your little squabble had gained attention from all at your table. Molly began laughing loudly to cut through the tension, raising her water glass to take a quick sip.

“You gonna cut and chew her meat there too, huh Cal?”

Your mother turned to her sharply but Molly was unmoved, deciding to change the subject to something more interesting. Cal interlocked his fingers together and rested his hands above his belt buckle, looking across the table at Molly with a more calm look compared to your mother, but still hardened with displeasure.

“Say, who thought of the name ‘Titanic’? Was it you, Bruce?” Molly asked.

Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star Line, seemed ecstatic to receive questions about the ship. As of that month, it was his greatest accomplishment and current world wonder, his newborn creation that deserved any and all praise given. He nodded happily and swallowed the piece of fruit hurriedly to answer Molly’s question.

“Yes, yes,” he answered, cleaning his mouth with a napkin. “Mr. Andrews here built her from the ground up!”

Thomas Andrews, a shipbuilder and main architect for Titanic, was shy with any compliment he received, deciding to accept the praise quickly and return the attention back to Ismay. “But the idea was all Mr. Ismay’s! He envisioned a liner so grand in scale...”

You began to drown the conversation out. Cal insisted on dining with specific groups of people. From your point of view, it worked almost like a ranking. Ismay and Andrews were certainly important people on this ship and had first hand experience with such social circles, but they were no John Jacob Astor. The most Cal and your mother did was share morning greetings with Astor, who dined with his wife in a more private section of the same dining hall. Cal had always maintained your titles of royalty, saying that only a few dollars here and there separated you from a higher connection. And at dinner time your group expanded, including around ten others who were just as respectable.

“I wanted to convey sheer size with her name! And size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength,” Ismay spoke.

You sucked in a low breath, ready to make a select few laugh and others seethe. “Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay?”

Mr. Ismay turned to you in silent astonishment, surprised by the first complete sentence you had spoken all breakfast. But he smiled and shook his head ‘no’ at the name. You felt your mother reach her hand under the table to cup your arm.

“His opinion about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.”

Your mother’s fingernails dug deep into your forearm. “What has gotten into you?”

But Molly and Mr. Andrews enjoyed your comment, laughing under their breaths.

You smiled sweetly and tore your arm away from your mother, standing and excusing yourself from the table. Both Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews stood out of respect for your departure. You exited the room to walk out on deck.

Cal took in slow breaths to steady his rising anger, avoiding other’s eyes so that they wouldn’t notice the effect you had on him. But Molly, with her rapid wit and steady toughness, wouldn’t let Cal live this down.

“She’s a pistol, Cal. Hope you can handle her!”

Cal crinkled his eyes and chuckled as to brush off your misbehavior. “I might just have to mind what she reads from now on, don’t I?”

Mr. Ismay sat down and readjusted his tie. “Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?”

It was bullshit that third-class passengers were barred from touring certain areas of the ship. All Harry wanted was a better view of the ship’s structure so he could outline it. He mainly drew portraits but he had promised his mother he would show her his drawings of the best parts of the ship, like the grand staircase, fashion, the giant steam funnels, even the food. But third-class passengers weren’t allowed in first-class areas without the proper approval, having to eat from a choice of about four foods each day and reduced to simply imagining what the giant clock looked like.

So Harry doodled anything he found interesting - the dogs who traveled down to third-class to take a shit, the coast of Ireland as Titanic sailed past, and third-class passengers with their children, card games, and instruments. He was currently drawing a man holding his daughter up against the railing to see the water, focusing on the detail of their clothing and their happy expressions. Drake watched Harry work his magic, grinning every single time Harry drew the next precise detail accurately. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge, but Drake swore that every human wanted to have this specific talent. Anyone who disagreed wasn’t human.

“I can’t believe you got the eyes right,” Drake scoffed, inhaling smoke from his reduced cigarette.

Harry grinned at the comment, smudging the charcoal over the two foreheads to create the shading. Looking from the models to his paper, he completed another detail that impressed his friend. He was almost finished, brushing his index finger over certain parts. Drake greeted some friends he met at last night’s dinner as they walked past and rested in the surrounding benches. He motioned them over to Harry’s work.

Drake nodded in approval at all the compliments Harry received, “Do you make any money off your drawings?”

It’s quite possibly every artist’s worst nightmare, to scribble incorrectly over a good drawing, completely ruining the fine detail it took too long to accomplish. But as Harry’s pencil scraped over that crumpled piece of paper, the air around him and the water under him spoke to his artistic desires, telling him to wreak havoc on his flimsy sheet and to never stop. The somewhat endless black line did indeed stop once it reached the edge and to the fabric of his tan pants, leaving a light but visible charcoal mesh on his only pair. His eyes, as well as his clouded mind, ignored his major mistake and instead focused on the yellow fabric that begged to flap higher in the cool, ocean breeze.

His eyes traveled through every detail- the white lace clinging to the base yellow, the pearls hugging your waistline and wrapping around your backside to function as buttons, the baroque beauty of your neck and the lace wrapped around it, your brown skin glistening underneath the sun, and your red lips sculpted into a memorable pout - all of it entered Harry’s viewpoint in what seemed like forever but only took a mere second. One glorious second for Harry to stumble into a world he knew he could never abandon. The curl in your hair, the frown on your face, the gentle nature of your grip on the forbidden first-class railing - all of it a disastrous craving that would for sure develop into a blister on the lip if Harry didn’t get a smell of your lavish locks and accidentally brush the tip of his nose against the priceless diamonds draped through each curl, or get a taste of the red syrup staining your plump lips and accidentally bite it a little too hard to muster a moan of pleasure rich women kill to produce, or get to feel the touch of your fingertips against his palms, his face, his chest, his back as you left streaks of bright red. These prohibited images knocked against the padded confines of his thick skull and he felt like he completely violated the law with such an absurd idea.

But as you furrowed your eyebrows and focused on another focal point - Harry himself - he felt as if every inch of your being was worth being imprisoned for. His forbidden sweet creature.

You stared at the stranger briefly before looking back at the waves beyond the bow of the ship. Yet, you continued to feel his powerful gaze. You didn’t feel uncomfortable with his locked stare, but you wondered if he was possessed, spiraling through a trance that you had become a victim of. Was his gaze good or bad? Was he seriously entranced or judging your physique? Walking away would break the spell, but you stayed glued to the railing for some reason, watching the waves make way for Titanic’s many entrances.

You heard the voice in your head instruct your view to stay on the water, but you disobeyed for once, unaware of such a lovely decision until you locked eyes with your third-class admirer. You have always gotten attention from anyone you encountered, both pleasant and unpleasant, but attention nonetheless. And the waves of this particular admiration traveled through the misty breeze and onto your blushed cheeks, pinching them with a silent yelp, a plea, an almost beggarly request for your consideration. So you obliged its want, gazing across the third-class gatherings to the man sitting on one of the few benches on deck, surrounded by confused and teasing passengers who looked between you and him, wondering if you were going to break first from the rare situation. A situation that many never considered legitimate, possible, or even appropriate. But the lot of you were on the blue waves and the bubbly foam and the impressive craft of a thousand good Irishmen that welcomed the rare and extraordinary.

He was attractive - his short hair dancing in the air one curl at a time, his broad form rising to sit up straight when he realized you were also admiring him, and his eyes never blinking as to not miss anything you might do. And he had this magnetic pull, almost as if he was screaming at you to come down and speak with him. You felt somewhat disgusted with yourself, imagining a normal conversation with a normal person, a very handsome person, whose gaze alone made you feel a tingle at your fingertips and caused a tiny grin to break on your face. It wasn’t appropriate to be thinking of another man this way when you had never felt this way for the man you were to marry. And yesterday’s kiss did not equate to the powerful senses you were currently experiencing.

You hoped he didn’t see your grin, but Harry did. He caught it instantly, his heart pounding and his hands instructing him to quickly sketch the curve.

By now Drake was waving a hand over Harry’s face to see if that broke off his view, but Harry simply leaned forward, unaware of the obstruction and oh so enchanted by that tiny grin you hadn’t dropped.

“Oh, forget it, Harry! It’s like angels flying out your ass to get next to the likes of her.”

To be seen, thought of, recognized as a human being and not glossed over as some extra - the recognition of plain existence excited you to new extremes. And just as your mind told you to unlock the first-class gate and venture over to your admirer, real life interrupted in the form of Cal’s tamed grip on your upper arm.

You dropped your gaze quickly, hoping Cal did not realize your original viewpoint, and looked down at the unwanted physical connection between you.

"Why must you defy your mother’s orders and misbehave in front of friends?”

You pulled yourself away from his tightening grip. “I have already received this lecture from my own mother. I do not need to hear it again.”

Cal let out a low chuckle, “Then why must you not listen? You embarrassed me.”

You fought the urge to yell and relay yet another disapproving tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m not feeling well this morning.”

And with that fake apology, Cal hummed in sympathy and tugged you in for a short hug. “Why didn’t you just say so? It could have saved us the humiliation.”

You sucked in a harsh breath at his choice of words to avoid the frustrated tears, pulling away and patting his chest as you excused yourself to your stay room. He groaned as he suspected he had done something else wrong, but did not dare to follow you this time.

Drake shook his head in discontent, “A man like that should be grateful to have a woman like her.”

Other passengers shared their agreement, whistling and all. They teased Harry and shoved him playfully, congratulating him for the impossible. And as you walked from Harry’s eyesight back into the ship, he rejoined the conversation briefly before he began a simple illustration of your eyes.

Drake sat back down on the same bench as Harry as all the chatter died down, looking over at Harry’s paper. He rolled his eyes and smiled.

“She really did a number on you, huh? I’m all for going after the unreachable but this is truly unreachable, boy-yo.”

Harry stopped his tracing to look up at Drake, “I know… but she saw me, too.”

Drake furrowed his eyebrows, wondering if Harry was simply awestruck or serious. And with a slight chuckle of disbelief, Drake muttered, “that she did.”

A moment passed before Drake spoke again, deciding on letting Harry live in his little fantasy for the rest of the day. He tapped Harry’s stack of papers with his index finger. “I’m sure you’ll do her justice.”

And Harry did.

If you stood in the middle of the room and screamed at the top of your lungs, you were certain no one would even look up. Because besides your impressive attitude you were known for, your problems seemed minuscule compared to others. No one seemed to piece together why you were the way you were, opting for society’s sexist explanations instead of simply asking you.

Just a few hours ago you were seen and not looked over quickly - you felt appreciated and noticed. Now, even in a room with hundreds of people and many sat at the same table as you, you weren’t even acknowledged. Perhaps it was because you never spoke - you couldn’t blame them for not noticing you then. But then again, when you did speak and Cal silenced or interrupted you, discrediting even opinions, no one minded.

They were the same endless parties, the same narrow people, and the same mindless chatter. Like they flipped a switch each night and wiped their slate clean, ready for the same routine the very next day with no complaints at all. And it frightened you that this would remain your routine, the same routine you had already lived for twenty-two years, with no way out and no ‘off’ button.

You felt as if you were floating away, heavy and lightweight at the same time, feeling yourself blink every few minutes. Your eyes focused on one point - the ashtray in the middle of the rounded table, even as people from surrounding tables came to greet your mother and Cal. You kept track of time by the impressive height of the gray ash, some landing outside the tray and onto plates. It grew higher… and higher… and your food was barely picked at, Cal was reaching over you every so often to tap his cigarette on the tray, and your mother was on her fourth glass of champagne.

They didn’t see that you weren’t eating. How does someone not notice that someone isn’t eating at a dinner?

You reached over for your champagne glass, your hand shaking slightly as you downed the rest of it. Everyone’s voices were becoming silent, like you were covering both ears or going deaf, and as Cal reached over to give you a kiss on the cheek, your eyes were suddenly heavy.

“Please, excuse me, Cal. I need to run to our room really quickly.”

Cal paused his conversation with Astor to turn to you. “Are you alright? Would you like me to escort you to the cabin?”

And you smiled, “I’ll be fine.”

It was a really nice gesture, but in Cal’s mind it was simple chivalry.

You stood up, your feet sore and the nerves bunching together throughout your legs. The laughter seemed to grow as you exited, and now those nerves shocked you into running.

You barged into your stay room, ignoring the obvious worry the staff gave you, their questions of tea or more blankets flying over your head. You simply speed-walked past them, hiding your face behind your curls so they would not see your very real tears, staining the powder on your cheeks and leaving visible streaks lighter than your natural color. You leaned back on the door and tried to drown out the drunken laughs and loud violins. Controlling your breathing was easy at first until you opened your eyes and saw a mass explosion of gold, the intricate designs of each piece of cloth, the carvings in the wood encasing your mirror, your freshly made bed that Cal had jokingly suggested he’d crawl into late at night. You swallowed the itch in your throat, walking to the make-up table to drop the pins you began tearing from your hair. One-by-one you let each curl fall to your shoulder, their lost weight causing your headband of diamonds to fall to the floor. You silently deliberated what the name of your maid was, cursing yourself for forgetting when she had so nicely introduced herself last night. But then her name slid from your tongue, and you almost cried from the sudden joy.

“Trudy?” you called, starting to hyperventilate. “Trudy?”

You reached behind you to unbutton your dress, but your shoulders just wouldn’t bend far enough. Suffocated, you clawed at the loose hanging jewels instead, pinching and stretching the skin on your back that you could reach.

“Trudy!” you began to choke on your breath, yelling louder each time you called the maid. So you tugged and ripped the silver necklace from your neck, threw your jewelry box across the room, and tossed a few perfume bottles you had packed so delicately against the wall.

“I can’t... I can’t,” you cried, knees partially crumbling beneath you as you leaned against the chair. You lifted your head to witness your disheveled look, hair a mess and mascara smudged just below your water line. Lips quivering, an intense wave of self-pity and self-hatred drowning your thoughts, exclaiming the few words that actually made it through your sore skull. You listened to them, repeated and mean, basically ordering you to listen and to follow.

“Ya no queda mas.”

There is nothing left.

You were indeed a follower - and you were going to oblige.

And so you abandoned everything, opening your room door and running through the crowded hallway full of oblivious passengers who swam in the bliss of a full stomach and buzzed fingertips and toes.

You ran across the deck to the stern of the ship, careless as to who or what you toppled along the way. Of course everyone took an interest, calling out to see if you needed assistance. But as you left their eyesight, their worry diminished and they assumed someone else would offer a hand. One right after the other, they allowed you to cross their paths and leave it in an instant.

Harry lay on a third-class bench, staring up at the starry night. With a cigarette in one hand and the other stuffed away warmly in his coat pocket, he wondered just exactly where in the hell that damn ‘Big Dipper’ was. Or the little one. Hell, any constellation for that matter. He loved watching the night sky, but the city smog hid most of the stars. Now, with only the steam from the funnels blocking his view, he focused on every star individually, losing track of them as time passed, each one beginning to look the same in size but different in brightness. They formed all kinds of shapes in Harry’s mind, but he could not find those documented ones the astronomers raved on about.

He could have sworn he saw the rectangular shape slightly, its handle coming into existence as the sound of sobbing arrived and left in a flash. He lifted himself up, cigarette hanging from his pink lips and eyebrows scrunched in confusion. He watched as you continued running, pausing to catch your breath at one of the benches.

He recognized that beautiful brown skin anywhere.

His feet hit the deck floor immediately once he saw that you weren’t stopping, instead walking towards the stern railing and looking over into the water. He jogged lightly, careful not to make much noise as you contemplated such a drastic decision. Perhaps you were going to change your mind, step away, take a deep breath and go back to your endless desserts and musical concerts. But he quickly hid behind a pole when you checked to see if anyone had followed you, slightly disappointed in the fact that no one did, and stepped onto the railing and swung a leg over.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, his mind racing and thinking of a way to calmly and safely get you back onto the deck without frightening you. If he were to jump out now, you were for sure going to let go.

You turned around once more and back toward the water, this small gesture of goodbye to the ship and all on it finally settling within you. The waves were dark, not light blue like they were during the daytime. And they sounded louder and more angry, taunting you instead of offering tranquility. The thought of jumping when the sun was out danced around in your head, a more vibrant suicide seeming better suited for your needs.

But maybe you deserved to die in the dark with no other sound besides the unnerving crashing of water and massive propellers in a never ending motion of slicing. You thought about Cal and almost immediately recoiled, the last thought before you died an unhappy thought and not at all what you wanted it to be. Perhaps your mother or your father. Trudy. No one seemed to properly fit, so you settled on the image of your famed racehorse as you leaned away from the railing, hanging off and ready to fall. Your racehorse, dark brown and majestic, waiting for you to come home.

“Don’t do it.”

You gripped the railing tight, unaware that your initial hold was so loose, and you were moments away from leaving your misery behind.

You whipped your head to see who had followed you, stunned that this person was not from the first-class - the class that prides themselves on their selflessness and courage. He was from the third - the class that truly embodied all things selfless and are crucified for it.

“Stay back,” you begged, raising one hand up as if to physically stop him, but you quickly regretted it as you felt the tough winds push you ever so slightly. “Please don’t come near me.”

Harry contemplated his next move, inhaling some final smoke from his cigarette and stepped closer. He showed you the cigarette, stepping towards the railing to throw it overboard.

It was smart, you thought. He was going to come closer, you knew that. But to do it so discreetly as to not scare you - you were kind of grateful.

“Please just leave me alone,” you sobbed, looking back down to the rushing water. “I’ll let go.”

Harry stood dumbfounded, hands in his pockets and worry etched into his face. He remained calm, however, trusting in himself to sweet talk you back over the railing.

He cleared his throat, “No, you won’t.”

You scoffed, newly formed tears threatening to leave your eyes. “What?”

“You won’t do it.”

This time you looked up to the starry sky to gain clearance in thought but were intrigued nonetheless. Either you could snap at him and jump, or you could listen and come back over the railing. All you wanted to do now was sleep, as your head began feeling heavier by the second.

“What are you going on about? Don’t presume to tell me what I will or will not do! You don’t know me.”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly, still trying to calm the situation down as easily as he could. But as your hands turned whiter as your grip strengthened and your voice began to crack, Harry knew he had to convince you this was not the answer.

He didn’t quite understand it - wanting to end your life at such a young age. By the look of your clothes and make-up, Harry could tell you had most material things the people in third-class would kill for. But there were sparkly tears on your waterline, contradicting the image of glory and wealth you so effortlessly portrayed, and the sounds of crashing waves waiting to gobble you up - the sense of you, the mere idea of that glory and wealth, - it absolutely bombarded any quick wit or joke Harry’s mouth was thinking of spitting. All rational from here on out.

“I’m sorry,” Harry spoke, bringing his hands up to breathe warm air into them. “I just don’t want you to experience the dip, is all.”

You stayed silent, staring at him as he stared at you.

“You know the water’s freezing. If you were to survive the fall, the cold would probably hurt more.”

Now your bottom lip quivered and the sudden realization of how cold the night air actually was hit you at that exact moment, and you internally begged for the stranger to step closer. “How cold?”

Harry shrugged, still trying his best to remain casual. “Most likely a couple degrees over.”

You stared at the black abyss beneath you, “I bet that would hurt.”

Harry chuckled lowly, taking the risk and stepping closer to you that a simple turn of the head was enough to see his whole face. And it dawned on you, swiftly and surely, that this was the boy who could not seem to stop staring at you earlier. He was much more handsome up close, and his voice was the final piece of the puzzle. “Exactly. But if you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in there after you.”

You laughed dryly, “You’re crazy. Absurd. The fall alone would kill you.”

Harry smirked to himself, focused on the way your wavy hair flew in all directions. He was getting you to speak more. He was buying time. So, he removed his jacket and warm vest to prove his statement.

“Yeah, it would hurt,” Harry shrugged, finally stepping close enough to hang across the railing with you. He glanced down to your shivering feet, fearful that the heels would unlock themselves and send you free falling. “Trust me, you don’t want to do this-”

“And how do you know that? Maybe I want to… die.” It resonated as a question in both your minds, the sinking sensation overwhelming your chest.

“We all die someday. I think the best part is not knowing when.”

You observed the boy’s face, studying his expression to somehow gain a better explanation as to what he possibly meant. You swallowed more tears, this time speaking in a low whisper.

“I can easily predict when.”

Harry actually felt his stomach clench.

You continued, “It’s probably already planned, with as many as two-hundred guests in attendance, and an open bar.”

Harry shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s difficult to respond to that.”

You gave him a small smile, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Whether you meant that in a sincere or disrespectful way, Harry was hurt by the comment nonetheless.

“I know you’re angry, but trust me,” he redirected, an attempt to forget suicidal intentions and reasons and focus on the actual present moment itself. “Water that cold, like right down there… it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe, can’t think-”

You closed your eyes, eyebrows scrunched and suddenly so very cold. “Okay, please stop.”

Harry watched as your skin produced goosebumps and your grip tightened even more. It was a sign of victory, he thought. “I’m just hoping you’ll save me the swim by coming back over the railing.”

You sighed deeply, the air you expelled turning into the cold breeze itself, mixing with the shaky breaths of the one person on this whole damn ship to hear your screams. And you didn’t even physically cry out.

“Come back with me. Trust me, you don’t wanna do this.”

You reached your arm over to prepare for the turn, but instead of gripping the railing like you expected, a warm hand gripped yours instead, tightly, and his thumb immediately began rubbing your knuckles in a soothing motion. He helped you turn back toward the ship, hands now gripping both of yours.

He smiled up at you, his eyes almost watering from the unnoticed stress that was building within him. You grinned slightly, giving a small shrug of the shoulders as the silence broke.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Harry grasped your hands tighter, “Hey, me neither. Do you know how many rats welcomed me in my cabin yesterday?”

You laughed (somewhere between a laugh and a snort), forgetting momentarily that the two of you were standing in dangerous positions exchanging quiet words.

“Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. I’m Harry Styles.”

“I’m-”

“An absolute blooming rose.”

Your eyes widened momentarily, the moment passing with an awareness of peace from the sudden declaration of recorded beauty. You told him your real name anyway, absolutely loving the way it sounded in a british accent, his british accent, but the ‘blooming rose’ reference remained number one. There, with your body still on the wrong side of the ship and his hands now clutching your upper arm and elbow to begin pulling you over - there you were actually content with your current life.

“Up you go.”

You raised one leg to step up a rail, unaware that the beaded lace part of your dress was longer than the rest. It caused a severe slip, and before you knew what was happening, you were falling. You screamed, one hand barely catching the railing and the other arm suffering Harry’s grip and digging nails.

“Harry!”

Harry cried out in distress, almost going over himself. He locked his feet to the ground and against the ship, thighs pressed against the railing, and attempted to pull you up.

“C’mon, you can do it! You gotta climb, too!”

You followed his instructions, trying to climb the railing like a ladder with your free hand. But as you got higher and your legs remained swinging mindlessly against the wet ship, you slipped lower.

“Help me! Help me, please!” you yelled, to Harry and to anyone else who would hear, the ocean now loud with the outrage of your absence.

Harry could feel his heart exploding from the adrenaline spiking as he looked down at your terrified face, relying solely on him to save your life. The whole time he spoke with you he was frightened of the possibility of you letting go or accidentally falling, but now that he could visibly see that you most certainly did not want to die this way, he was mortified.

“I got you, okay?” Harry waited to shout again until you looked back up to him. “I got you.”

You nodded the best you could, the tears still dripping from your eyes and nose, determined to hear his frightened voice.

“I won’t let go! I promise. Now, pull yourself up!”

It took everything in you to support your own body weight with a corset strangling you at the same time, but you gripped the rails and then Harry’s shoulder. The corset made it more difficult to breathe, but you compiled the last pinches of energy and strength within you and aided Harry in your rescue. You groaned as your knees stabbed into the top bar, but the feeling of Harry’s arms wrapping around your waist to pull you over fully eradicated that pain. You two toppled over onto the safe deck, rolling over each other with a loud thud. Harry stayed glued to your waist while you gripped the deck with your nails.

In such a climactic moment, the two of you didn’t notice three members of the crew running toward you with no clue as to what just occurred.

“What’s all this?”

Your dress had ripped slightly, and due to your bedroom tantrum and the high winds, your hair was in absolute disorder. You had no coat on, tears streamed down your face, and a third-class man was hovering over your trembling body. And the crew failed to detect the similar shaking of Harry’s large frame or his scared expression, instead pointing a finger at him and labeling him the guilty party.

“Don’t you move an inch,” a crew member warned, stepping toward Harry and dragging him away from you. Two of the men swooped in to scoop you up, checking for signs of harm.

Your frantic eyes searched for Harry, but he was already looking at you, slightly disappointed and eager to prove himself innocent without throwing you into the cold water himself by revealing the truth.

Finally, they have met lol. xxMoni

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lilydalexf · 4 years ago

Photo

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Piper Sargasso

Piper Sargasso has 25 stories at Gossamer, but don’t miss her website where the fics each have cover collage art. If you are a fan of Mulder/Scully romance, there are a lot of MSR fics to read that are set in different seasons of the show. But like the show that never stuck to one type of story, Piper’s stories have variety, so you can also find AUs and /Other. Big thanks to Piper for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

It does, but I love that people are still into it! Writers back in the day put so much work and love into their writing, and it's nice to know that the stories are still being appreciated to this day. As for my own stories, it puts a huge smile on my face to know there are still people out there checking them out and hopefully enjoying them.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

It was such a positive period of my life. I made some amazing friends who became something like older sisters (and some brothers) to me, even though I was a little ridiculous when I was in my early to mid-twenties. It was also a much-needed confidence booster. I was a pretty shy person and loved writing, but never had the nerve to show anything to anyone. My first fanfic was completely horrible, but because of it I made my first XF friend and super beta, Mimic117. Between her guidance and the encouraging words from my Yahoo group I was able to do something I really loved and felt great about myself and my abilities for the first time. That will stay with me forever. That first story was truly atrocious, but it was a catalyst for great things in my life when I needed them the most.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

I remember trying this cool new thing called an AOL chat room, but they were more interested in perving on each other than talking about the show. Once I knew about fanfiction I kept seeing that some of my favorite authors kept mentioning IWTBXF in their notes, a Yahoo group named I Want to Believe. I looked it up, joined, and with great trepidation made my introductory post. Everyone was so warm and welcoming, and talking to my favorite authors in the group was a little like meeting a celebrity and finding out that they're awesome in real life. After IWTBXF fell apart, an off-shoot called Beyond the Sea was created with almost all of the original group transferring over. I stuck to my little family there and didn't branch out into much else, other than the rare dip into Haven. Ephemeral and Gossamer, of course.

What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

Mostly the overwhelming feeling of acceptance and confidence to write, something I was sorely lacking before in my life. I fell in with the best group, that's for sure! They made me feel like being a professional writer could be an achievable goal.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

The commercial advertising. The pilot spoke to my supernatural-loving, angsty 15 year-old soul. I watched it religiously every week. There was nothing like it. It was off-beat, but serious (most of the time) and fulfilled my insatiable craving for the paranormal and weird. You just couldn't get that from Melrose Place and Beavis and Butthead, you know? It definitely helped that David Duchovny was adorable and the character of Scully was the strong and intelligent icon we needed in the 90's and beyond.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

In high school I had a friend who was as obsessed with the show as I was. Maybe more, since she once had a slumber party that was exclusively to binge watch her taped episodes (the other girls who wanted to mess around with spells and the Ouija board weren't thrilled that she couldn't be swayed away from it) and she often drove me from play rehearsals in her convertible with the top down and the theme song blasting to the heavens, much to my delight and mortification. A couple years after we graduated she told me about the piece of fanfic she wrote. Insert a record screech here. What?! You mean there are thousands of stories dedicated to my favorite show? And hundreds more get added every month?! I was obsessed. If I could've stopped working and slept at my computer desk I would have.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

Sadly it's nonexistent these days. I have great memories and it holds a big piece of my heart, but I haven't been active in a long time. I would love to see a huge revival, and would definitely want to be involved in that in some way, were it to happen.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

I read a lot of Harry Potter fanfiction for a while, but I never could expend the kind of energy and time I did for the X-Files fandom. It came at a perfect time in my life, and so far nothing else has measured up to it.

Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

Besides XF characters? Off the top of my head I really love Hermione Granger, Buffy Summers, Elizabeth Bennet, and Claire Fraser for their sass and strength of character, Severus Snape for his complexity, and Christina Ricci's version of Wednesday Addams for her pure awesomeness. She's pretty much my spirit animal.

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

I do occasionally. I watched the series from season 1-7 so many times that I started to burn out, but I get on my X-Files kicks sometimes and binge it again.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

Like with the show, I'll get nostalgic and need to consume all the fanfics my greedy little eyes can behold until I move on to something else. It can feel a little lonely though, if you'll excuse the drama. We're not in the heyday anymore, so it feels a little like walking through a ghost town. Many of the stories out there are suspended in time because the show ended, or people stopped writing.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

I know I have dozens, but I'm drawing a blank. My ultimate favorite is any well-written MSR casefile with UST finally resulting in RST. Those are my unicorns!

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

I have a silly one called Baby, It's Cold Outside that I sometimes read around Christmastime. It was a fluffy song-fic, but I can see the scene so clearly in my mind when I read it and it's just pure fun. I also like my Donnie Pfaster series. I can see the potential in my writing with those, which makes me feel I could really write something special someday. Plus, he's such an interesting little slimeball to write and read about. Bless his heart.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I still think about the two WIPs I haven't finished. I wrote myself into a corner with This Mortal Coil, and honestly I think it needs a total overhaul. I think Dana Scully's Diary would be a fun one to finish. I hate that I never finished them.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I think about writing fanfic now and then and I've had a couple original novels sketched out, but there are so many other demands on my time that I haven't gotten very far. I still plan to see the novels through, even if no one but interested friends and family read them.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

I used to watch an episode and really study the actors' expressions and actions, always trying to find new angles to the stories we all know. A lot of times things would just come to me and I'd get so excited I couldn't sleep until I wrote a good chunk of it down.

What's the story behind your pen name?

The friend who introduced me to fanfic told me the best way to choose a pen name was to make sure it derives from the show. For a couple days I looked at the titles and summaries of episodes and agonized over just the right name. Finally Piper Maru and the summary from Triangle, which mentions the Sargasso sea, stood out and just clicked.

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

My now husband always knew, and he thought it was cool that I had a hobby that made me so happy, but he was never a reader. My parents found out when I was about 24 and my step-dad would tell EVERYONE about it, much to my horror. Most reactions were of the bland, "Oh yeah? That's nice." variety but I definitely got some weird looks from others. The worst was when I found out how much of my racier MSR stories my parents read. My step-dad thought it was hilarious and teased me a little. My usually open-minded mom was uncomfortable, but tried to be supportive. It's all fun and games until your daughter starts writing psuedo-erotica for anyone to see!

Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

Circe Invidiosa very generously hosts a page for me at http://pipers.invidiosa.com.

(Posted by Lilydale on January 26, 2021)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #piper sargasso

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oftenderweapons · 4 years ago

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Introducing: the girlfriends — Lace

Hello cherry blossoms!

Since the girlfriends will feature as original characters in some of the pieces I’ve planned, in this small serie you will find some general information about the girls, presented with their aesthetics. Here you will find Taehyung’s Lace. She will also be featured, together with Princess, in the next piece so I think this introduction will help you get acquainted with her as a character.

NSFW material included. Read at your own risk.

Here you can find my masterlist :)

Enjoy!!!

Lace is a lady through and through. She is tough and elegant, apparently cold but extremely affectionate with those she loves. She is close friends with Vixen. During her university years, she was Princess’ flatmate, even though they got out of touch because of Princess moving out of the neighbourhood and both of them getting really busy with their jobs.

Just like Princess, Lace too works in the fashion industry, more precisely she is a shop assistant — soon shop manager — in a store of an extremely famous and expensive brand of lingerie. She is also a skilled tailor and has her own lab where she makes customised lingerie: she dreams of it becoming her main occupation someday. She is maybe the same age as Taehyung or a couple years older.

In terms of physical appearance, she is curvy and quite “fleshy” — imagine a diva from the Sixties like Liz Taylor or Sophia Loren. She perfectly knows how to wear her curves, chinching her waist and pushing up her breasts in tailored corsets and bustiers, however she is often dressed up in pretty and elegant vintage style, complimenting her sinful physique in classy and modest outfits. She most definitely has love handles and round, soft hips: her body is the definition of femininity and she struts in it like a model. Her confidence is what makes her look so sexy, even if society might not approve of her body.

Taehyung has a very soft spot for her body; he loves the feel of her under his fingers, gripping her flesh. He loves the texture, consistency and the concrete materiality of her, her body making her look like a diva (and totally his wet dream) but also feeling so real and carnal.

Lace and Taehyung are basically a real life example of Gomez and Morticia Addams. They’re passionately, foolishly, sinfully in love with each other. He worships her like a goddess and follows her with heart eyes like a tail-wagging puppy. Lace might look like a cold minx, but behind closed doors she literally adores him, in every possible way.

Taehyung fell for her with a coup de foudre — as if struck by a lightning — literally love at first sight. Lace was more wary about her crush: she takes it easy because she is awfully afraid of the intensity with which Teahyung entered her mind and her soul, and she hopes that such power is not a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.

Their dates include mostly art galleries and parks, but also old movie marathons, which she watches for fashion inspiration and for their dreamy romance. During said marathons, they lay side by side, with Taehyung’s hand toying with her hair, and Lace’s nails gently scraping against his nape. Sometimes they watch a film they have already seen so that they can make out without missing out on anything. Expect romantic getaways. Lots of them. Taehyung loves big European cities such as Paris, London, Amsterdam and Prague, and Lace likes following him whenever she can, enjoying a few days of art and food and steamy romance.

They are not afraid of being affectionate in public: at the beginning she is a bit shy and cold, but as she gets used to continuous public exposure, she grows more comfortable and daring, indulging Taehyung in his very public gestures of affection. He often places his arm around her waist, leaning down to whisper things in her ear, exchanging flirty smiles with her and comfortably placing a kiss on her lips every now and then, though I think they leave more thorough tongue tango for the bedroom. Yes, they are king and queen of making out, and if they’re tipsy enough, they would most definitely do that in front of friends and acquaintances, not really caring about by-standers.

Taehyung is her little cuddlebug, hugging her and rubbing his face against her chest whenever he comes home after a bad day. He likes it when she scrapes his scalp gently, as if petting a cat, and when she tuts at him because he’s tickling her with his hair. Her affection is often very sensual, with nails drawing patterns on his naked skin, always trying to get beneath his clothes, where she can feel his warmth and the goosebumps she causes with her touch. On the other hand, Taehyung can be extremely playful and innocent in his affection, drawing every feature on Lace’s face with his fingers, kissing her head and rubbing his face against her chest and neck to feel her skin against his lips and the peculiar scent of her perfume. He gifts her a lot of presents, from small inexpensive ones to extremely costly items — yes, you can guess what they are.

Lace is Taehyung’s girlfriend and lover — she perfectly embodies the duality of a refined, confident lady, and the kinkiest freak in the sheets — giving him the love and support of a relationship and the sinful desire of an affair.

She is a domme. During her university years she went through hard times which brought her closer to the BDSM culture. Through learning dominance and discipline in fields like bondage and sadomasochism, she gained strength, maturity, self-esteem and confidence. Her aplomb and savoir faire attract Taehyung immensely, and he gladly lets her take control every now and then; however since their very first encounter, Lace felt something change within her when she was around him, and her sudden willingness to yield to Taehyung made her realise that he was a man she’d gladly be submissive and sell her soul for. Even though there’s not much power imbalance between them, they do partake in extremely daring practices, involving principally sensation play and various forms of bondage, but occasionally also impact play. They experiment with several varieties of sensations, from temperature, to tickling, to pinching and grazing. Their tactile dimension is very strong, and both like focusing on touch during foreplay and intercourse, which often leads to blindfolds or making love in a completely dark room. On the other hand, they both enjoy watching and being seen, in a magnificent combination of voyeurism and exhibitionism. It isn’t rare for them to sit at the opposites end of the bed and masturbate in front of each other. Their "blind" sensorial explorations and their openness have removed shame from their relationship — Taehyung's extremely thorough perlustrarion of Lace's sensitive body allow him to play her like an instrument with sage, talented fingers.

Lace likes showing her submission through blowjobs, especially with Taehyung standing on his feet while she’s kneeling before him. Taehyung likes tormenting her with long edging sessions before making her come undone round after round, with his fingers, mouth and cock. He especially enjoys wrecking her, using her toys to stretch her out, but also making her cum before he enters her, enjoying her tightness after an orgasm. He experiments without prejudice, sometimes improvising extravagant tricks to turn her on in some genial way. He is ruthless, but also fully and recklessly devoted to Lace’s pleasure, his only goal seeing her spent and naked on his sheets, possibly with his length still sheathed inside her. No matter how harsh or soft the scene, their ultimate goal is the sense of unity they feel once they’re done and ready for a nap or for sleep. Napping while cockwarming is a must: they won’t stop until they’re completely spent and once they've finished, they simply lay there, looking at each other, exchanging small kisses and feeling like one single soul without a body.

Taehyung sleeps thrown all over Lace and although at the beginning she’s not entirely comfortable, especially since he’s a furnace in his sleep, after a while she gets used to having him cuddled into her side, pushing his face into her neck and hair while his arm and leg are wrapped around her middle and her hip. And for the problem of being too hot, well... She just forgoes clothes. Which is extremely useful when he wants to wake her up with his mouth around hr nipple. Or between her legs.

In conclusion, Lace and Taehyung are a very passionate, vey intense young couple, whose relationship is based on an attraction that goes beyond looks and digs deep into the very essence of their character, reaching an almost religious devotion and sacred adoration. Taehyung is charmed by Lace’s magnetism and composure, while Lace is deeply enthralled by Taehyung’s consistent and reliable admiration for her. A satisfying sex life is perfectly matched with the quiet way they show each other support, but most importantly by the way Taehyung’s introspection and artistry plunge into Lace’s sensitivity, showing her a level of understanding she has never felt before. They’re both highly sensitive to the other’s emotion and this spiritual connection, put together with the physical one, offers them a sense of unity that makes them comfortable and completely open to each other.

#introducing the girlfriends #Introducing lace #bangtan smut #bts headcanons #bts blog #Taehyung headcanons #Taehyung x reader #Taehyung smut #Kim Taehyung

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appalachianwiine · 4 years ago

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Swim - Chapter 7 - You’re Not Alone

I wanna roll up,

I'm gonna roll up my sleeves.

I'm gonna fight for you,

I'm gonna fight till I bleed.

So, listen to me now.

“You’re Not Alone” by Marie Miller

True to Dr. Rhee’s word, Lydia’s nausea starts that evening and even with zofran she’s up most of the night throwing up and dry heaving. The short clusters she does sleep are spent pressed against Daryl, his shirt tightly fisted in her hand almost in a panic that he might disappear. Daryl doesn’t manage any sleep himself aside from the occasional dose.

By the time daylight seeps back into the room, dripping through the blinds and over the bed clothes, Daryl is exhausted. His back is killing him from holding Lydia propped up all night long, and the idea of coffee is very much appealing. However this morning Lydia is resistant to the idea of breakfast. Her stomach still feels bad, she complains and she wants him to stay with her. Finally after firmly telling her he hadn’t slept last night and needed to get some coffee, but that he’d be back in ten minutes, she relents. She climbs off his lap into the other half of the bed and nestles up with the pillows, falling asleep again in minutes.

At the elevator, he finds Ezekiel stepping in, this time pushing a wheelchair. The boy inside it is a ghostly shell of the one who two days ago had been giggling with his daughter. Henry’s almost translucent now, and his eyes look dully ahead. Ezekiel doesn’t look much better, his ashen face betraying the exhaustion of the last couple of days. Evidently he hadn't been sleeping either.

“Cafeteria?” Daryl asks, pressing the button for the floor.

“Radiology.” Ezekiel mutters, reaching past him and pressing the button for the floor before the cafeteria.

“Everything okay?” Daryl asks, the answer is a heavy ‘no’ that hangs in the air between them but what is he supposed to do? Pretend they’re not there.

“I can’t poop.” Henry’s tiny voice speaks up from the wheelchair.

“Yes, some, tummy trouble.” Ezekiel mutters. “They’re doing a dye with contrast to make sure there’s no blockage.”

“Oh.” Daryl frowns. “Sorry kiddo.”

“Yeah.” Henry mutters.

“How’d Lydia handle her first chemo?” Ezekiel asks.

“She uh - she was up most of the night bein’ sick.” Daryl sighs. “Don’ wanna eat this mornin’ but I think I’m gonna pick somethin’ up fer her anyway.”

“Try the waffles.” Henry mumbles. “No butter or syrup.”

“Really?” Daryl frowns.

“Henry has an easier time keeping them down then other things.” Ezekiel nods.

“Thanks kid.” Daryl offers a smile.

“Yeah.” Henry nods. The elevator doors open to the radiology floor and Ezekiel pushes the wheelchair out. “Tell Lydia i say hi.”

“I will kid. Good luck.” Daryl nods, watching the doors slide closed again and cut off his view of Henry and Ezekiel.

Lydia does manage to keep a few bites of waffle down, but whether that’s some magical waffle power or the medication finally kicking in he isn’t sure. Either way she spends most of the day napping and watching TV. Part of him is thankful for that, it lets him have some much needed sleep too, but another part is acutely aware of how out of character this is. In 24 hours from her first dose of chemo she’s gone from a rough and tumble kid to one who wants to sleep all the time.

After a few hours awake in the afternoon, Lydia falls asleep after dinner - which was another few bites of waffle from the cafeteria - Daryl’s considering sleeping himself when there’s a light knock on the door. He jumps up to answer it, not wanting Lydia woken.

Carol.

Shit, the support group.

“Oh shit.” He mutters.

“I figured you either weren’t planning on coming or you forgot.” Carol says, holding out a coffee cup. “I’m not taking either for an answer.”

“I - Lydia just fell asleep.” Daryl says, taking the coffee. “She’s had a rough night I can’t - I can’t just leave her.”

“It’s an hour.” Carol says. “Trust me Daryl I know how hard this is, I went through it too, but you need this, for Lydia as much as for you.”

“Who’s going to sit with Lyd?” He asks.

“The nurses can keep an eye on her.” Carol says. “I’ve already talked to Sasha about it, she’ll check in every ten minutes.”

“I don’t -“

“And I left her your cell number she’ll call if Lydia wakes up and then you can leave.” Carol insists. “Just try one meeting, we’re not all bad.”

“Right.” Daryl sighs, looking back at his sleeping daughter. She was out pretty good, and if her last few naps were any indication she’d remain asleep for a couple of hours. “Alrigh’, but she wakes up an’ I’m comin’ back.”

“Good.” Carol smiles. “Come on, the chapel’s this way.”

“Chapel?” Daryl frowns. “‘S this a religious thing?”

“Not really.” Carol says. “But the chapel is the best place for it, it’s a little more homey then the conference rooms and not as impersonal as some of the lecture halls.”

“What about that room?” Daryl points to the one he’d signed the forms in. “It’s pretty homey.”

Carol’s blue eyes dart to the door and then quickly away, she swallows hard. “Some of us… have bad memories with rooms like that.”

“Wh-what d’ ya mean?” Daryl asks, suddenly uneasy, as they pass the door to the small suddenly ominous room, and stand in front of the elevators.

Carol doesn't’ answer until the elevator doors slide open and she steps inside, pressing the button for the third floor. “That room… that room is usually used to deliver bad news. It’s - it’s the room where some of us learned our kids weren’t going to make it.” Evidently the horror is clear on his face because she offers a weak smile. “Sorry. I know they - they use it for other stuff too but that memory is… it prevails.”

“Sorry.” Daryl says finally.

“It’s fine.” Carol assures. “You didn’t know. But yes, the chapel is easiest, it fits us all pretty nicely too.”

“‘s Ezekiel gonna be there?” Daryl asks.

“No.” Carol shakes her head. “Henry isn’t… he’s had a rough day.”

“Blockage?” Daryl asks.

“Well No.” Carol frowns. “Just constipation I think, but they’re having trouble figuring out why. He’s on some medication to resolve it but it’s hard on him.”

“Oh.” Daryl says. “I uh - I saw him this morning, with Ezekiel. In the elevator.”

“Yea he Zeke mentioned it.” Carol nods. “Henry wants an update on Lydia later.”

“Yeah he asked about her.” Daryl nods.

“He’s a good kid.” Carol smiles a little. “He thinks of everyone else first, even in a place like this.”

“He’ll be alright?” Daryl asks, stepping out of the elevator after her.

“Maybe.” Carol sighs. He’s doing okay now, but there’s really no telling. There never is.”

“Oh.” Daryl sighs.

“Just in here.” Carol pulls open a door and Daryl steps inside.

There’s a circle of about a dozen chairs, occupied by a variety of different people, a girl who can’t be older than 20, a man in his 70s, a man in a priest's collar, a couple holding hands, and one rather ragged looking woman, with short choppy hair.

“Not a bad turn out.” Carol smiles, taking a seat and motioning Daryl into the one next to her. Daryl sits down, looking around at the others. “So we have a new parent joining us today. Daryl why don’t you uh introduce yourself.”

The last thing he wanted was to be put on the spot right now, but now everyone was staring at him, he shifted uncomfortably, taking a swig of the coffee before answering.

“I uh - well ‘m Daryl.” He mutters. “My uh - my daughter was diagnosed with Leukemia 3 days ago. We uh - we don’t know what kind yet but uh, it’s just the two of us. Her mom - well she’s adopted. Her mom’s not in the picture, never will be and uh - it’s hard to believe that four days ago the word leukemia wasn’t even one i thought about.”

“It’s always like that.” One of the men says, his long hair tied up in a bun and a short beard covering his chin. He holds the hand of the man next to him, his husband Daryl thinks, a man with sorter hair and a thicker bearded. “The day before our Gracie was diagnosed… well there’s a saying here. “The day before my child was diagnosed i wasn’t a cancer parent either”. I’m Paul, this is my husband Aaron.”

“Yeah.” Daryl nods. “That’s - that’s what it feels like. Almost like -“

“Like having a newborn.” The man next to him, Aaron, says. “You’re handed all this responsibility and someone who relies on you for absolutely everything and - and you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I guess.” Daryl shrugs. “But uh- Lydia was four when I adopted her. So I guess I don’t know about that. But she’s been through some stuff before, and this just feels… unfair.”

“It is.” The old man says. “And that’s something that hasn’t changed in 50 years. I’m Dale, my wife and I - we lost our daughter to leukemia in 1970. The survival prospects were a lot worse then but - but it’s never been fair.”

“Never will be.” Carol says, Daryl feels her reach over and take his hand, she gives it a squeeze, a gesture he’s not accustomed to but finds comforting.

“So you’re all - all cancer parents?” Daryl swallows, looking around.

“With the exception of Father Gabriel, and Enid.” Carol motions to the priest and the twenty something girl. “Enid is a cancer survivor.”

“Non Hodgkin's Lymphoma.” Enid says. “I was 10 when I was diagnosed. I’ve been cancer free for 9 years and considered cured for 4. But the long term side effects are still there.”

“But - but you’re doin’ alright?” Daryl asks, trying not to let hope seep in. “You’re okay?”

“As okay as I can be.” Enid shrugs. “I’m in my junior year of college, premed.”

“So your daughter, has she started the chemo yet?” Dale asks.

“Yeah um yesterday, she’s having a day off today but we’ll get more tomorrow.” Daryl pushes his hair out of his eyes. “We should get her biopsy results back then too, so we’ll uh - we’ll have some answers.”

“Good.” Aaron nods. “A treatment plan helps a little - at least it did with us, made us feel like we had some control. It opens up options for clinical trials too - if that’s something you want to do.”

“Clinical trials, like - test medicine yeah?” Daryl asks.

“Yeah,” Aaron says. “Ezekiel and Henry are here for one. I think Leah’s son is in one and Lucille your son was yeah?”

“Yeah.” The woman with short choppy hair nods. “He was but - well the outcome wasn’t good.”

“Is he uh…” Daryl isn’t sure how to finish the sentence and looks to Carol for help, but her blue eyes are focused on the woman.

“Dead?” The woman says. “Yeah. Six months tomorrow. He uh - he had brain cancer. Was terminal from diagnosis. Good kid. Only seven.”

“I’m -”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” she snaps. “Just hope like hell your kid doesn’t have to go through the same thing.” She crosses her thin arms and leans back in her chair. Daryl looks around the room, no one is saying anything, instead a few people glance at Carol.

“Lucille,” Carol says gently. “Anniversaries can be hard. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“No.” Lucielle mutters. “Sorry I just - the last few days have been really hard. I uh - I’m trying to sell the house - I just can’t live there anymore and everyone who comes in asks.”

“Ah.” Carol says, reaching across the row and giving Lucille’s hand a squeeze. “That’s not easy. It isn’t going to get easier either, I still have a hard time talking about Sophia.”

“It’s never going to get easier.” Lucille nods. “But uh - I hope taking the dogs and getting out of the city will help. I’ve got a property up north, I’m using the divorce settlement for that and since he gave me the house I’m planning on using the money from that to build.” She reaches up to dab at her eyes with her sleeves. “I uh I’m sorry Daryl I- I”

“‘S fine.” Daryl says quickly. ‘I uh - I can’t imagine what it's like losing’ a kid an’ havin’ a divorce.”

“I hope you never have to know.” Lucille picks at her nails. “It’s not something i’d wish on anyone.”

“You uh - you mentioned a clinical trial?” Daryl says carefully. “What uh - what was that like? The process.”

“We pretty much had to go to a clinical trial.” Lucille wipes her eyes and takes a tissue from Carol. “His brain cancer was aggressive from the start and uh - it has a 0% survival rate over five years. At diagnosis we were told he was terminal, and we ended up going to Germany for a clinical trial. Instead of the 9 months survival we got about 18 months, but um, one thing we found was that our insurance would not cover the clinical trial because it was out of the country. We were lucky though um, we had a really good church and they fundraised for the trial.”

Daryl’s stomach twists further. He hadn’t thought about the costs of clinical trials - or being declared terminal at diagnosis. Lydia couldn’t be that, he refused to believe that was even an option for her. He also hadn’t ever considered a clinical trial, would she need one? She couldn’t be one of those kids could she? The ones so sick that their only hope for survival was an experimental treatment?

“Not all clinical trial is like that.” Carol says quickly. “Henry’s clinical trial is covered by insurance, and I think Matthew’s is.”

“Matthew?” He says.

“Leah’s nephew.” Carol says. “She’s not here today, spiritual commitment. But he’s in the same trial as Henry. A little further along though. He just finished his second stem cell transplant.”

“Oh.” Daryl says. “Is uh he one of Henry’s friends too?”

“Um kind of.” Carol says.

“He’s not really anyone's friend.” Paul says. “Leah keeps him… pretty isolated. They’re a little… weird to be honest.”

“Paul,” Aaron says harshly. “Who are we to judge with how she’s handling her kid’s cancer.”

“I wouldn’t judge if that sister of hers wasn’t being drug out of here high or drunk half the time he’s admitted. It’s disruptive and dangerous.” Paul snaps back.

“They let that happen?” Daryl frowns.

“Technically it’s her supervised visitation.” Paul says. “But it happens so often it’s a wonder she’s still allowed any.”

“Parental rights aren’t that easy to terminate.” Daryl says. “Especially fer moms. Jus’ cut ‘er some slack. ‘S a hard enough situation t’ be in with a healthy kid.”

“Grace requires nothing.” The man in the priest's collar says.

“That isn’t always true father.” Paul says. “Sometimes grace requires a hell of a lot.”

“Leah is doing her best.” Carol insists. “We all are, it’s all we can do, and we need to support each other. You know as well as I do that no one outside this room can possibly understand that.”

“She’s right babe.” Aaron says, reaching for his husband’s hand. “No one else knows what this is like. Hell or highwater remember?”

“Hell or highwater.” Paul mutters.

“Well.” Carol says, glancing at her watch. “I think that’s about all we have time for today. Unless anyone has anything they would like addressed?” When no one spoke up Carol stood. “Thank you father for allowing us to use your chapel. Is the same time next week still okay?”

“Of course.” the pastor nods.

“It was nice meeting you Daryl.” Aaron extends a hand as Daryl stands up. Daryl glances at it a moment before taking it.

“Uh yeah…” He mutters.

“We know how this can be.” Aaron says. “Our daughter is eight and a half. How old is your Lydia?”

“She uh, just turned eight last month.” Daryl swallows.

“We’ll have to get them together sometime.” Aaron smiles.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Lydia’d like that.”

“We should go.” Paul says, touching Aaron's arm gently.

“Alright,” Aaron nods. “It was nice to meet you Daryl, I wish the circumstances were better.”

Daryl is glad the man follows his husband out of the chapel then and he doesn’t have to answer. Not only was everyone in this room a cancer parents, but this wasn’t even all of them. There was at least one outstanding single parent he hadn’t met yet, and all of them had been where he was.

“What did you think?” Carol asks, tucking her hands in her back pockets as she approaches him.

“I uh - I don’ know.” He says. “‘F its fer me. Kinda… depressin’...”

“Nature of the job,” she offers a weak smile. “Let me get you a coffee before you go back to Lydia?”

“Uh -” he glanced at his phone. No missed calls, no texts. Lydia must still be asleep, and he can practically hear Lori’s voice encouraging him to go. “Yeah sure I guess. Just take out though I want to get back.”

“Of course.” Carol says. “There’s a coffee shop right across the hall.”

“So there’s uh - there’s still someone i haven’t met?” Daryl asks as they cross over to the small coffee shop.

“Uh-huh.” Carol says. “Well a couple of people technically but most of the others don’t come regularly.”

“Other single parents?” Daryl asks.

“No.” Carol shakes her head. “Just Leah.”

“Is she really that weird?” He asks, taking the black coffee Carol holds out to him.

“Um.” Carol says. “She’s trying really hard for that kid, but some of the stuff… is a little odd I guess.”

“What like - like oils and shit?”

“Yeah mostly.” Carol nods. “But I try not to judge anyone for what they do with their kids during treatment. Even if they don’t work the placebo effect is strong. I remember when Sophia was sick she was convinced Vick’s vapo rub was the cure to her nausea so you bet that whole room smelled like Vick’s most of the time.”

Daryl chuckles. “Sounds like my childhood.”

“You were a vicks vapo rub fan?” Carol smiles, a sparkle coming to her eyes.

“Oh Vick’s Vapo rub and Campbell’s Chicken Noodle are redneck healthcare.” Daryl grins. “I survived on that shit when i had the flu.”

Carol laughs, a bright pretty sound, that makes even this place seem a little less dark.

“What?” He teases. “Not all of us had parents who took us to the doctor.”

“No no,” Carol says through the laughter. “It’s just - I was the same way as a kid. Vicks fixed everything.”

“Damn straight.” Daryl grins. “Still does. Keep a jar in the cabinet just in case.”

“Useful stuff.” Carol smiles.

“I should uh - I should get back to Lydia.” Daryl says, glancing at the wall clock. “She’ll be up soon.”

“Yeah.” Carol nods. “You get results tomorrow yeah?”

“Should be tomorrow or the day after.” Daryl nods.

“Give me a call?” She asks. “Please - I can come sit with Lydia if you need me to.”

“I uh - i might take you up on that.” Daryl says. “We’ll have t’ get some more clothes an’ stuff at some point.” HE swallows. “You uh - you mind if I - if I call you with the results?”

“Of course not.” Carol says. “I can answer just about any time.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” She reaches out and gives his arm a warm squeeze, the sensation lingering on him as he made his way back up to Lydia’s room.

#twd fanfic #the walking dead fan fiction #carol peletier #daryl dixon #lydia twd #paul 'jesus' rovia #aaron twd #dale twd #enid twd #father gabriel #father gabriel twd #caryl #caryl fanfiction #fic; swim

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newcatwords · 4 years ago

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approaching very old stories, stories from ancestors, stories from elders

inspired by the thread "How to Read Myths and Folklore" by Mythological Africans, i'm sharing my approach to very old stories, stories from ancestors, and stories from elders.

while i hope that this might be useful to any reader, the context here is that i'm a westerner who grew up in a western family with western values. i was educated in western schools with their values.

the mainstream white western relationship with very old stories is complicated. the abrahamic stories (judaism, christianity) are well-respected, but even most of the west's own old stories (norse stories, greek stories, little old village stories, etc.) are treated as myths (in the sense of "things people used to believe as true but that are generally no longer considered true because of scientific advances in understanding about the world").

among western peoples, most of what might be called "indigenous" culture (including stories) was suppressed & destroyed a very long time ago. christianity has been dominant in europe for so long that aside from things like the old religion of ireland, very little remains that's commonly known. specific national stories might be historical epics/legends, "fairy tales", & "mythology." often pre-christian beliefs in europe are lumped into a sort of generic "nature worship" and then dismissed.

the mainstream white western attitude is that there is little of value in very old stories for people today. newer knowledge is more highly valued. there are people who still study aristotle, etc., but generally, aside from judaism & christianity, there aren't many extremely old stories that western people value today. and many westerners are not religious & don't take their peoples' religious traditions seriously either.

(i would argue that part of this skepticism comes from the triumph of science in setting itself up as the only source of truth. part of it also comes from the fact that most of the old stories are religious, from large, patriarchical, institutionalized religions that have abused the idea of "listen to your elders" to keep people down. by not being wise elders, they have made people not trust them and also not trust the idea that listening to one's elders is important. these elders tell women to submit, tell gay people they are going to hell, claim to be virtuous while abusing children, and all the other things that have shown them to be bankrupt. there is no trust.

even aside from religious elders and ancestors, other thinkers from europe's past (ancient philosophers, national heroes, etc.) were not good people who had all kinds of terrible ideas, including racism, sexism, support for imperialism and monarchy, support for slavery, support for exploitation of natural resources, etc. the western (liberal) story goes: "people in the past were barbaric and we are more enlightened now." because of the universalizing part of western culture, this is treated as true for all people everywhere, not as something that's specific to particular peoples.

in western education, we usually don't learn that among many peoples of the world, ancestors & elders are considered wise, trusted, caring, and had many gifts to share with younger generations. i believe it's important to understand this when listening to & reading very old stories. not to say that elders were *necessarily* wise, but to accept that people from different groups see their own ancestors and knowledge passed down from ancestors in different ways.)

after considering all that, here are some specific ways i approach very old stories, stories from ancestors, and stories from elders:

first, i think about the source of the story i'm reading/listening to. how did this story come to cross my path? who is telling it? are they telling a story from their own people? what are the conditions under which i am encountering this story? among many peoples, sharing a traditional story is not done lightly. as a listener, i understand that it's an honor to be an outsider hearing a story. i have to understand who i am, who the speaker/writer is, what is our relationship (are we a settler & a colonized person? are we an "educated" person and a person from the village? it makes a difference!) who is the speaker/writer's intended audience, what is the context in which i am receiving this story?

here is an example: i live on hawai'i island (i'm a white (but also jewish and immigrant) settler on hawaiian land). every year there's a large festival and competition of hula (traditional hawaiian dance) called merrie monarch. hula is an ancient art form, sacred to the goddess laka. hula is often accompanied by singing, chanting, and is a whole performance. there's a huge variety: hula can be for ritual, for entertainment, to tell/perform historical stories, to prepare for battle, to be playful, to welcome visitors, to welcome the birth of a child, and for many other purposes. there are similar dances all across the pacific, and usually groups come from all over the world to share the very best they have to offer. as such, it's an important event for hawaiians and for other pacific people.

here are some excerpts from merrie monarch 2019 to give you an idea of what it's like:

youtube

if i'm in the audience, or watching merrie monarch on tv, i have to understand that i'm an outsider spectator and that this event is mainly by and for hawaiians and other pacific people. i am an outsider who they have graciously let in to their culture in this way. i think it's important to understand all this in order to take the proper attitude towards old stories. see them as a gift from the speaker/writer/performer that one is being allowed to hear. the next thing to consider: who is the teller? in english (the only language i have experience reading stories in), we often get stories from non-western peoples as filtered through white westerners. i take all of these with a grain of salt. if at all possible, i try to find the story as told/written by someone *from the group* that the story is from. i mostly skip over retellings/interpretations by white westerners entirely. if the story is within an anthropology text, i'll try to get any historical context that the anthropologist provides, and then just read the story itself. white western interpretations of non-western stories are usually a garbled mess. translations can also be a minefield. here in hawai'i, anthropologists & folklorists have been "recording hawaiian stories" for over a hundred years. it's a complicated history of tellings of tellings, translations that have become canon, and more. (if you're interested in learning more, i recommend the excellent book Mai Paʻa I Ka Leo: Historical Voice in Hawaiian Primary Materials, Looking Forward and Listening Back by M. Puakea Nogelmeier. it discusses the formation of an english-language canon of a huge archive of hawaiian-language newspapers, which contain many serialized stories & legends.) although it may seem difficult, i encourage you, the reader, to learn about the complicated landscape around the story you're reading/listening to. in other words, how did this particular version of the story come to end up with you? the preface and introduction in a book can often provide a lot of background info on the text in your hand. you don't want to be reading the hand-me-down version of some white supremacist's version of the story, assuming that that's really the story of a certain people! if at all possible, try to get to the actual words of the people whose story it is. also, consider that like hula, "stories" are not just the words, but might include the dance, the music, the performance, how the words are delivered, etc. "the story" might be all of those things together. the listener/reader's understanding might only arise from having that whole experience...without it, you might not get the actual message the story is meant to give. a story that might seem violent and off-putting in text, it might turn out that it's commonly told around a campfire to entertain children, complete with fart sounds and jokes. knowing that is important. that kind of story is very different from a story told during a ritual, or a creation story. aside from the conditions under which the story is told/performed among a people, it's important to know how old the story is. i've seen anthropologists describe stories from the late 1800s as "very old." i would dispute that characterization. generally, the older a story is, the more carefully i listen. often the storyteller will tell you the age and context of the story. they might say "this is a story i heard from my elders. this story has been among our people for many generations." ok, so i am about to hear a story passed down for many generations...it's a story that people remember and a story that people think is important enough to pass down to their children, who in turn remember it and pass it down. how many stories do *i* have like that? exactly zero. so in my mind, when i hear "this is a story that's been passed down among my people for generations," i listen carefully because something important is about to be shared. the teller/writer will often also tell you why they're sharing the story or who it's meant for. i've heard things like "this story is important not just for

our people, or for indigenous people, it's important for people all over the world." well in that case, i better listen. sometimes they might say "we are recording this story for younger generations", to help their own people remember their peoples' stories. stories told to anthropologists can be a whole minefield. imagine you're minding your own business at home, when an anthropologist shows up and wants to ~record your stories~. why? just because they're interested and want to share them with their pals back home. now imagine that those anthropologists are of the same background and from the same people who have colonized your land, enslaved your people, driven your people from your land, and continue to marginalize your people. this anthro might claim they're "not like that", but once you've given them the story, maybe you never hear from them again and you never even see what they actually wrote in their book. it's important to remember that there's a story extraction history. white westerners have built careers off "harvesting" stories from non-western peoples. what have they given back? it's even worse when you consider that many white members of the academy are seen as "experts" on the culture they study (even if their understanding is poor!), while members of that culture are excluded from the western academy and can't get their works published. it's important to consider that history when reading stories in anthropology (and similar) books. many people have had generations of anthropologists come and go, all asking for stories. let's just say that i wouldn't blame them if they gave a silly or "fake" story to the latest generation of clueless white anthro. i have no way to know how common it is, but i've read at least one story that led me to wonder "is the person telling the story just taking the piss out of this anthro?" how many stories might subtly mock or poke fun at the westerner and the westerner doesn't even realize it? it's something to consider. which brings me to the next thing i consider: many meanings. oral traditions are often incredibly rich and nuanced. some stories are straightforward (maybe it's a story to entertain) and some stories have *many* layers of meaning, including historical, political, serious, humorous, and much more. you might have to hear the story or understand the tone the teller uses in different parts of the story to understand whether something is meant to be serious or funny. you may have to know a lot about the history, culture, and context of the story to understand all the layers. (for an excellent example from here in hawai'i, i recommend the book Ka Honua Ola: ‘Eli‘eli Kau Mai / The Living Earth: Descend, Deepen the Revelation by Pualani Kanaka‘ole Kanahele. she goes line-by-line in several important chants discussing the multiple meanings.)

anyway, these are the main things i keep in mind when approaching ancient stories, stories from ancestors, stories told by elders. i hope this helped you. if you see anything i've gotten wrong, please let me know! thank you for reading.

#reading #mythology #stories

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