#it seems inequitable

[tomorrowusa]

One of these decades Americans will begin to notice that the big stock market crashes only seem to happen when REPUBLICANS are in the White House.

The lie that won’t die is that Republicans are better for the economy than Democrats. By every measure possible, that is just not correct. Republicans break shit, Democrats fix it, and voters reward them by ushering Republicans back in power. Lather, rinse, repeat.  Now, the stock market is not “the economy,” and even boom times have seen economic decline for a significant percentage of people in the United States, particularly in its decaying rural regions. But the market is a proxy for strong economic performance, however inequitable it might be distributed. 

Check the article for more details but here are the ten worst market crashes of the century and the president who was in office at the time.

1) March 12, 2020 – Trimp I (R) 2) Nov. 20, 2008 – G.W. Bush (R) 3) April 4, 2025 – Trimp II (R) 4) Nov. 6, 2008 – G.W. Bush (R) 5) October 15, 2008 – G.W. Bush (R) 6) October 7, 2008 – G.W. Bush (R) 7) March 9, 2020 – Trimp I (R) 8) October 9, 2008 – G.W. Bush (R) 9) October 10, 2008 – G.W. Bush (R) 10) October 22, 2008 – G.W. Bush (R)

Of course we should mention Republican Herbert Hoover's "Black Monday" crash in 1929 which marked the start of the Great Depression.

Stock Market Crash of 1929

It took until the early 1950s for the market to fully recover its pre-Black Monday value.

And we should also remind folks that there have been 12 recessions since the end of World War II. 10 of the 12 (83.3%) happened under Republican presidentss. And all of the recessions since 1981 have been Republican creations.

When you vote red, you end up in the red.

[thesiltverses]

How would you describe the level of technology present in the world of the Silt Verses, and what was the rationale (in-world or writerly) behind it being such? It's something I've found interesting to look back on re-listening to the how.

I think of it as 90s tech or degraded, inequitable modernity (the internet exists, airplanes exist, computers exist...but they're not universally accessible) - it seemed like a fitting state for a world where any advancement or new technology is likely to be accompanied by an explosion of divine collateral, and where people are as likely to be consumed as the consumer.

[miwiheroes]

Dropping Byler Evidence Every (Other) Day Until Season 5

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Day 22: The Flowers . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Ah yes, I can finally start analysing one of my favourite scenes heehehehe (the airport)

I have decided to split this analysis up into two sections lmaooo, um you can read under the cut down below the first part of the analysis if you want something that is very speculatory, and isn't necessarily evidence, more like something interesting.

First of all, the act of getting your girlfriend flowers is a classic, 'I know how to be a good boyfriend!' act, while still showing that there are problems underneath the surface. In this scene, the point of the flowers is to be a symbol. Otherwise, what would it be? Something to further show that Milkvan is cute and endearing? That doesn't line up with the rest of the airport scene which conveys their problems (all the lies and pretending).

The flowers are in this scene to be a symbol of Mike and El's relationship.

At first this seems like it sheds some positive light on Milkvan because it's obviously a nice gift, and she would appreciate it because they are her favourite colours. However, the things that Mike says in relation to the flowers seem extremely out of place and specific. Now, saying that he 'hand picked' them for her in Hawkins is a nice gesture that a lot of shippers really appreciate, but it is really important to the overall symbolism that he is the one who makes the choice about the colours. (more on that later)

He says some really 'random' stuff:

"I know you also like purple so I got some purples as well so I kind of did a 70/30 split kind of thing"

The 70/30 comment is so specific. The writers really like to put subtle foreshadowing into their dialogue, and being that this scene is at the beginning of the show, i believe it must be talking about how much he puts into the relationship versus how much he's getting out of it. An inequitable relationship is unsatisfying (x, xx), which may show that it's probably either Mike or El putting in the effort while getting less out of it. (Mike puts in the effort to seem normal and functioning while not getting true happiness out of it, El puts in the effort of lying and doing romantic things while not getting an expression of love out of it, which is what she thinks she needs.)

As for him handpicking them in Hawkins.... well....

The same flowers that El, EL, picks up and inspects are the ones that Mike picked out himself in the same town. By the end of the season, their relationship is extremely different than it was at the start, the 70/30 split is no longer a split, it's simply a 0, because the flowers are dead.

So these are 2 instances so far of the characters calling upon flowers for symbolism and.... there is a third one, which is right at the beginning of S4.

See this is why I truly believe that these must be a symbol of Mike and El's relationship. Mike picked spring flowers for El, which are a symbol of their relationship being inequitable, and later on, they are used to symbolise their relationship literally dying (damn). But this here is what shows that El will be fine on her own. Time and time again, Millie and the writers have said/written that El needs to find herself and who she is without the men in her life.

So: "At first I missed [my relationship with Mike], but now I [can find happiness]."

Flowers = Mil*ven. And it's also interesting that yellow flowers symbolise friendship and purple flowers symbolise admiration, and as we know, admiration for her powers is one of the main things that Mike ends up referencing when he admits his 'love' to her.

Now, the yellow flowers being in the bouquet is interesting because, as stated very importantly by Mike himself, he was the one who picked them. Meaning, he would have made the decision, however subconscious, to put 'too many' yellow flowers into the bouquet. And another thing we also know is that yellow is Will's colour.

This colour symbolism is emphasised during the season, when Will wears the colour yellow for the majority of it, and is placed under the yellow light in this scene^

Another funny thing that I noticed is that Mike says:

"I know you like the colour yellow, but now I'm realising that it's too much yellow."

Rewatching this scene makes me think it's kind of odd for him to say that he's just now realising that it's too much yellow. As if he accidentally put too much in, and kind of realises it in that moment like he's saying sorry to her about it?? But then he just takes that realisation and turns it into a 'romantic' thing, acting like he'd intended that the whole time with the '70/30' split.

That means he didn't actually mean to. The writers are trying to convey through symbolism that Mike has been thinking of Will subconsciously the past few months, which is then confirmed by the Rink o Mania scene and the Cool Cool scene. He only regrets the fact that he did it in retrospect. Aka as soon as he sees El.

SO: The flowers are a symbol for Mike and El's relationship, showing that they put in a lot of work into the relationship, but do not get an equal amount out of it, which is unsatisfying. The flowers also are shown to be dead by the end of the season. El says that at first she missed the flowers, but in the end, she's fine without them.

NOW TIME FOR THE STRANGE STUFF

So this is at the end of S1, and if we assume that there are no, throwaway lines in Stranger things, we should be able to also assume that this is meant to foreshadow something. In my opinion, this has to foreshadow S4 and S5.

In this scene, it's clear that the kids (symbolising the audience of stranger things) are talking about something that Mike (symbolising the writers of stranger things) has left out or not explained. This is what happens in S4.

What about the lost knight? -- This refers to Mike, whose DND character is obviously a paladin, but Will draws him and paints him as a knight in shining armour. He is clearly 'lost' because he does not know what to do about his relationships with Will and El at the end of S4. He has just said he loved El, but he still wants to help Will and doesn't really know his feelings until the painting is revealed. Therefore he is lost.

And the proud princess? -- It doesn't take much deducing to know that this has to refer to El, whose arc in S4 is to realise that she is not a monster for having her powers, making her proud of who she is. The audience are worried about her and her fate, because she seems at a crossroads.

And the weird flowers in the cave? -- Obviously, I've already talked about the flowers being a symbol for Mike and El's relationship. The 'weird' part about them is that they are so inconsistent and out of place on a show like ST, because of how conformist it seems in comparison to their nonconformist message. 'In the cave' refers to the fact that the flowers are dead, and now part of the UD, which is the 'cave'.

In This LAST SCENE:

El is stood in front of the others, now with her powers that she is proud of.

Mike is stood with Will, lost in relation to his feelings towards both El and Will, not truly understanding them.

The flowers are rotting. In the 'cave' (UD)

Just something to think about <3

[angelic-sawyer]

In Times Like These

Chapter One.

GIF by @pedropascalsx

Summary: Joel offers safety. You offer hope. Yet, love is a luxury neither of you can afford.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Content Warning: Mature themes, Sexually explicit content, Canon-typical violence, A lot of talk regarding mental health. Please read with care.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: This is my first time posting on Tumblr! I apologize for any technical errors.

MY AO3

“In the desert there is no sign that says,

Thou shalt not eat stones.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

In the sunrise lies the solace. The consolation that as long as your lungs eagerly swell with the oxygen inside them, as long as your body can differentiate heat from cold, the world can exist for those who were lucky, or rather - unlucky, to survive the outbreak.

What seems abhorrently unjust is that the clouds still form various shapes in the sky, that the harebells and asters grow above the ground, decorating the fields along the cordyceps swarming in the wilderness, sucking the soul out of those who’ve been unfortunate enough to forget their previous lives.

What is absolutely unacceptable is that humans dare to have feelings. Inequitable it is, to feel love and seek love in a world where people lose the sense of belonging, the sense of being alive, of being able to think and move without the parasites occupying their brains shamelessly.

You, also, so barefacedly expose yourself to neediness. You can’t help it, and no one can - you comfort yourself. It is within humans to seek, to beg even when it feels shameful, even when the fear of mockery is overwhelming your senses. It’s unexplainable, makes you feel guilty, for all prohibitions are founded upon a denial of our desires.

You look ahead at the man in front of you, who’s wearing a dark green shirt even though the half of fall has passed and it’s getting chilly. You feel it when the tips of your fingers feel sensitive in the evenings. The wind would be unnoticeable if it wasn’t playing with Joel Miller’s curls as he turns around, talking about the route you can take to get to Jackson before the sun sets.

The sunsets aren’t as romantic as they used to be. They’re rather… a form of warning. The reminder of those lost to the demise.

“We can continue straight.” He says, his voice steady, like a man certain of himself and his skills. “There’s a shortcut near the park. I don’t think we’ll have any problems.”

He’s talking more than he usually does. Perhaps because you got scared for the first time in your life. Perhaps because fear settled in your bones and overstayed its welcome, making your hands tremble even after the bitten man was dead.

It’s never the infected you can’t kill. It’s always those about to turn. The hopeful look in their eyes as they beg, as if it’s just a common cold and you’re holding a bottle of drugs used against inflammation. In reality, your hand has to grip the M16 assault rifle. Your limbs do it so instinctively that it almost makes you feel ashamed, guilty for subconsciously fearing the hands that have once been a safe haven for someone, now a source of infection.

This was the first time you ever killed a human. A human, not yet a monster.

You nod. “However is better, Joel. You know the best.”

Joel nods too, moving in the direction he waved towards a minute ago. You follow, your boots pressing onto the mud, your weapon suddenly feeling too heavy for your body.

Joel Miller, who’s been forcedly assigned to you during patrols, always walks ahead of you. He’s always been the one arguing with Tommy about the tasks assigned to you, never claiming that you can’t do them, only stubbornly stating that it’s too dangerous for anyone but him. But you were raised in the apocalypse, you’ve been shushed when the clickers walked in circles around you, you’ve been taught how to shoot before you knew how a mattress felt beneath your body as you slept.

Joel Miller, the lonesome man who shared a sleeping bag with you, kissed your lips, your eyebrows, your nose, as his fingers pumped in and out of you, as his mouth morphed into yours to swallow your sounds, and then in the morning told you it wasn’t right.

You blink.

Joel glances at the rifle in your hand. “Do you know how that works? I think you had somethin’ else when you were protecting the gates.” He looks up at your face when you don’t answer. “It can fire in three-round bursts—“

“I know how it works, Joel.” You interrupt. If there is one thing you hate, it’s the pity. And he pities you.

Now he sees you as a silly young girl - you think - too scared to pull the trigger on someone whose eyes slowly turn lifeless. He feels as if you have to learn how to watch the world outside of the gates. But he simply nods.

—

The rain pours outside, which makes the house assigned to you feel like the coziest place to be in. That would be so if there wasn’t chaos stirring inside your soul, gnawing at your body.

Joel Miller, ever so calm and stoic, felt too strict, too vile when he yelled at you to kill the man with a bite mark adorning the skin near his cheek. Joel’s tone, never scared or uncertain, made it all feel as if you were to kill a parasitic bug that’s been destroying the plants. Perhaps that’s exactly how it feels to him. To see a clicker jolt from the bullet you’ve shot and fall frozen onto the ground is one thing, to raise your weapon against someone still conscious enough to recognize hope and solace, is what makes your leg bounce.

Yes, it is raining so hard that you almost feel like nature is expressing your inner turmoil. Surely, it’d be best if you went to sleep. But all that your body agrees to do is stand up from the couch, grab a coat, and leave the house.

Your feet lead you to Joel Miller’s house. Your hands make you knock on his door.

And he opens soon after, as expected - as a man trusted by all, respected by everyone, and as a person who has gathered people who depend on him as if it’s so easy in this world.

It’s what you’re doing.

His eyebrows raise, but instead of asking, he steps aside to let you in.

Careful not to wet the carpet in the hallway, you immediately take off your coat and hang it on the coat rack.

Joel stands, watching you wordlessly, as if you being there is the most appropriate thing ever. He doesn’t question things, especially now, when he’s sure that you’ll tell him anything he wants to know.

“Teach me.” You breathe out, an embarrassingly eager tone is evident in your voice.

His brows furrow. “You’re a great shooter, you ain’t got anythin’ to learn.”

“Teach me how to not torture myself after killing a person.” You say.

Joel sighs, looking at you with a frown, his hands on his hips. His eyes show understanding and you feel small. Your mind wonders if he’s ever felt scared like this and it immediately denies the possibility.

Joel Miller, of all people, hasn’t been scared. Has never been hesitant.

You’re sure of that.

“He wasn’t a person.” He mutters, brows furrowed, face otherwise stoic. “He was a threat.”

“Teach me how to not torture myself after killing a threat, then.”

He lets out a breath, looking somewhere behind you as if he’s trying to find the right words, as if you can be easily broken. “This is why I tell Tommy not to let young folks do things like this. All I get in return is a glare.”

You swallow, your fingers worriedly toying with the zipper of your jacket. A nervous habit that presents itself clearly for Joel to notice, but you can’t stop it.

Joel motions to the couch and you sit down. He settles on the sofa in front of you.

“First things first —“ He starts, his eyes searching your face for a moment, as if sizing up whether you’re ready to really let his words into your brain. “It’s the fear that’s makin’ things harder for you. The sooner you start realizing that they ain’t your friends and neighbors, the better. No need to feel sorry for rabid animals. You keep that in your head, and that’ll be half the battle right there.”

The sooner, the better.

The darker, the better.

You nod, your gaze moving down to your lap as he continues. “I know for sure you’re good with your rifle. I’ve seen how you shoot. So I ain’t gonna talk much about that. All you need to wrap your mind around is that they ain’t got feelings. Only fear, maybe for a minute before they only learn the taste of hunger. Then that’s all they know.”

You hum, looking up to face him. “Everyone’s hungry. Perhaps for different things.”

“True.” He concedes. “But most folks don’t kill for that hunger.”

You tut, and it seems almost funny, how you express disapproval toward a man twice your age. “Humans don’t kill?”

“That ain’t what I meant.” He mutters, annoyance lacing his words as if he despises the idea of being misunderstood. “There’s killing for someone or something, and then there’s killin’ for the thrill of it. You won’t understand it.”

You watch him. He’s toying with his own hands, ironically mirroring your nervousness, or perhaps - the unbearable need that feels almost carnal in a way that’s repugnant and shameful. Your eyes move to his shirt, the optic nerves sending signals as jolts to your brain, making you almost feel the rough material of his flannel shirt creating a stark contrast to the softness of your skin.

“I’m almost the same. And you are too.” You tell him, not avoiding his gaze like before. “You say they’re shells, puppeteered by the cordyceps. I was raised in the QZ, then came here. I don’t know how it feels not to fear for my life and also question my existence—“

“That ain’t the same.” He interrupts. “You breathe, you feel, you care. They don’t have that. You have a lot. There ain’t solace in playin’ with death, that you can trust me on.”

You swallow all the words swimming in your spit, underneath your tongue. Instead, you feel the urge to wear your heart on your sleeve. “I haven’t felt cared for. That’s what I… seek. Makes me dream I could spend more than just my early childhood in the world before the outbreak. Everything now seems… rushed— no, not exactly rushed. Just…”

“Shallow?” Joel finishes, making you nod. Your eyes fill with hope, that finally someone understands, that for once you’re able to express yourself in the most vulnerable way possible.

“How did marriage feel?” You ask.

He scoffs, as if you’ve offended him. “Pain in the ass, I’d say.”

“Love?”

He purses his lips, glancing down at his hands. “Warm. Like everythin’ will be fine as long as your person is alright.”

Your person.

Your thoughts form a tumultuous mess and for a second, you’re afraid that he might see the internal struggle reflecting on your face. And perhaps he does see, maybe that’s why he doesn’t move away when you lean forward.

For all you know, that might be the reason why his knuckles brush against your temples, moving the hair from your face ever so gently. Maybe it’s the way you pinch your eyebrows together that forces his vocal cords to work and speak. “You ain’t gotta worry about not being loved. You will be.”

“I worry about not being lovable.” You whisper, cheeks reddening with shame. Shame that it’s all you worry about in the apocalypse. “That’s different, Joel.”

His hand cups your face as he frowns. “You got me worried sick when you went quiet and shaky on the patrol today, y’know?”

You stare into his eyes, nodding slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He whispers, pressing his forehead on yours ever so gently. “Sweet girl.”

You bite your lower lip immediately, your chin embarrassingly trembling as you close your eyes. His thumb rubs the skin above your cheekbone.

“Don’t cry, darlin’.” He mutters, kissing the tip of your nose. “I hate seeing a tough girl like you cryin’.”

The kiss feels as burning as it did that night.

“Joel.” You whimper, nuzzling into his jaw.

“I know.” He answers immediately, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you closer.

He lets you feel his body temperature. His smell fills your nostrils. You can only name the smell of coffee. Other comforting scents swirling through one another, adorning his jacket, are mixed so much that it’s hard to tell what he smells like exactly.

“What do you need, sweet girl?” He whispers ever so gently. “What’d ya need to feel?”

“Anything you wanna give me.” You whisper back, your hands finally touching his face.

His hand slides to the back of your head and he kisses you, making your eyes flutter closed. The heat spreads from the deepest cavity of your body and envelopes your whole being.

You sometimes imagine that lust tangles into your organs the same way that cordyceps crawls inside the brain.

Joel’s hand on your back moves you towards him, making you straddle his lap as he mumbles against your lips. “C’mere.”

His hands rub against your jeans, then find their place on your waist, his thumbs pressing against your skin. Being in Joel Miller’s arms means that you’ll be treated as if you’re about to disappear. And it makes you feel alive.

“I think I was born with this— enormous need for affection.” You whisper when his lips part from yours, finding their way along the nape of your throat.

“That all it takes, sweetheart?” He asks, smirking.

“Stop mocking me.”

“Not makin’ fun of you.” He tuts, looking up at you. “Only wanna know what you want.”

“Sex.” You answer immediately like you’re following a memorized script.

His hands slide under your shirt. The feeling of his thighs under yours is almost overwhelming. You’re already so needy, so eager, so desperate—

“Be more specific, sweetheart.” He says, his voice quiet.

How can one acquire such stoicism?

You let out a whimper, shifting in his lap. “You inside of me, Joel. Like on that patrol. But without you denying me yourself afterward.”

He looks at you. He’s so close that you can see every freckle, wrinkle, every strand of the gray hair almost hidden in his facial hair. He looks at you as if you’re so fragile that he won’t even dare to think about pushing you away again.

One of his hands begins to move up your body, his fingertips tracing lightly across your skin. “Can I take this off?” He asks quietly, tugging at your jacket.

You nod immediately, helping him remove it, then take off your shirt without him having to ask.

His gaze roams over your bare chest, his fingertips trace your collarbones delicately, as if he’s handling glass. Then, as you hold your breath, his thumbs move to your nipples, softly rubbing around them before he leans in, kissing your sternum. You close your eyes, hand tangling in his hair, bringing him closer, like he’s to diffuse into your skin.

“Beautiful girl.” Joel whispers, peppering kisses on your breasts, darting his tongue out to make you a whiny, squirming mess on his lap, to make sure you’re so embarrassingly wet that you’ll have to hide your face in the crook of his neck as you did on that patrol.

His hands undo your belt effortlessly, unzipping your jeans. You raise yourself from his lap to help him take off your pants. Not your underwear, though. He wants to smile almost pitifully when he slowly drags it down your legs, he plans to watch the thin string of your arousal stick to your panties and then coat your inner thighs. He has to shush you when you whimper, when your hips buckle helplessly, your pussy aching for his touch.

You grip his biceps when his fingers dip inside of you, but they don’t give you what you need. Instead, Joel takes his fingers to his mouth and licks, humming. “My sweet girl.”

The two of you share your taste when he kisses you deeply, tilting your head in the way that he wants, his hands undoing his belt and zipper before you can acknowledge.

There it is, under his palm as he tugs at his boxers. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Joel’s being desperate too, wanting to be inside of you as soon as possible. If you didn’t know better, you’d moan something that’d make all this feel like lovemaking, that’d make him bite your chin as he rubs the tip of his cock along your entrance and then pushes it in slowly.

Your pussy clamps down around his cock as your stomach churns deliciously. Joel grips your hips harder, helping you move down his cock as his gaze focuses on your tits. Before you start to actually move against him, you slowly raise yourself up, your pussy clinging to his shaft as you move. Inch by inch, Joel’s cock moves out of you, gleaming with your arousal. The sight makes him groan, his large palm mindlessly gripping your bare hip, then moving to your breast.

You rotate your hips in circles, taking him deep and holding him there. Your inner walls flutter around him with each deliberate movement, his grunts making your pussy clench. Joel’s hand comes to rest on your back for a while, then slides up to your neck, gripping it there, kissing you deeply again.

You start moving faster, your lips breaking apart with each snap of your hips. His other hand reaches to grab your ass and help you bounce on his cock. The room fills with quiet grunts and moans and the sound of skin slapping.

The rain outside is long forgotten. Everyone in Jackson is asleep.

“I’m— close—“ You pant, your hand resting on his flannel shirt, right above his heart.

“Already, baby?” He groans, his hand sliding up to caress your face, keeping your hair out of it.

You nod. You know. You were just so desperate, envisioning his touch whenever your mind decided to wander.

“Come on, then.” He whispers. No, he coos. “Lemme see. Lemme feel, sweetheart.”

You whine, your movements becoming erratic as you chase your orgasm.

“That’s it.” Joel breathes out, holding your face so you can’t look away. “Use it, sweetheart. Let yourself calm down. You’re ruinin’ me so well.”

You squeal, gasping for air, your pussy clamping down rhythmically around his cock. You feel the sweat on your bare body, clinging to your skin like the sweetest nectar. You see his face, his mouth slightly open, enjoying the sight of your ecstasy. It makes you shudder. To have this big man under you, rooting for your pleasure, understanding that you need him but not in a way that grants him some kind of intoxicating power.

No. In the way that he can become a savior. A shelter where your sadness can reside.

Joel’s cock swells inside of you soon after, his hips jolting upwards as his calloused hands hold your hips down. His warm cum mixes with your own release as he grunts, eyes shut close as he empties his load inside of you.

He wraps an arm around you, letting you rest your head on his chest as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “How do you feel, sweet girl?”

You just hum, eyes closed. His fingers caress your bare back, his cock slowly softens inside of you, and you feel safe. You feel like whatever Joel says about you or to you can turn into truth, even if you’ve yet to overcome fears that live inside of you. As long as Joel believes you are fearless, you can play the part.

[ecoterrorist-katara]

Katara would’ve been such a good diplomat (it’s canon)

everyone rightfully hates on the ATLA comics because the politics are baffling and the characterization is even more so…but if there’s one thing we can take away from the dumpster fire that is The Promise, it’s that Katara was BORN to be a diplomat and an international force for peace, okay? Especially since her besties, the Avatar and the Fire Lord, aren’t actually very good at this.

If you haven’t read The Promise, the Wikipedia summary is pretty good. The TL;DR is that Zuko and Kuei agree that the Fire Nation colonies need to be returned to the Earth Kingdom. The colony of Yu Dao is not happy about this because the people of the Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom have been mixing together (under inequitable conditions) for more than a hundred years and “just kick out the Fire Nation” is not as straightforward as it seems, since there are blended families now. Zuko refuses to kick out the Fire Nation people from Yu Dao, Kuei wants to play hardball, and they almost launch another war. Oh and there’s a weird plot about Aang debating whether to put Zuko down like a rabid dog

For all that the Wiki page does a good job of summarizing the events, it forgets some key facts: 

It’s Katara who first starts thinking about new solutions after witnessing the situation on the ground, and then comes up with the idea that Zuko and Kuei should meet and talk about the colonies:

It’s Katara who tells Kuei that Zuko has legitimate concerns (without saying that Zuko is right), when Aang tries to hedge and sugarcoat the truth: 

And it’s Katara who says to Kuei, wait, what the hell do you mean that you have no idea what your people want, that Yu Dao is just a dot on the map for you? We’re getting you out of this stupid blimp and you’re gonna talk to people before you make a decision that affects their lives, you coward

To recap, Katara demonstrates some pretty freaking key political skills, like: 

finding out what people want before making a decision for them 

seeing people as people first and foremost, not as fire nation or earth kingdom 

encouraging her loved ones, the Avatar and the Fire Lord, to resolve a conflict by beginning negotiations instead of brawling like a couple of drunks at a bar / kids on the playground (both analogies fit btw, 13-17 is a weird combination of ages)  

realistically reporting tricky disagreements without sweeping them under the rug

kidnapping a king to the middle of a battlefield to give him a reality check about listening to the people he’s trying to rule

Anyway, Katara is hyper competent at both war AND peace! We see this in the show, with her compassion for the prisoners of the Earth Kingdom (by inciting a prison riot) and the suffering people of the Fire Nation (by committing ecoterrorism), only now that compassion is backed up not only by her fighting prowess and speeches about hope, but actual ability to manipulate the levers of power. 

And have I mentioned that she has the ears of both the Avatar and the Fire Lord and her dad is Chief of the Southern Water Tribe? Even if Katara didn’t get a diplomat position based on her skills, or her status as a war hero, she could nepo baby her way in. The fact that she does not pick up a career in international diplomacy is a crime & a colossal oversight from the creators. At minimum you know Katara would’ve established Healers Without Borders or something. She deserves to be yelling at people at ATLA UN and then drafting world-changing resolutions. 

And as a bonus, Katara demonstrates her gift for diplomacy by not smacking Zuko up the head for attempting to legitimize colonization through the argument of economic progress…

…and by not smacking Aang up the head for seriously considering anti-miscegenation as a viable political solution: 

This patience is a new development because show!Katara did not have this in her, but maybe this is what growing up is all about and not just yet another strike on the “comics are wildly OOC” tally

TL;DR: ATLA boys lost their brain cells post-canon. All hail Katara, Sugar Queen of international diplomacy. 

[eyes-above--the-waves]

I’m so angry about not just how unfair and inequitable this is. But how a hit like this could derail a player’s entire career, esp if they have a history of injury.

My favorite player of all time is Mike Richards. He suffered a dirty hit by Bolland in the Stanley Cup Playoffs and got a concussion - and that was it. He was never the same. The Kings organization didn’t help - they did what most teams did back then, gave Richards pain killers and sent him on his way. And then when he got addicted to them bc his injury was never fucking treated properly, the Kings washed their hands of him (I say this as a Kings fan, what they did to Richard was criminal). Bolland was not suspended for the hit, and he suffered no consequences.

The best thing I can say about this is that the Maple Leafs seems to treat head injuries very conservatively and acted in Stolarz’s best interest and I’m so glad he’s out of the hospital and seems to be doing okay (?).

Fucking gross that the NHL pretends to take these things seriously when they have a Matt Cooke Jr. running around because he’s supposedly good or plays for a good team.

The thing that infuriates me is that players like Bennett and Tkachuk continue to push the boundaries and play dirty BECAUSE THEY'RE ALLOWED TO. They know they're not going to face any consequences so - hey - why not injure a guy and take him out of the competition. Head injuries aren't a joke. Stolarz seems to be doing okay, but his season is likely over. And, for what? The Panthers couldn't even manage to win that game despite trying to injure at least three of our guys. The Leafs can give him the best aftercare possible, but they can't prevent the hit. And the refs/DoPS/Maurice etc. all look the other way and go, 'well, that's playoff hockey'. Bullshit. There's playing tough hockey that occasionally results in an accidental injury, and then there's whatever tf the Panthers are doing, and I don't like it.

I also don't get how guys like Bennett live with themselves. I feel terrible if I accidentally bump into someone, I can't imagine sending someone to the hospital ON PURPOSE. It just makes me think he's a shit human being.

[ioveartfilm]

FIVE | 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

CHAPTER Ⅳ CHAPTER Ⅵ

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Heaped with endless expectations, a person of high status endures a life meticulously dictated by others. Each action, each word. Forced to become a puppet on strings controlled by societal demands. The pressure intensifies when the relentless need to outshine others emerges, all in a desperate bid to be acknowledged. To be recognized by his dear father.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 / 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: Mentions of sex, Suicide, Violence, Death, Dark themes, Explicit Language, Mature content, 18 + Only, Murder, Betrayal, Strangers to Lovers, Love At First Sight, Slow burn, Royal AU.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Gojo Satoru x Fem! Reader

“Once more time.” The resounding timbre of his father's voice reverberated within the room, its resonance imbued with a weighty insistence.

“How can you still fail to recite this? Is the plethora of prior repetitions insufficient to etch it into your memory?” The boy strove to maintain his composure, determined not to betray any hint of weakness before his imposing father.

He stammered initially, thinking his father would dismiss this insignificant error. However, his father, with an imperious lift of his hand, abruptly curtailed his attempt.

“That will suffice.” The older man declared, the authoritative gesture effectively silencing him.

“Father, I—”

“Did you not hear me? I have spoken—enough.” his father interjected with stern finality, his tone brooking no argument. “It is high time you overcome that infernal stammer. Or do you lack the desire to match your brother's achievements?”

The boy nodded silently, a feeble, “Yes, Father.” escaping his lips as he kept his head bowed low.

He heard his father's footsteps drawing nearer, accompanied by the imperious command, “Look at me when you speak.”

He complied, meeting his gaze directly.

“Maintain your stature. Never bowing it like a mere servant.”

“Yes, Father.” The boy repeated, this time with a bit more strength, attempting to muster the confidence his father demanded.

“Your brother never needed this many corrections. It is not just about reciting lines; it is about embodying the discipline and determination required to excel” The comparisons between his brother and him were relentless, each chiseling away at his self-worth.

“Again. From the beginning. You will not stop until you get it right.”

Has it always been this way? The relentless comparisons, the unending tide of disappointment emanating from his father, and his mother being a passive observer as his father imposed unattainable expectations upon him. How could such an inequitable situation persist?

Inadequate, insufficient—these refrains echoed ceaselessly in his mind. Despite his unwavering efforts and relentless attempts, no matter how fervently he strove, it was perpetually deemed inadequate. His relentless perseverance was met with an unyielding verdict: it was never enough.

He was naught but a shadow beside his brother, the paragon who had effortlessly attained the lofty expectations that seemed perpetually out of reach.

How did he manage such effortless success? He pondered. Why was it so effortlessly easy for him, yet so excruciatingly difficult for himself? It was as if a pernicious curse had been laid upon him from the very moment of his birth, dooming him to a lifetime of unremitting disappointment.

“Keep it up, brother, I know you can do it.” His brother's voice rang out with a sincere laugh, yet to him, it bore an undercurrent of mockery.

They were engaged in the rigorous practice of the arts imposed upon them, and during their swordplay, his brother effortlessly bested him.

Perhaps it was because his brother mirrored their father more closely, inheriting his striking white hair and sapphire eyes. Unlike him, who had inherited their mother's appearance with her hazel eyes, a difference that seemed to widen the chasm in their father's affections.

He possessed a rich chestnut brown tied up in a ponytail, in stark contrast to his brother, who kept his white hair cut short.

At the tender age of sixteen, even the realm of courtship proved a daunting challenge for him. While his brother exuded charisma and effortlessly captivated the attention of every maiden, he remained a mere silhouette, trailing in his brother's wake. In matters of the heart, he harbored a pervasive belief that no woman would deign to cast her gaze upon him—a disheartening conviction that weighed heavily upon his spirit. Or that's what he thought.

“Your Highness, would you be so gracious as to grant me this dance?” The ethereal timbre of a voice drifted to his ears, prompting him to lift his gaze and behold the owner of such a captivating sound. In that fleeting moment, he found himself entranced by the presence of the most resplendent woman he had ever laid eyes upon. Could it truly be that she was directing her words to him? He wondered in astonishment.

Throughout the ball, he had remained ensconced against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, a silent observer of the revelry unfolding before him. Yet, when this enchanting woman extended her invitation, how could he possibly decline such a request?

With practiced poise, he acknowledged her invitation, masking any overt signs of enthusiasm behind a facade of regal composure. “Of course, I will be most delighted.” He responded with measured assurance, though his inner being trembled with latent excitement. The lady, amused by his attempt at nonchalance, chuckled softly at his apparent enthusiasm, gracefully placing her delicate hand upon his own.

As they twirled across the ballroom floor, a ripple of surprise coursed through the audience. The sight of the second prince finally partaking in a dance with a lady was a rarity indeed, prompting whispered conversations and intrigued glances. Speculation swirled about the mysterious maiden, her arrival shrouded in enigma yet her allure undeniable. She had captured the attention of all present with her striking beauty.

Following the conclusion of the dance, the prince found himself unable to resist the urge to inquire after the maiden's appellation.

“Matilda.” She responded, her name rolling off her tongue like a melody.

Following that encounter, fortune smiled upon him at last. He and Matilda embarked upon a journey of profound companionship, their connection weaving together the threads of a beautiful friendship.

They commenced an exchange of heartfelt letters whenever they found themselves separated by distance. His father, increasingly exasperated by his son's perceived shortcomings in securing a suitable match, resolved that it would be most prudent for his second son to venture abroad to further his studies rather than remain idle at the estate. Though the prospect of prolonged separation from home filled him with a deep sense of reluctance, he acquiesced to his father's directive without protest.

He was but seventeen when he finally made his way back home. To his astonishment, his return was met with widespread fascination, as though he had emerged as a renewed individual. Perhaps it was the fortuitous outcome of heeding his father's command to travel, or possibly the transformation was spurred by his decision to cut his once-long hair.

Upon his return, his foremost endeavor was to pen a letter to his beloved Matilda, announcing his homecoming. During his sojourn abroad, he had assiduously maintained their correspondence, though, for some inexplicable reason, her responses had ceased. He speculated that she might have been engrossed in other matters, yet he harbored the hope that, upon discovering his return, their exchange of letters would rekindle, and their friendship would once again blossom as it had in days past. And perhaps that friendship might blossom into something more profound and enduring.

He soon learned of the changes that had transpired in his absence. One day, his father approached him accompanied by a gentleman he had never seen before. “This is Ethelred.” His father announced. “He will be your advisor, guiding you and remaining by your side to ensure you make prudent decisions.” Though he had never had a royal advisor before, he acknowledged that there is always a first time for everything.

Ethelred was... well, reserved at most. Even though he didn't appear much older, likely in his early twenties. He wondered what qualities his father had discerned in Ethelred to entrust him with such a significant role.

He also discovered that, surprisingly, his brother had yet to secure a suitable match, a fact that seemed almost inconceivable. Perhaps the prospective candidates failed to meet his brother's lofty standards, though he could never be certain. Not that it troubled their father, for his brother had always been the favored son.

One afternoon, his brother extended an invitation for a leisurely ride with their horses, an opportunity for them to reconnect. During this outing, he was informed that a letter had arrived for him. His brother, with a mischievous glint, teased him about his eagerness to learn more about the sender. Choosing to disregard his brother's playful taunts, he accepted the letter. To his immense delight, he discovered it was from his beloved Matilda.

In her letter, she expressed her eagerness to see him again, and as soon as possible too. Could it be that her feelings had deepened during their time apart?

As the candles flickered low, casting elongated shadows across the parchment, he found himself inscribing his thoughts, a practice he had maintained diligently during his travels. Yet, the tranquility of his nocturnal musings was shattered by the sudden intrusion of his father, his countenance twisted with unmistakable ire.

“Father?” He began, taken aback by the sudden onslaught.

Before he could utter another word, the force of his father's hand collided with his cheek, the sharp sound reverberating through the chamber like a thunderclap. Stunned, he staggered back, his senses reeling from the unexpected blow. His face still stinging from the impact.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” His father thundered, his voice laced with palpable outrage. “Do you comprehend the folly of your actions? The maiden to whom you have been corresponding is of no consequence—a mere nobody with neither title nor distinguished lineage. Do you now fancy yourself enamored with commoners?”

How had his father come to know about Matilda? Unless... Before he could entertain any further conjectures, his father's voice cut through the silence like a sharp blade.

“Do you wish to be a perpetual disappointment to me, Ferdinand?”

Yes, he had always fallen short, perpetually failing to meet his father's expectations. Never enough. Never able to please anyone.

As the sun descended beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape, he hastened to prepare to prepare his mount for the clandestine meeting with his beloved. Amidst saddling his horse, he caught sight of his brother approaching.

“Brother, where are you off to?” He queried, a hint of concern coloring his voice.

With a dismissive snort, he adjusted the bridle, determined to press forward without delay. Yet, his brother persisted, gripping his shoulder firmly and halting his progress. Forced to face him.

“Why does it concern you?” Ferdinand shot back, his voice tinged with accusation. “Are you intent on betraying me once more?”

His brother came to a sudden halt, confusion etched upon his features. “Betray you?” He echoed, bewildered by the accusation.

“I should never have placed my trust in you. I should have remained vigilant, never letting my guard down.” He declared, pushing his brother's grip away. Yet, before he could break free, his brother swiftly caught hold of him once more.

“Has something happened?”

“A lot has happened,” Ferdinand replied bitterly. “More than you could possibly imagine.”

“Please, don't be like this. Talk to me. I'm sure there's a way I can assist you.” His brother pleaded.

“Help me? How could you possibly help me?” The other retorted.

“Has our father said something to you? Come on, let's meet and clear any misunderstandings—”

Ferdinand pushed his brother's grip away with force, as he meet his gaze. “Don't you believe you've caused sufficient harm already?”

“Brother, I implore you to enlighten me on how I have betrayed you. I have no memory of such transgression.”

“Do you genuinely not recall, or are you deliberately feigning ignorance?”

“Leave me be.” Ferdinand's response was terse and final, as he mounted his horse and rode off, leaving his brother to ponder his words.

As he pressed onward, consumed by the turmoil of his emotions, he remained oblivious to the sudden change in weather. The skies darkened, and rain began to pour down in torrents, drenching him to the bone. Yet, he paid no heed to the discomfort, his only concern being to reach the woman he cherished.

According to her letters, she had relocated to a modest, secluded cottage surrounded by the serene embrace of nature. Driven by sheer determination, Ferdinand navigated the path and finally reached her abode. Dismounting from his horse, he hastened to the door, his eyes catching the flickering shadows of candlelight through the windows. With a sense of urgency, he pounded on the door with his right fist.

After knocking relentlessly, Matilda opened her door, startled by the late-hour commotion. Her eyes widened in astonishment upon seeing the prince.

“Ferdinand? What brings you here at this hour? You are drenched to the skin!”

The prince did not deign to respond. Instead, he strode inside, closing the door behind him and cornering Matilda within the confines of her modest cottage. Without uttering a word, he seized her face in his hands, pressing his lips to hers with a passion so ardent it seemed their very souls ignited in the fervent embrace. After what seemed an eternity, they finally drew apart from the kiss, their breaths mingling in ragged, synchronized gasps.

But as he locked eyes with his beloved, he saw emotions reflected in her beautiful eyes that did not match his own.

“Ferdinand, this is wrong.” She whispered, lowering her gaze, unable to summon the courage to meet his eyes.

He released her face, his hands falling despondently to his sides, his expression etched with profound heartbreak. “Why are we denied this happiness?” He implored, his voice heavy with sorrow.

“You are of noble blood, and I am but a commoner. Our worlds could never intertwine. Why can't you comprehend that?”

“I am impervious to such superficialities!” His voice carried the weight of thunder, filling the cozy confines of the cottage with its resounding power. “The trappings of my status mean naught in comparison to the depth of my feelings for you.” He avowed passionately, his words a fervent plea. Desperation etched every line of his face as he sought to bridge the divide between them, reaching out with an outstretched hand. But she recoiled, backing away from his touch.

“We cannot be.” She declares firmly, her tone unwavering, yet beneath the surface lies a hint of sadness, buried beneath the façade of resolve. She dare not let her true feelings surface. “And we shall never be.”

“Cease this self-deception.” Ferdinand implores, each word heavy with the weight of his love for her. “You feel for me as deeply as I feel for you.”

Matilda shook her head subtly, her delicate features momentarily concealed as she closed her eyes, grappling with the gravity of the man's confession. A heavy silence descended upon them both. As Matilda's eyes fluttered open once more, a shadow seemed to pass over their once-bright depths, replaced by an inscrutable emotion.

“Who says I harbor such affection?” She countered, her voice stripped of its former warmth, now cloaked in a solemn resolve.

Ferdinand found himself rendered speechless, his faculties momentarily overwhelmed as he struggled to articulate his incredulity.

“I have never admitted to harboring such thoughts of you.” She asserted, “You are a fool to entertain the notion that I would ever harbor such sentiments for you.”

Ferdinand's heart shattered into a thousand pieces, each of her words cutting through him like sharp blades. “That cannot be true.” he protested, desperation evident in his voice. “You are lying to yourself. You are pushing me away, I see it.”

“You are blind as well, Ferdinand! I have never loved you, not even for a moment. Not in the way you desired me to.”

No. He refuses to accept her words as truth. Stepping forward, he enveloped her in his embrace, burying his face in the softness of her hair. “You are lying! How can you not love me when you hold half of my heart?”

Matilda fought the urge to melt into his warm embrace, summoning her strength to push him away. “It is true.” She insisted, her voice unwavering despite the storm of emotions raging within her. “And whether you choose to accept it or not, I have never loved you. I pitied you!”

Pity me?

“I pity you for living in the shadow of Prince Thaddeus, for bearing the burden of your father's unfair expectations. All I ever sought was your friendship, nothing beyond that.”

“No one with genuine feelings would go to such lengths! Stop lying to me, Matilda, or else I fear I shall lose my sanity!” He shouted out, his voice cracking with anguish.

He staggered backward, taken aback, as Matilda pushed him forcefully in the chest. “I grow weary of this repetition! I have spoken my truth, Ferdinand, and I will not repeat it again. Stop with your nonsense once and for all!”

After her heartbreaking confession, a heavy silence enveloped the forbidden lovers as Ferdinand gathered his thoughts. “The eyes never lie, Matilda.” He began softly, his gaze unwavering as he met hers.

“Even as you push me away, I know that you love me. You may deny it with words, but that will not quell the truth in your eyes. And know this, my love for you will endure despite all.”

A shaky breath escaped Matilda's lips as she struggled to maintain her resolve. “Please,” She whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, “go, and never return, I don't wish to see you ever again.”

With his heart laid bare, Ferdinand turned on his heel, each step weighed down by the gravity of her words. From that day forward, something inside him withered and died. Time seemed to rush onward, yet he remained stuck in place, trapped in a relentless loop of sorrow. His world turned to shades of grey, for when she left, she took all the colors with her. Every moment felt void of meaning as if the essence of his being had been siphoned away along with her departure. He found himself in the arms of countless mistresses, yet none possessed the exquisite softness of Matilda's lips. Each encounter was a hollow echo, their fleeting embrace a stark reminder of the irreplaceable love he had lost, leaving him perpetually yearning for what once was.

Every time he gazed into the mirror now, he found solace in the fact that he did not resemble the monster that was his father. The very man who had manipulated his life and brought him nothing but misery. The man who also took the love of his life. His brother and father were so much alike beyond their physical features. Both were selfish and self-centered, wandering through life doing whatever they pleased without a care.

“Son, it is my honor to introduce Miss Genevieve Schneider.” His father proclaimed one day, presenting a young maiden of his own age. “She will be the one you marry.”

Ferdinand's heart sank, yet he did not protest. Instead, his jaw clenched in silent defiance. A tempest of emotions swirled within him, but he masked it with a stoic facade, resigning himself once more to the dictates of his overbearing father.

The woman before him smiled graciously, executing a flawless bow. “It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance, Your Highness.” She intoned with practiced elegance. She was undeniably beautiful, with her blue eyes and caramel hair yet her beauty paled in comparison to that of his once-beloved Matilda.

A grand wedding unfolded, drawing countless guests from far and wide to witness what was heralded as a joyous union. Yet, to Ferdinand, it felt like a cruel jest. Standing before his new wife, he leaned forward to seal the ceremony with a kiss, one that lacked any semblance of affection or warmth.

“The weather seems pleasant today.” His wife remarked as she entered his study room, her voice gentle and inviting. “Would you like to join me in the gardens?”

Ferdinand remained seated, his gaze fixed on the papers before him, indifferent to her presence. “I am busy.” He replied curtly. He possesses no desire to maintain a relationship with her, despite being married.

On their wedding night, it felt to him like another meaningless encounter from his days in various brothels. Like an emotionless puppet, he mechanically brought his wife pleasure. When it was over, he turned his back to her without a word, retreating into the cold comfort of his own solitude.

“Princess Genevieve is with child!” The announcement halted him in his tracks. He had known this was inevitable, but he hadn't expected it to happen so soon. Becoming a father at eighteen before his older brother had even secured a match—was a reality he hadn't yet fully contemplated.

“Your Highness, do you have a preference for the gender of our child?” His wife asked one night as they lay in bed. With his back turned to her, he could only mutter, “A boy is what we need.”

Months passed, and soon the child arrived on a cold December. The nurses granted him entry after the labor was done, and as he stepped inside the room, he saw his wife lying exhausted on the bed, sweat glistening on her brow. In her delicate arms lay their newborn, swaddled in a white blanket. Raising her gaze, his wife whispered, “Your Highness, it’s a boy.”

A boy. He walked forward to get a closer look at his son. His wife turned the infant gently, allowing him a better view. Dread washed over him as his eyes landed upon the child. White hair, sapphire eyes. How could this be? Not even his son resembled him!

His son had inherited his wife's blue eyes but bore no trace of his lineage. As his son started to grow up, he could observe he also had inherited his grandfather's genes. Indeed, it seemed like a cruel curse.

“Ha Ha! Behold everyone my first grandson! Prince Satoru Gojo!” His father proclaimed with a proud laugh, lifting the infant into his arms. The joy and pride in his father's voice were palpable, a stark contrast to the distant indifference Ferdinand had known throughout his own childhood. Watching his father cradle the toddler with such affection, tore the insides of his wounded heart.

Prince Satoru Gojo, his son, an uncanny resemblance to the man he despised the most.

It was a balmy spring day, the sun casting its golden rays upon the earth like a lover's gentle caress. The warmth enveloped everything it touched, offering a comforting embrace that could lull one into a peaceful slumber beneath its radiant glow. Like echoes from a distant memory, laughter floated on the breeze, carefree and joyous.

A young girl lay upon the vibrant green grass, her eyes closed in serene repose, surrendering herself fully to the sun's embrace. How could anyone resist the privilege of surrendering to such a comforting feeling?

“Sweetheart!” A voice called out, and the girl's eyes fluttered open, turning her head slightly to the side. Her vision was still blurry, but she recognized who was calling for her. A woman approached swiftly, rushing to the girl's side and pulling her into a playful embrace that elicited laughter, the girl burying her head into the older woman's chest.

“I've been looking for you, sweetheart. What are you doing lying on the ground?” The woman asked with a playful tone, tickling the girl's side gently.

The girl's laughter tinkled like wind chimes in the breeze as she attempted to wriggle free from the embrace. As she playfully squirmed to break free from the embrace, the older woman's laughter softened into a tender sigh, pulling the girl closer until her chin rested gently atop the girl's head. With a motherly touch, she began to pat her back in a soothing rhythm, each stroke a gesture of love and reassurance.

“Come, my dear, let us retreat indoors.” The woman suggested, her voice a gentle murmur. The girl acquiesced with a nod against her chest, her eyes closing serenely.

“Yes, Mother.”

With a sudden jolt, you awaken from yet another peculiar dream that had haunted your sleep. Breathing heavily, you sit up in bed, attempting to steady your emotions and calm the tumultuous thoughts swirling in your mind. You place a hand on your chest, feeling the rapid rhythm of your heart beneath your palm, its beats echoing the lingering intensity of the dream. Even though it was a serene and beautiful dream, an uncanny feeling lingers as if it were a memory locked deep within your mind.

That woman, who is she? And the little girl…could that have been you?

Upon the day the Geto family stumbled upon you amidst the woods, a necklace clung resolutely to your neck, defying the odds of slipping off during your distressed discovery. Now, seated at the bed's edge, your feet encounter the cold floor, triggering a shiver that runs down your spine. You remain still, gaze fixed on nothingness, pondering your next steps carefully. That's where you reach a decision. You begin your preparations for the day, slipping into one of the new dresses Miss Geto purchased for you just a few days prior. You resolved to approach her, to confide in her about the recent troubles weighing on your mind, and to seek any insights she might have about your discovery that could aid in unlocking memories of your past. Despite having stowed away the necklace, convinced that clinging to a past you couldn't recall was futile, you now felt compelled to retrieve it from the depths of your drawer. Today, more than ever, you intend to hold onto it tightly.

It was early morning, approximately eight o'clock—a time when you and Suguru typically partook in breakfast together. Occasionally, Miss Geto would join, though such occurrences were rare given her busy schedule.

As you ventured into the dining room, you noticed Suguru's absence, which struck you as unusual.

“Where could he be?” You wondered silently, meandering through the manor until you halted in the hallway, pausing as you caught the sound of voices emanating from Suguru and his mother in the living room. Proceeding cautiously, you refrained from announcing your presence, uncertain if it was the appropriate moment to do so.

“Whatever do you mean?” Suguru's voice intoned with a trace of skepticism, seated opposite his mother.

Evelyn sighed softly, rubbing the space between her eyebrows. “Son, I intend no offense in offering counsel on these matters.”

“I fail to comprehend the source of these accusations. Public indiscretions? Pray tell, where have I been witnessed in such displays?”

“I was informed that you were seen in the company of...well, a woman of questionable repute. Naturally, it has troubled me greatly to hear such gossip circulating about you.”

This caught Suguru off guard. Questionable repute? Does she mean Rosalie? He raised a brow at his mother's words, his hand resting calmly on his leg, trying his best to maintain his composure. “If I may ask, mother, where did you hear such information?”

“It does not truly matter, does it?”

“It matters a great deal.” He asserts, “To cast aspersions upon someone's character without sufficient knowledge is not only unjust but also unbecoming. One cannot casually besmirch an innocent person's reputation based on hearsay alone.”

“I only want what's best for you—” Evelyn attempted to resonate with her son, though he remained steadfast in his stance.

“But speaking disparagingly of another based solely on their occupation—what does that say of us? Is it fair to dismiss someone's character and integrity simply because of their profession? Being a seamstress does not equate to being a prostitute. Such insinuations are truly ignoble.”

“Forgive me, son, for my unintended judgment. During your absence, I had an unexpected visit from an acquaintance who shared this information with me. Can you blame me for being concerned?”

Ah, Suguru thought to himself at that moment, now everything falls into place.

“Was it Miss Schuyler?” Suguru's voice resonated with annoyance as he perceived his mother's silence as confirmation. “Mother, how can you continue to maintain ties with such an insufferable woman? Can you not discern that her every utterance is full of lies!”

“It's true, isn't it?” His mother replied changing the subject smoothly, “The supposed gossip speaks truth.”

“So what if it is true? Mother, I did not expect you to judge someone's character so hastily.” His eyes bore into hers, searching for any sign of the understanding and fairness he hoped to find.

“It was never my intention to speak ill of anyone, please understand. I simply wish for you to engage with someone of a different character, someone befitting your station.”

Sighing, Suguru rose from his seat, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. After a moment of silence, he turned to face his mother, one hand resting on his hip. “And whom, pray tell, do you suggest as being suitable to befit my station?”

Evelyn rose gracefully from her seat, gliding toward her son. She took both of his hands in hers, her eyes filled with earnest conviction. “Someone cultured and well-educated, with a mind as expansive as the horizon, a true connoisseur of the arts and humanities. Someone like (Y/N).”

What!

Suguru felt the world around him come to a standstill as your name fell from his mother's lips. “(Y/N)?” He repeated, the syllables trembling with a mixture of astonishment and incredulity. Did he hear right?

“Yes! Don't you see that you and (Y/N) are the perfect match?”

Suguru gently pulled away from Evelyn's grasp, a frown creasing his brow. “Mother, where is this coming from?” he inquired, his tone laced with frustration. “Me and (Y/N) could never be.”

“Why? You two have known each other for so long, and you share a deep, genuine affection for one another's company. Your companionship is already a solid foundation, one that many marriages lack. Such a bond is rare and precious, and I truly believe it could blossom into something extraordinary.”

As you eavesdropped further into the conversation, a growing anxiety gripped your heart. Evelyn’s passionate plea for why Suguru should marry you hung in the air, and his prolonged silence only heightened your unease. What was he thinking?

“(Y/N) and I share a rare and precious bond, that is true,” Suguru began softly, “But I have always seen her as the sister I never had, someone I wish to protect and shelter. Our connection is deep and unwavering, but it is not the romantic love you envision. Please do not force something unexisting into our relationship that could jeopardize the genuine affection and respect we have for each other.”

His response seemed to jolt Evelyn into a moment of clarity, rendering her speechless as her hands fell limply by her sides. Suguru sighed softly, excusing himself with a graceful pivot on his heel before leaving the room.

You quickly made my exit, keenly avoiding any chance of being discovered by Suguru for eavesdropping. Hiding until Suguru's steps faded toward his office, you emerged from the shadows, your countenance etched with concern as you watched his retreating figure. There was a solemn obligation stirring within you, a sense of duty to aid him in some way, after all, you owned him that much.

The rhythmic thumping of his leg bouncing up and down was the sole sound echoing through the room. The prince couldn't contain his anxiety as he gripped the letter he had received that morning. Weeks had passed since the last correspondence, and his men had failed to uncover the identity of the mysterious author.

“Your Highness, you summoned me?” The voice of his advisor, Ethelred, reverberated through the room, breaking the prince's reverie.

Clutching the letter with white-knuckled intensity, Satoru waved it before his advisor's eyes. “Have you seen this? Another letter has arrived! Did I not command you to uncover the identity of this elusive author?” His voice, quivering with a blend of anger and anxiety, filled the room. “What have you been doing all this time?”

The older man bowed, “Please forgive me, Your Highness. We are doing our utmost to comply with your command, but unforeseen circumstances hinder our progress.”

A frustrated groan escaped his lips as he threw the letter back onto the table with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Rising to his feet, he turned his back on his advisor, a clear sign of his displeasure.

“Enough of this. You are dismissed. Leave me to my thoughts.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Ethelred retreated from the room, closing the door softly behind him, leaving the prince alone with his turmoil.

Now alone inside his chamber, his eyes flicked to the discarded letter on the table, its presence a constant reminder of the mystery that eluded him.

“King Ferdinand is nothing but a deceiver, cloaked in a myriad of secrets. The entire royal family is tainted, shrouded in the darkness of their concealed transgressions. Only the prince, in his naive ignorance, remains oblivious to the sinister truths that fester in the shadows.” Satoru murmured these damning words from the letter he had read earlier, his expression darkening with each word.

Pacing the room with mounting frustration, he clenched his fists. “How dare they talk ill about my family.” His voice trembled with a mixture of anger and despair. “This cannot go on. I will uncover the truth, no matter the cost.”

Without announcing his departure, Satoru donned a black cloak and made his way stealthily to one of the carriages. “Is Miss Cressida still in residence?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” A servant replied. “Though she left earlier to meet with a group of maidens.”

Sighing, the prince nodded and stepped into the carriage. His resolve hardened as he addressed the driver and attendants. “You are all strictly forbidden from disclosing my departure to anyone. Not a word of this leaves your lips. Now, let us be on our way.”

The carriage lurched forward, and as they moved through the gates of the palace. Gazing ahead as the carriage rolled through the bustling streets, Prince Satoru's mind churned with speculation about the mysterious sender of the letters. His brow furrowed in frustration, contemplating every possible angle. Could it be a vengeful rival, harboring grievances? As the carriage navigated through the labyrinthine streets, Satoru's resolve solidified like iron forged in the fires of uncertainty. Then, a singular place etched itself into his mind, he only hoped it was the right place to find the answers he had been looking for.

The carriage came to a halt, and Satoru dismissed his staff with a curt nod before drawing the hood of his cloak over his head, obscuring his features in shadow. He knew the remainder of his journey must be made on foot; a royal carriage spotted in these kinds of places would undoubtedly give him away. After walking several miles through winding paths he finally stood before a weathered tavern. This was a haven where gentlemen sought respite from their nagging wives and indulged in secretive liaisons. The establishment thrummed with life, the air thick with the scent of ale, and tobacco. Pushing open the creaking door, Satoru entered the dimly lit, crowded room. He maneuvered through the throng of patrons, the din of raucous laughter and clinking glasses enveloping him. Reaching the bar, he took a seat on one of the worn stools.

“Good evening, sir. What can I get you?” The bartender inquired, acknowledging his presence.

“A glass of beer.” Satoru muttered from beneath his cloak, his voice low and gruff. The bartender nodded, turning to prepare his drink.

Satoru sat there, listening intently to the cacophony around him. It is only a guess, after all there’s only one person will be brave enough to threaten him. And he’s well aware this individual is a frequent visitor of this establishment. He could only hopes his intuition is right.

Then, suddenly, a boisterous group of gentlemen entered, their laughter cutting through the noise, catching Satoru’s attention.

“Haha, Ewart! I’m glad to see you well, my friend. It's been ages since we last met!” One of them exclaimed, his voice rich with camaraderie.

Bingo.

The group of gentlemen settled at a nearby table, their boisterous laughter filling the air as they delved into friendly conversations over a round of drinks.

“Why haven't you reached out to us the moment you arrived?” One of the men inquired, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity. “What have you been up to, friend?”

Ewart, leaned back in his chair, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I've been rather preoccupied with some more important matters.”

Another gentleman raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell, Ewart. We're all ears.”

Ewart chuckled, taking a measured sip of his drink before leaning forward with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, let’s just say I encountered a maiden whose beauty could rival that of the stars. Truly, she is the most exquisite among them all.”

The group leaned in, intrigued by the other's words.

“It all began when I was accompanying a cousin of mine to an evening,” Ewart recounted, his voice rich with nostalgia. “At first, it was a day like any other—monotonous and teeming with the usual chatter. However, the air shifted when a commotion erupted, drawing everyone's attention. Amidst the chaos, my eyes landed on a distressed lady, her clothes drenched as she ran with an urgency that spoke of desperation. Being the gentleman I am, I intended to aid her, but she vanished before I could reach her. Determined to know more, I inquired about her. Imagine my surprise when I found out she was living under the roof of someone I once knew.”

“Well look at that, could it be love at first sight, Ewart?”

He chuckled softly, his gaze distant. “Perhaps it was, or perhaps it was not. I sent her a letter, hoping we could spend some time together.” Ewart continued, his tone growing somber as a frown darkened his countenance. “But—”

“What is it?”

Ewart huffed, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass absentmindedly. “The prince got in my way.”

“The prince?”

“Yes, the darn prince thought it was a good idea to spend time over his state. After she received my letter, she agreed to meet at Palais Guille, and to my misfortune, I crossed paths with him. He invited us all over his state the next day. Somehow, it felt like he was after her hand in marriage.” Ewart replied, frustration evident in his voice.

They all laughed heartily before speaking. “Well, it seems like your rivalry with the prince is still intact, even after all these years.”

“And you know what’s more unbelievable? He’s engaged. I guess that when you are royalty, you can do whatever you want without fearing the consequences.”

“After all, he has always been arrogant and imperious.”

“Haha, I couldn't agree more!”

The gentlemen around the table continued their banter, the laughter growing louder and the drinks kept flowing.

After a while, Ewart leaned in, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Allow me to confide in you all. For some inexplicable reason, a foreboding sense has settled upon me ever since King Ferdinand ascended the throne. Everything was flowing well when Prince Thaddeus and King Everard were alive. God help us all.” He expressed taking a longer slip from his drink.

The group fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. The jovial atmosphere turned somber as the men exchanged glances. The unexpected change of topic took them all off guard.

“Now that you mention them, their deaths were shrouded in peculiar circumstances. In the case of Prince Thaddeus, the initial proclamation was that he was suffering from nothing more than a mild fever. However, this narrative swiftly changed, and it was later declared that he had succumbed to a deadly illness.”

They all concurred in unison, nodding their heads in agreement.

Ewart leaned back into his seat, his eyes narrowing, “Who knows what truly transpires within those walls?”

After a final round of drinks, Ewart set his glass aside and rose from his seat. “Gentlemen, do excuse me. I must wash my face; otherwise, I fear I shall not be able to make my way home.”

This was Satoru's cue to set his plan into motion. After discreetly paying for his drink, he followed Ewart, remaining unnoticed as they made their way to the men's restroom. As Ewart finished washing his face, Satoru swiftly pushed him against the wall, gripping his attire with both fists.

“What is the meaning of this!” Ewart exclaimed, taken aback by the sudden assault. Fortunately, the hallway was deserted, ensuring no witnesses to their confrontation.

“You think I wouldn't realize you were the one sending those letters?” Satoru hissed, his grip tightening. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“I am utterly clueless about your accusations! Who are you?” His protest was abruptly silenced as Satoru pressed his arm firmly against Ewart's neck, nearly choking him.

“You had the best start speaking the truth!” Satoru hissed, his voice a low, menacing whisper. “Confess, or face dire consequences!”

As Ewart struggled to make sense of the situation, his eyes widened in recognition when he caught a glimpse of the familiar blue eyes beneath the cloak. “Satoru?”

Satoru gritted his teeth, pushing his arm further against Ewart's throat, eliciting a gasp from the other man. “Speak!” He commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

“Ewart, what is taking you so long?” The voices of his friends echoed down the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. Then the group of gentlemen halted abruptly at the sight before them.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Bloody—” Satoru cursed under his breath, swiftly releasing Ewart, who fell to the ground, choking and gasping for air.

The men rushed toward Satoru to defend their friend. The first punch landed squarely across his jawline, sending a jolt of pain through his face, but he quickly regained his footing. With a surge of adrenaline, Satoru struck back. Though outnumbered, he fought valiantly, deflecting blows and retaliating with precise hits of his own. Despite his best efforts, the odds were against him. Four against one proved a formidable challenge, and Satoru knew he couldn't hold them off indefinitely. With a final burst of strength, he managed to break free from their grasp, slipping through their clutches and making a hasty escape. Bruised and battered, he navigated the bustling streets as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over his path.

“Rosalie!”

“Yes, Madam?”

“You have a visitor.”

Rosalie was taken aback by the announcement. After all, visitors were a rarity for her. Turning her head, she saw you standing at the front, a sheepish smile playing on your lips.

“Is it a bad time?” You inquired, your voice gentle but uncertain.

“Miss (Y/N), what brings you here?” Rosalie questioned, her surprise evident as her hands fell to her sides. Abandoning the mannequin she had been diligently taking measurements on.

“I need to speak with you, but I see you're occupied,” you said, glancing at the dress-in-progress. “I'll wait as long as needed to have a word with you.”

Rosalie sighed deeply, casting a glance towards the older woman, who nodded in quiet acquiescence, granting Rosalie a brief respite from her duties.

“Come with me.” She instructed, guiding you to a more secluded area of the store. She later beckoned you to sit on one of the couches. “Might I offer you some tea?”

You politely declined with a smile, “Thank you, but I am quite alright.”

She nodded gracefully, settling into the seat opposite you, her hands folded in her lap, “What is it that you wish to discuss with me?” She inquired gently, her gaze attentive as she awaited your words.

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you sighed softly, a hint of concern coloring your tone. “Are you faring well, Rosalie?” You ventured delicately, your eyes searching hers for any hint of what weighed upon her.

She raised an eyebrow in genteel surprise, her poise unwavering as she regarded you with mild curiosity. “Might I inquire as to the nature of your concern?”

You blinked owlishly, momentarily taken aback by her apparent unawareness. “Do you truly mean that you possess no knowledge whatsoever of recent says?”

Rosalie's brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of concern passing through her gaze. “I believe I do not know what are you talking about.”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Forgive me if I seem forward, but there have been rumors circulating about… matters concerning about you...and Suguru.” You began tentatively, watching her reaction closely.

“Ah...” She uttered softly, a slight tremor in her voice before she gathered herself to meet your gaze once more. “What sorts of rumors have taken flight?”

Your hesitation was palpable, the weight of unspoken implications hanging heavy in the air. Yet, Rosalie's gentle insistence prompted you to carefully say your next words. “It pains me to even repeat such hearsay. But whispers are suggesting a connection between you and Suguru, veiled in conjecture and speculation. Along with words denigrating you as a person and your profession.”

Rosalie's expression tightened slightly, a fleeting flicker of emotion passing across her face before she masked it behind a veil of composure once more. “Is Suguru alright?”

You offered a sympathetic nod, “He is, in fact. He's furious at such implications.”

A solemn hush descended between you two. Moved by an earnest compulsion, you approached Rosalie with a grace borne of empathy, kneeling beside her and gently clasping her hands in yours. Before she could interject, you implored her with a fervent plea.

“Forgive my impertinence, but I could not bear to witness you and Suguru ensnared in the snares of baseless conjecture. It was not my place to speak, yet I could not remain idle as shadows of doubt threatened your peace. Please, do not allow the judgments of others to define your path or dictate the company you keep.”

Rosalie's expression softened, a flicker of gratitude and vulnerability shimmering in her eyes as my words resonated with the truth she held dear. “I am deeply grateful for your kindness, (Y/N). You have been nothing but a great companion. However, if you don't mind, I would appreciate a moment alone.”

You nodded understandingly, releasing her hands with a gentle squeeze before withdrawing slightly.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” You offered one last nod of reassurance before quietly excusing yourself from her presence, leaving her to contemplate in the sanctum of her thoughts.

As you stood outside the establishment, the weight of recent events hung heavily upon you. You pity the situation both of your friends are in, feeling hopeless. Lost in contemplation, the sunset painted the sky with hues of amber and crimson, the night was about to come and it was your cue to return before they noticed your absence back at home.

Suddenly, gasps and hurried footsteps shattered the stillness, drawing your attention to the commotion unfolding through the street. Before you could discern its cause, a collision knocked you off balance, the force sending you sprawling to the ground.

As you gathered my senses, by sitting up, you looked up and froze at the sight of the figure beneath the cloak—Satoru. Why was the prince here out of all places!

“Satoru?” You exclaimed, your astonishment muffled as he swiftly silenced you with a finger pressed to his lips.

With urgency in his eyes, he grasped your wrist and pulled you into a nearby alley, shielding you both from prying eyes. Pressed against the cold stone wall, his presence loomed over you, shielding you under his body. Until the voices of the group of men faded, Satoru stepped back, removing the cloak that concealed his identity.

His gaze locked onto yours with concern etched upon his bruised face. “Are you okay, (Y/N)? I'm deeply sorry for earlier, please forgive me.”

You swallowed hard, his touch stirring a swirl of emotions within you- “I'm alright.” You managed to reply, your eyes then landing on his face, noticing the damage that lies on it.

“Are you alright? What happened!” You asked worriedly.

Satoru's lips curved into a faint smile, retreating his hand. “I am alright, thank you for your concern.” He assured you, brushing off your worry. “I'm more concerned about you. What are you doing here alone?”

You exhaled a sigh, your gaze drifted downward. “I came here with intentions to speak with my friend, but now, I find myself reluctant to return.”

Satoru's brow furrowed in concern as he clasped your hand in his, his touch both comforting and urgent. “You must return. I worry for your safety. Does Suguru know you are here?”

Shaking your head slightly, you met his gaze, “I came here without nobody knowing.”

Satoru pulls away, sighing heavily, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The thought of suggesting you stay at his estate dissipates with Cressida's presence, leaving no chance. Meeting your gaze once more, he inquires, “Where do you plan to stay?”

“I came prepared. I have funds to secure accommodations at an inn.”

The thought of you residing alone in an inn stirred unease within Satoru. “Allow me to accompany you.” He declared abruptly, his words betraying his usual composure.

You froze, meeting his gaze in astonishment. “Pardon?”

Realizing the implications of his blunt statement, Satoru cleared his throat before continuing with a more refined approach. “What I intend to convey is, permit me to secure accommodations adjacent to yours. I find myself unable to let you depart in such a manner.”

“Your Highness, I couldn't possibly trouble you like this—”

“Please, I insist.”

After relenting to Satoru's earnest appeals, the two of you arrived at a nearby inn, its atmosphere bustling with the presence of numerous guests. “Two chambers, if you please.” You requested politely to the gentleman stationed behind the polished desk.

“I regret to inform you, that we possess only one room available.”

“Oh dear.”

Then the innkeeper's gaze lingered curiously on Satoru, who was standing behind you, concealed beneath his cloak. A hearty laugh escaped him. “No need for secrecy here, sir. Your affairs are safe with us.”

Satoru scowled slightly beneath his cloak, clearly displeased by the innkeeper's perceptiveness. “You—”

Caught off guard by the innkeeper's implication, you felt a flush of warmth spread across you. With no alternative apparent, you composed yourself and replied, “We shall take the room, then.”

The innkeeper nodded amiably, his laughter subsiding as he efficiently prepared the arrangements for your accommodation.

Both of you ascended the staircase to the room allocated to you, and upon entering, your eyes immediately fell upon the sole bed situated in the center of the spacious chamber. Composing yourself despite the unexpected arrangement, you turned to face Satoru.

“Would you like me to tend to your injuries?” You offered gently, “I can request medical supplies from the staff.”

“Oh. If isn't too much trouble.”

You nodded in acknowledgment before exiting the room to retrieve the necessary equipment. After a brief absence, you returned with medical supplies in hand, entering quietly to find Satoru seated by the bed, his gaze lost in distant thoughts. His troubled demeanor was palpable, prompting you to approach him gently.

“I'm back.” You announced softly, moving to his side and creating a space for yourself on the bed. With a delicate touch, you lifted a compress and carefully applied it to one of his bruises. He flinched slightly at the initial contact, a soft hiss escaping his lips, but he gradually relaxed under your ministrations.

“Does it cause discomfort?” You inquired, your voice a soothing melody in the quiet chamber. Satoru shook his head minimally, acknowledging the pain was bearable. You continued to work in silence, the tension in Satoru's expression began to ease, replaced by a faint sense of gratitude for your presence and attention. After a while, you finished attending to his injuries, setting aside the medical supplies with a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.” He murmured gratefully.

You nodded warmly, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Anything for a friend.”

“Allow me to take the floor, I wouldn't want to impose upon your comfort.”

“Absolutely not. I couldn't possibly let the prince rest on the floor, especially not after enduring injuries.”

Satoru paused momentarily, visibly moved by your steadfast refusal and the genuine regard you held for his well-being. “What do you suggest we do?”

Well.

You both agreed to share the bed, positioning yourselves at opposite sides, ensuring a comfortable distance between you. The room was filled with a quiet tension, each of you mindful of respecting personal space. You found yourself unable to drift into sleep, your gaze fixed upon the expanse of the wall before you. The realization of sharing a bed with the prince was a surreal circumstance, one that kept your thoughts swirling in disbelief. Yet, beyond the novelty of the moment, deeper concerns weighed heavily upon your mind. The circumstances surrounding Suguru and Rosalie gnawed at your conscience, their futures uncertain. Miss Geto's unexpected suggestion that Suguru should consider marrying you instead added another layer of complexity to an already chaotic day.

“(Y/N).”

You started from your thoughts, jolted by the unexpected interruption. “Yes?”

You inquired without turning to face Satoru, feeling a tinge of embarrassment. Sensing your nervousness, Satoru mirrored your gesture, avoiding direct eye contact to put you at ease. “Are you sure you're alright?”

Your shoulders relaxed slightly at his considerate tone, appreciating his effort to make you feel comfortable.

“I'm quite alright. Am I keeping you awake?”

“I can't sleep either.”

After some minutes of absolute silence You admitted honestly, “I must confess, I lied.” Making the other responds with a gentle chuckle from his side of the bed.

“Care to share with me what's in your mind?”

You pushed aside the blanket, straightening your posture as you turned towards the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls. “It is a tale of considerable length.” You started, your gaze holding steadfast on the dancing flame. “Are you certain you wish to hear it?”

Satoru shifted, sitting upright with his back against the headboard, still maintaining a respectful distance between the two of you. He turned his gaze towards you, his expression open and attentive. “Of course. That's what friends are for.”

“Marrying Suguru?” Satoru echoed his expression betraying a subtle shade of surprise as you recounted part of your tale. An astute observer might have detected a fleeting trace of jealousy on the prince's countenance. “Have you considered such proposal?”

Your laughter bubbled forth uncontrollably, and you delicately covered your mouth with the back of your hand, muffling the mirth that escaped despite your efforts. “Certainly not. I couldn't fathom myself wedded to Suguru. He's always been akin to a brother to me.”

Satoru released a sigh at your reassuring words, his demeanor visibly relaxing.

“Suguru's affections are already bestowed elsewhere.”

Satoru blinked, his gaze turning inward in contemplation. Before he could respond, you interjected with a soft laugh, finding his reaction quietly amusing. “Rosalie.”

“Ah, yes. Of course, Rosalie.” He's been so engrossed in his own pursuits that he hasn't discerned his friend's feelings.

After quite some time, you both lapsed into a comfortable silence after recounting your respective narratives. Eventually, you broke the quietude once again with an inquiry, “How about you? I believe I've shared my side of the story”

Observing a subtle shift in his expression as his smile began to fade, you swiftly added, “Of course, if you're comfortable sharing it with me.”

Regaining his composure with a measured breath, Satoru responded with introspective grace, “Indeed, I trust you with my thoughts. It's simply a tangled web of complexities, and I find myself uncertain where to commence.”

“There has been someone who disrupted my peace several weeks ago.” He continued quietly, “I'm uncertain of their motives or what they hope to achieve. I'm grappling with whether to trust their claims or dismiss them altogether. The letters I've received suggest that everything I've come to know may not be as it seems.”

“Recently, I endeavored to uncover the truth behind those enigmatic letters. Yet now, having delved into the matter, I find myself at an impasse, unsure of the path forward.”

“Your Highness—pardon me, Satoru.” You called softly, drawing his gaze toward you. “I am confident that you will uncover the truth you seek. Please, don't be too harsh on yourself. I may not be of much assistance, but I would be delighted to help you in any way I can.”

A smile curved Satoru's lips. “You are very kind, (Y/N). I am grateful for your friendship. And please, forgive me for not offering you a place to stay at my estate earlier. It was solely because—”

“Because of your fiancée.” You interpose, anticipating his explanation.

He nodded, a shadow of resignation passing over his features. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“You don't seem particularly content with your fiancée” You observed.

“Would you be content with an arranged marriage if you were in my shoes?” He replied, a touch of irony lacing his words.

“You're right. I would be devastated.” You declared, “It would have been best if you could have extended an invitation to stay at your estate. It's quite uncomfortable sleeping in our formal clothes. What was I thinking?”

“What were we thinking.” He echoed as both of you descended into laughter, the shared amusement easing the awkwardness of your situation.

At least something good came out of this chaotic day. You thought, a faint smile touching your lips as the shared laughter lingered in the air.

However, you wouldn't believe what happened the very next day.

In your slumber, you felt as though you had experienced the most restful sleep in ages as if lying upon a soft cloud that enveloped you in its gentle embrace. Despite your complaints the previous night about the discomfort of sleeping in your formal attire, you had been encased in a cocoon of warmth and tranquility. As you began to stir awake, your eyes gradually took in your surroundings. An unexpected sight greeted you—an expanse of white that momentarily confounded your senses. Attempting to sit up, you were met with the startling realization that you had been resting against Satoru's chest.

Oh no this cannot be happening. You thought alarmed, your mind racing to comprehend the unexpected and intimate position in which you found yourself.

It wasn't long before Satoru began to stir as well. His eyes fluttered open, and it took a moment for his vision to clear. His gaze then traveled to your waist, where one of his arms was still wrapped around you. Realizing this, he quickly withdrew his arm and sat up abruptly.

“I…I apologize. I didn't realize.” He stammered, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

You lowered your gaze, unable to summon the courage to meet his eyes, feeling far too flustered by the situation. “It's alright, we were asleep. It was unintentional.” Or was it not?

Satoru implored you to accompany him back to his estate, where you could be provided with a fresh set of attire and a modest repast before your return home. You agreed, even if you wished to run away and lamented about your previous actions alone.

“Your Highness!” Elthered's voice rang out from a distance as he hurried to Satoru's side. “I am relieved to see you return safely. I received no notice of your departure yesterday.”

Satoru waved off his advisor's concern with a reassuring gesture. “It's quite alright, Ethelred. It was a matter of minor inconvenience, nothing to be troubled about.”

Ethelred then noticed your presence and bowed politely. “Miss (Y/N), it is a pleasure to see you.”

You nodded graciously, “The pleasure is mine. Thank you for receiving me.”

Turning back to his advisor, Satoru continued, “Elthered, please see to it that Miss (Y/N) is provided with a fresh set of clothes, so that we may share breakfast before she departs.”

“Certainly, Your Highness. Please, come right in.”

Ethelred gestured for you to enter first, and you complied with a nod of appreciation. Before he could follow you, Satoru called him back.

“Elthered, is Cressida here?” He inquired.

“No, Your Highness. She has not returned since yesterday.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eyes. “I wonder why.” He mused, having a hint of where she could have been. “Thank you, Elthered. That is all, return to your duties.” The other man nodded trailing behind you to assist you.

“I cannot believe this! How could you all let this happen?” At present, Suguru's voice resonated with anger as he confronted his staff, their negligence apparent in their failure to notify him of your whereabouts the previous day. Beneath his fury, however, lay a profound concern that gnawed at him. He had spent the entire previous day engulfed in both work and alcohol, his vision blurred by both, only to awaken the next morning and realize your absence. The news that you had ventured out and not returned had spurred him into action, his mind swirling with worry.

“We deeply apologize, Lord Geto. It slipped through our notice—”

“There is no excuse! We should have been vigilant, especially concerning a maiden's safety!”

Without another word, Suguru stormed away, intent on leaving the manor to personally search for you, even if he had to search through the heavens and earth. However, his resolve halted abruptly as a royal carriage arrived. From a distance, he discerned your figure disembarking, and without a second thought, he rushed to your side, enfolding you in a tight embrace.

“Where have you been! I was sickly worried about you!” His embrace tightened almost painfully, but you endured it, recognizing that your sudden departure had caused undue distress.

“Forgive me,” You murmured softly, “it was reckless of me to leave without notifying anyone.”

Suguru held you for a moment longer before gently releasing you, his hands framing your face, “Don't think this will be easily dismissed. We need to talk about this.”

You nodded in agreement, but before Suguru could continue, a staff member approached with a letter in hand.

“Lord Geto, Miss (Y/N).” The staff member addressed you both urgently, “A letter has arrived for Miss (Y/N).”

Perplexed and anxious, you accepted the letter and broke the seal with trembling hands. As you read its contents, a gasp escaped your lips, your hand instinctively covering your mouth in shock. The horror coloring your features.

Alarmed, Suguru rushed to your side, kneeling down to grasp the letter and uncover its contents for himself. Soon, his countenance reflected the shock that had washed over you.

Miss (Y/N), the demise of your family did not stem from a mere misfortune or happenstance. They met a tragic fate, subjected to a heinous act of homicide.

🏷: @sadmonke , @tbzzluvr , @billiondollarworth , @gojoluvs , @catobsessedlady , @teramisuyhin , @turtleducker, @blindbabycadder (Taglist is open!)

All rights reserved © 2024 𝐈𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌. Please do not copy, rewrite, or translate my work on any other platform.

[nanistar]

Since it seems like folks are shouting into your inbox about WC and its writing tonight - there's a lot wrong with the series, of course, but what I miss is the POV of a cat who *wanted* to be in the clans *so much* that it meant giving up everything they knew. That POV, of course, being Firestar in TPB (and in a way, some of the cats in DotC). That perspective gave a much more balanced view of the clans' flaws, and it also gave us a character who was willing to fight to change some of the inequitable parts of clan life (at least, given the challenges of that day and age). Firepaw/heart/star was easy to love (and root for as a character) because he loved the clans so much, and not just a love despite the flaws, but love in a way that he was committed to fighting to make them better. The longer he was with TC that changed, of course, but all of the recent POVs have been from cats so steeped in clan life that even the most catastrophic incidents are accepted by the MCs without much resistance. Firestar was radical (both by being a kittypet turned clan leader and in his approach to leadership - moreso early on than later when he became part of that same system). I miss that. But sure, let's have another POV of a cat who is the epitome of upholding the current clan status quo. I'm sure that will bring a diverse viewpoint to conflict resolution and the systemic -isms of the clans (/s of course). Anyway cheers for listening to random people ranting in your askbox, that must be annoying sometimes lol.

i miss the wonder and excitement of the first arc so much ): it's not without it's flaws for sure, but it was just a lot more fun because anything could be happen. i think it's because it was a new world to learn, and by now we know and kinda hate the WC setting. also there were BG characters that had personalities and affected the plot.

also all the villains are boring because they peaked with tigerstar. remember when firestar broke mistyfoot + feather&stormpaw out of prison. what the fuck

we've been praying for a big catastrophic wipe-out event for like 3 arcs now that will level the playing field and i really hope it will happen soon. need more death an despair tbqh

[emblemxeno]

This brings up a question I've always had why DO so many people call Edelgard a revolutionary what am I missing? She's point for point like all politicians who claim it's for the good of the country and go back to how things were when it's just an excuse. Like I don't like bringing real world stuff into this but Israel and Netenyahu? Russia and Putin? Make America great again and Trump? They all use the exact same tactics calling the other side the enemy it's all by strength alone (please ignore the system you just aren't strong enough listen to me I'll save you from the evil scapegoat I'm telling you about), using only people close to them to put into positions of power, it's honestly shocking people are blind to this??? Then again they seem to think the church is just like our church when they're barely alike so idk

We really failed as a fandom tbh.

When the game presents an imperialist autocrat pretending to be (and believing she is) a revolutionary and who sides with terrorists who committed a genocide without much pushback beyond insults until she gets what she wants because, to her and her jackass evil butler, their useful power outweighs being fucking evil and making things terrible.

And a significant portion of the audience says "yes actually, she's a revolutionary who wants to bring change and everyone who's against her wants to maintain a toxic status quo, especially the genocide victim whose warnings and instructions were ignored by humanity."

Despite the fact that, for as much as she claims she's future focused, she fucking venerates the past to an insane degree. She thinks things were better when the other countries didn't exist; she believes things are better when one person on the imperial throne gets to call the shots with no checks on that power (like, just because it's not an inherited position anymore, doesn't mean it's good, since the subjects still don't have a voice); she compliments a past when merit and strength (concepts that are just as brittle and easily taken advantage of as birth status) were what got people high positions without consideration of those below the shot-caller; she thinks things were better when Nabateans had no ability to participate in how things operate-in their own birthplace mind you-because she doesn't view them as beings capable of emotion, logic, or rationality.

Edelgard is a rough textbook example of the evils of modern conservatism, wanting to return to an inequitable and oppressive power structure of the past that shut the majority out while claiming "oh just be better at your job, you whiner." And no amount of her feeling "uwu sad" about her actions changes the fact that she's still doing them.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Douglas Murray

What’s in a word? ‘Equality’. ‘Equity’. It’s the sort of thing that Channel 4 newsreaders find impossible to understand. Surely they’re the same thing, aren’t they? And even if they aren’t then what kind of pedant would keep trying to point it out? What difference does it make anyway?

Well, quite a lot. Potentially the difference between your home burning down and it not burning down.

In the past couple of weeks residents of some of the most ‘progressive’ neighbourhoods in America have had, in real time, an unfortunate crash course on the difference between these two words and are now raising questions on which has been prioritised. The wildfires that have destroyed the Palisades and other upmarket areas of Los Angeles seem to have been caused by many things. Locals report repeated sightings of arsonists, though the authorities seem to have taken a forgiving approach to the odd homeless – sorry, ‘unhoused’ – person walking around with a blowtorch. The winds have certainly whipped matters along. But the real story of the disaster, which has already caused billions of dollars worth of damage, is the response to the fires. Or rather the non-response, specifically from the people whose job is meant to be putting out fires.

Residents who have lost their homes and belongings have told me in the past week that they didn’t see even one firetruck in their neighbourhood from the moment the fires got close to the moment their whole area burned to the ground. Now it seems that people are finally putting two and two together and reaching that unfair, deeply inequitable number of four.

Now residents are looking to the people in charge of their safety. Were they the best qualified folks? The mayor of Los Angeles is Karen Bass. During her election campaign in 2021, she promised that she wouldn’t leave California or travel abroad once she became mayor. Unfortunately for her, she was in Ghana when the fires broke out in her neighbourhood. She had gone there despite fire warnings already being in place.

Fortunately, the head of the Los Angeles Fire Department, Kristin Crowley, is a lesbian, which I think we can all agree is the thing we look for most when we make a call to emergency services. ‘Hello, operator here. Which service do you require? Lesbian, non-binary person, or diverse woman of colour?’ Crowley’s appointment in 2022 was called a deeply historic moment for the LAFD. Judging by the interviews she has given since, she too saw it as just such a moment.

As her bio on the LAFD website reads: ‘With her wife and children by her side, Chief Crowley took the oath of office on 25 March 2022 – becoming the first female and LGBTQ Fire Chief in the LAFD.’ It continues: ‘Chief Crowley leads a diverse department. Creating, supporting, and promoting a culture that values diversity, inclusion and equity while striving to meet and exceed the expectations of the communities are Chief Crowley’s priorities.’

Crowley herself has often talked about how important her new bureau would be –  specifically the ‘diversity, equity and inclusion bureau’. In her view it is very important that people who come to your burning home look like you. This is meant to be empowering for everybody. When asked what proportion of LA firefighters she wanted to be women, she said: ‘People ask me, well, “What number are you looking for?” I’m not looking for a number. It’s never enough.’

There has been a lot of diversity-pushing in the LAFD for some years. A video from 2019 that has just resurfaced online shows another wonderful diverse woman of colour called Deputy Chief Kristine Larson talking about the fire departments’ use of diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI). Deputy Chief Larson (annual salary $300,000) is the head of the LAFD’s Equity and Human Resources Bureau. And though she too has been unable to fight the fires that have reduced America’s second-largest city to cinders, she knows what is worth fighting for.

She has been especially scornful of people who ever questioned the introduction of diversity and equity hiring practices and protocols in her fire department and raised concerns such as whether or not female firefighters are as strong as male firefighters. Larson had no truck with such talk. Responding to the idea that some women may not be able to carry a man out of a burning building, she had a zinger of a retort. ‘He got himself in the wrong place if I have to carry him out of a fire,’ she shot back. Whoa. Slay them sister. You got this.

The fact is that most people want competence. You can piddle around with diversity and equity in some areas. It is annoying in entertainment. It is wasteful in government. In a fire department it puts lives at risk.

Corporate America has already started turning away from this farce. But I predict that it will be in the flames of Los Angeles that DEI had its Götterdämmerung. Not before time.

[ Via: https://archive.today/V8ndz ]

==

The fact they think that spending their time on building an identity hugbox is the most important thing - rather than, you know, doing their jobs - shows you how captured and corrupt these organizations are.

Make Merit Matter.

[forthegothicheroine]

I'm rereading Joanna Russ's How to Suppress Women's Writing, at the part where she talks about how even more so than today, an inequitable distribution of household labor in centuries past left married women, especially those with children with less time to devote to writing, more so if they were middle class or lower and had to do all the work personally. I'm thinking about this in regards to Mina, both in and out of universe. Mina is not a radical; her joke about the "New Woman" is gentle, but she evidently doesn't consider herself one. Nevertheless, she expresses admiration for lady journalists and very clearly enjoys writing- but always with an emphasis on how this will help Jonathan. Van Helsing and Seward admire her at her typewriter, but once again, this is for a group effort rather than her personal endeavors. Thanks to a stroke of plot convenience with Mr. Hawkins's will, she and Jonathan were left with more money than they ever expected to have, and will likely go forward with more servants, governesses, and other domestic staff than they would have had otherwise. Will Mina use this unforeseen leisure time to write?

From a Doylist perspective, Bram Stoker (hardly a feminist but not necessarily a misogynist either) can set his heroine up as clever and determined without risking her being seen as selfish or frivolous; she's not neglecting her wifely duties by writing, she's performing them! Still, even in an epistolary novel where everyone has to write at least sometimes, the three characters who seem to write the most for their own pleasure- Jonathan, Mina and Jack- are all shown as adorable intellectuals. It does seem to be a deliberate character trait.

From a Watsonian perspective, Mina probably bonded with Jonathan over their shared love of diaries and plays and train schedules. They each keep their journals, looking forward with excitement to showing them to each other. Their marriage, while unlikely to be fully egalitarian, is one they are planning to enter as partners. It's possible to imagine, years later, editing each other's writing like Mary and Percy Shelley.

It's a nice thought. For fictional characters, I can at least hope.

[qqueenofhades]

Do you have any idea where all the money in education IS going? People talk about administrators, but their percentage of the overall budget seems lowish? Facilities are expensive, but often paid for with bequests, no? Where the hell is all the money going?

The same place it's going in every other capitalistic American enterprise: to senior executives, endowments, and other places that decidedly do not "trickle down" (because you know, it never does). See my many previous posts about how college costs skyrocketed starting in the 1980s and post-secondary higher education was transformed from something in which most of the costs were governmentally subsidized to something expected to be paid (at higher and higher levels) either privately out of the consumer's pocket or from thousands of dollars in student loans. Because you guessed it, Reaganomics.

I can tell you one place it absolutely is NOT going, i.e. salaries of faculty and staff, at least in the less capitalistically sexy fields of study. The university where I work never hurts for money in the business and law schools, but because I am in the humanities/education/history, yeah, our department's budget is not in great shape. Of course, yes, COVID hit the higher-education sector like crazy (as it did everywhere else) and universities haven't figured how to recover from that, but just as with the rest of America, it's a model that is designed to funnel the vast majority of profits, i.e. from skyrocketing student tuition rates and other increased fees, to the highly compensated senior leadership and very little to the academics who do the work that makes the place, you know, RUN.

This is a bugaboo for both me and every other academic I know, because (again, just as with the rest of capitalism) it doesn't HAVE to be this way. I shouldn't be trying to manage a department that has to rely heavily on adjunct faculty every quarter and doesn't have a sustainable long-term scheduling or research model, because we're so badly understaffed with core tenure-track faculty and they won't let us hire any more, while constantly cutting our budget and giving us laughable raises (mine, after getting sterling performance reviews across the board, was a whole... 72 extra cents an hour. I wish I was joking). There is money tied up in the institution and the establishment (and as noted, I work at a well-regarded and highly-ranked private university, so it's not a matter of not having enough), but the system distributes it in a way that is inequitable and results in enforced scarcity, especially in the humanities. It's not that there isn't money to pay us fairly, it's just that they have chosen not to, because they exist in the same capitalist system as the rest of the west.

This is why there have been strikes by graduate and early-career academics in both the UK and US (I have worked/studied/taught in both places, and they're both BAD for paying lower-level academics and even established-career academics), because they simply do not pay us enough to live on or build a career on (by a long shot, ESPECIALLY if you're the only person in your household and don't have shared expenses with a partner/roommate/several roommates). This is after most of us have several advanced degrees and the debt resulting from such. We get burned out, we can't make a living in this field, we leave, and it's hollowed out even further. So. Yeah.

[transmutationisms]

@amarocit yes i would love to hear your analysis of the french context here! so i'm borrowing a lot from dorothy roberts, who talks about this in chapter 7 of 'killing the black body'—roberts makes a distinction between the american liberal's demands for "reproductive liberty" (a guarantee of freedom from specific forms of government intervention) and what she calls "reproductive equality", which would be a more expansive guarantee of reproductive choice that takes into account the background factors of social inequality restricting eg black women and poor women from accessing the full range of options in reproductive care / decision-making.

part of what's at stake here, obviously, is the simple fact that the right to abortion in roe v wade operated on the background assumption that health care is essentially income-restricted. but there is also a whole web of legislation of government action that perpetuates the inferior status of black women, and that prevents them from making all manner of choices about having / raising children. so, a negatively conceived right to abortion is simply insufficient to eliminate the subordination of black women. it's a right that was basically designed around the desires and needs of (wealthy) white women for whom "reproductive choice" had become very highly focussed on a right to abortion rather than, say, a right to the kind of overall economic stability that would allow them to actually access that procedure, or indeed a right to avoid the kinds of state coercive measures that sought to control black women's reproduction in other ways (eg, welfare policies that seek to discourage black women from having children, or punish them for doing so; forced sterilisation; various other means of trying to discourage them from having children). wealthy white women's desire to access abortion has basically come up against natalist pressures for them to reproduce; this is simply not the case for all demographics in the us. as long as demands for abortion rights assume (tacitly or explicitly) that everyone seeking an abortion is fighting against the pressure to HAVE children, it's impossible to adequately address the needs of those who are actually being coerced by various state policy in the opposite direction.

people have also made a lot of the fact that the roe decision hinged on a 'right to privacy' rather than an affirmation of bodily autonomy—obviously i don't think that was good, but i am honestly not convinced that even the best-written supreme court decision would have made much difference in this respect lol. as we've seen in the past few years regarding the court, and the past few decades regarding abortion specifically, what the court says is not really set in stone any more than any legislation is. i think abortion opponents would have been pretty determined to chip away at any legal conception of a right to abortion. it seems to me that the underlying issue here is, again, that the right to abortion was basically grafted onto larger structures of inequality and the subordination of black women; i don't think 'liberty' (if we want to use that word) can really exist so long as the underlying oppressive structures are still there. obviously the supreme court is not designed to be capable of challenging those structures because it exists within them and upholds them as an arm of the state.

in any case i guess my main point here is: a right to abortion was always going to be shaky and inequitable in the us so long as it was configured as a very limited freedom from specific forms of government intervention, rather than being placed in context with the larger social forces that act to constrain people's ability to make free choices about their bodies / reproduction. abortion needs to be available freely and on-demand, along with things like contraception, but also along with actual freedom from government coercion NOT to reproduce, which is something that the state directs primarily at black and poor women. abortion framed as a negative right has no redress for this type of issue because again, the us abortion rights movement has been so driven by wealthy white women who were in a position where their main concern was getting access to the procedure, rather than fearing being forced to have it (or being forcibly sterilised and so forth).

when we flip it around and start thinking about what's required to actually achieve equality and reproductive freedom, it's clear that just guaranteeing legal access to abortion is wildly insufficient for those subjugated by legal and systemic antiblackness, living in poverty, &c. and it's pretty depressing that the mainstream us abortion rights movement has never been able to grapple with eg, the very real and ongoing legacy of eugenics in welfare policy, white women's feminism, and yes the efforts to provide access to contraception and abortion. as long as these things are excluded from advocacy of abortion rights, and abortion is conceived as a freedom-from (a specific manner of state intervention), we're not actually able to discuss the broader factors that constrain people's ability to make free choices about their bodies and reproduction: poverty, racism, policies in response to these factors that may take either pro- or anti-natalist stances, depending on the state's goals and the specific population it's trying to control or manage.

anyway yeah: would be very interested in hearing what you have to say about the french context!

[ludiharambasha]

I think I can finally put my finger on what I find wrong about Hazbin Hotel and why I think it is neoliberal dribble that fails at its social commentary.

I am definitely going to write about redemption arcs more (a post about a different show is coming), but it should not come as a surprise that I am not a fan of them-they are a rather cheap narrative tool that breeds uncreative, stale, mediocre storylines. However, when the central theme of a work of fiction is redemption in the context of heaven and its righteousness, that could be written in an interesting way, especially if the very concept of redemption is deconstructed. And, for some time, the show seemed to be upping the game in terms of the seriousness of its narrative as it went on, yet failed to deliver on this.

There is a serious issue I have with the author's idea of what redemption means in the context of heaven's hegemony and how it reflects our world. There is a critique of this inequitable system in which "hell is forever", and so is heaven- once fallen there are no second chances, no turning back, and those graced can never do enough wrong to be punished for their misdeeds. And this critique is utterly toothless in my opinion, not in and of itself, but because the author tries to couple it with the possibility of getting redeemed. If redemption did not exist in the world of Hazbin Hotel, then the story's theme about Heaven and hell would make sense- there is a brutal system that punishes some for their misdeeds but does not punish mass murder and terror. A hypocritical and arbitrary system in which the powerful make sure that those in power stay in power through that false morality. They quite literally live in a gated community oblivious to the fact that they live in such bliss because there is an army in their midst that goes to commit purges onto the underclass, the sinful. But if you make redemption an actual thing, something a sinner can achieve, then all the fault is shifted onto the sinner. The problem is no longer the segregation, the mass murdering of the underclass, and the fact that eternal torment exists in the first place. No, the problem is that more people don't get their ticket to the Pearly Gates, the problem is that there is not enough social mobility, not the unjust system itself. Does this not remind you of the American dream? That if one just works hard enough they may be getting their seat at the table?

No one seems to be attacking Charlie's dream on this front-eternal torment itself is unjust, not just the annual exterminations- they are a culmination of this problem. Charlie's dream ultimately does not challenge the status quo-it affirms heaven and works within its confines. Who gets to say who gets to be redeemed, especially an entity that allows genocidal maniacs into their ranks?

And I don't think the show lacks merit entirely, but this tendency in Western fiction to use ideas of revolutionaries and then water them down so it is more palatable to a neolib audience is tiring and should be criticized more often.

[altarfates]

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It might seem gullible, staring down the brilliant streaks of colour as they sequence through constricting and expanding in a perpetual loop and actually considering it. That was part of the allure of a guarantee, even as it stripped the ruse of that initial surge of exhilaration it would remain tempting to even a notoriously reckless gambler such as himself. Grimsley’s eyebrows furrow in deliberation, it was innocuous for the most part, really what sort of repercussions could he instigate with one measly touch of a finger upon a screen.

That was how you got him, barbed hooks buried into his skin and before Grimsley knew it he had forfeited what seemed like hours to this harmless game of chance. It’s almost inequitable that those very funds, which seemed infinite, could be depleted in such quick succession. His luck truly was abysmal when it came to slots yet they still enticed him each and every time ━ he would get that JACKPOT, it was only a matter of time. 

[randomnameless]

why don't you want jurgdral remakes? are you afraid they will be localised like fodlan games or modified like shadows of valentia?

Mmh...

Lolcalisation aside, I'd say the biggest thing I'm dreading with those remakes is IS' (if FEH is any indication) willingness to retcon those older games to, I suppose, make them more "trendy" or approchable for a "modern audience".

Sure, FEH might goof here and there, but take the "Miccy founded the DB" take - it's present at least in more than one unit so imo, it's no goof at all, what is it supposed to mean? That a Miccy who is only a person who joins an existing group because she embraces their ideals and thus puts them above her own "need" to hide her existence, as a Branded, is not as... bankable as a Miccy who forms her own ragtag group of randoms to fight against Daein, giving hints at her later role as the leader of the Daein army?

I've ranted enough about IS retconning Lyon and Magvel in general (tfw Eph was caught by Grado lel) but it follows the same pattern, OG!Lyon (and FE8 in general) falls because of his very human and earthly desires - he might have ideals and all, but at the end of the day, he falls because of his love and adoration/obsession for the twins and that is something he cannot fight against - FEH!Lyon sassing Fomortiis is just, no. Fomortiis always has the last laugh in FE8 (at least with Lyon and even, I'd say with the playable cast because, again, his soul isn't erased, he is stuck again in a shiny rock, just like what happened in the lore, and led to Lyon's possession. Who can be sure that in 800 years after Ephraim's adventures, L'Arachel's descendant won't be seduced by Fomortiis' power and free him from his shiny rock, like Lyon did?).

FE15 is its own thing lol - but there is a possibility for Jugdral to be pissed on like Magvel and Tellius were in FEH, and I guess, for any Jugdral fan that's terrible.

Sure, FEH seems to treat Jugdral verse with, uh, careful consideration but hey - if the Ayra wanking is any indication, even Jugdral isn't immune to retcons to make a popular character even more #badass, plot be damned.

Add some eggtivation here'n'there, and I wouldn't be surprised if we had some NPCs or even characters in support dialogues explaining how major holy blooded people aren't always better in the domain corresponding to their holy blood than non HB people because non HB people can bypass their lack of dragon blood with hard work - completely pissing on this core Jugdralian mechanic that was translated in FE4's gameplay by weapon rank.

Is it gatekeeping? idk.

For me, it's just that I fell in Jugdral Hell some years ago (nearly a decade!) and despite its defaults, I still like this verse very much so I'd like a remake that is as faithful as possible to that thing I came to know all those years ago, maybe to exchange with new (and non new lol) fans about that verse!

But if we get, idk, a very #badass Deedee who doesn't, idk, mind killing a kid or two to show how #girlboss she is, well, for me, that wouldn't be Jugdral at all, but some sort of adaptation using those characters but writing them OOC.

Of course I can't say I have a better reading and take on those characters as IS themselves, but after seeing A!Mareeta's FB where she is supposed to be at her best/peak performance, and IS still wrote her to be "below" Ayra in terms of ability when Mareeta's Major Holy Blood means her skills with the blade are naturally superior to her "great aunt" 's skills I still think there's something that's missing.

It's as if we had Reinhardt throw better spells/be stronger at Thunder Magic than Peak!Ishtar, or worse, Azelle on a pony teaching FE5!Saias how to throw fire spells.

It's just, not possible in the Jugdral verse, because Jugdral verse is pretty inequitable and major HB people are cheat codes compared to minor HB people or non HB people. Now with that being said, the story is about what those people with magic blood that are cheat codes do and if they use their powers for good or stupid things. It's not about Midayle finally showing Aidean that his skills with a bow are superior to her sister's so now, he is finally strong enough to protect her from Verdane ruffians.

But after Fodlan's false "yeah but crests aren't the alpha and omega and yet i'm never going to tell you what they do because otherwise my excuse for worldbuildling falls apart", I wouldn't be surprised if Jamke, in a support, would teach Bridget how to use a bow.

:/

So yeah, it's better not to have any remakes.