#long exposition

[maikeru-tenshi]

[sashaperova]

Yiorgos Kaloudis

[devilcrue]

Photos by Garett Photography

| Portfolio

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type AU.

Soap is the long forgotten god of death.

Ghost is his first follower in a very long time.

part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7

————

At first, Soap had been seen as kind and benevolent. The one to end someone’s suffering and help them along to the afterlife. However, as more wars began to break out, his perception changed into that of a bloodthirsty warmonger. The type that you sacrifice the blood of innocents to for luck in your upcoming battles.

Soap had simply ignored the brutish offerings. But then they spread. Like a plague, soon everyone was murdering their chosen victims in his temples in the hopes that it would bring them even more fortune.

Realizing that his presence was just causing more and more to die, he let himself fade away. He was reduced to nothing more than a comforting feeling people felt before they died. Over time, the so-called offerings stopped. Scared of what would happen should he return, he continued to fade.

A god is only as strong as their followers believe them to be. With no followers, no offerings, they are nothing. While mortal weaponry may hurt a god, may even get them to bleed, it cannot kill them. A god can only truly die when they are no longer remembered.

Soap is waiting for the day that he is truly forgotten and can pass on when he gets a feeling. One he has not had in an age. Though his worshippers have abandoned him, his temples and statues remained, though now significantly worse for wear. And someone just provided an offering of a single slice of bread on one of his statues.

A meager offering, sure, but it’s enough to get his attention. He has almost no power nor any energy left, but he sees a soldier sitting next to the statue as he ate his meal.

Meanwhile, Ghost hadn’t the faintest clue what god he just gave an offering to, but he felt a little better afterwards and so just hoped they weren’t evil. He took note of the statue’s appearance and when his troop was encamped near a town, he snuck away to a local library to see if there were any books he could find about it.

He was not apart of the army willingly, but he owed them a life debt and they had decided that it would only be repaid upon his death. Just a glorified prisoner, he was kept at the general’s side as his favorite weapon. Sneaking away was difficult, but definitely doable. The few times he was caught, he made enough of a disturbance that it was easier for everyone involved to let him do his thing.

They did not need to worry about him running away. If he was able, he’d have run the second he was given the chance. However, he was stuck. As long as he owed a debt, he could not leave.

The statue, at the very least, gave him something to do.

He was intrigued. He did not recognize the features at all, and his research confirmed that it was not a well known deity. It takes a long time of asking the right people and finding the right books to uncover the story of the forgotten god.

Having read everything — from loving poems about the being helping sickly children find comfort in their last moments to angry anecdotes about desperate townspeople sacrificing themselves in the hope that the god would show them mercy — he decides to give the god the benefit of the doubt.

He figures the world is shitty enough, why not find some good that had been tucked away? Ghost himself was seen more as a weapon than a person and couldn’t help but sympathize. He was never one for gods or worship, more likely to curse the heavens than ever sacrifice something of his, but he almost felt bad for the being. So, the next day, from one bloodthirsty monster to another, he gives the forgotten god more offerings.

It’s still not much, just an apple and a ring the general wouldn’t notice missing, but he sets them there anyways. He damn near jumps out of his fucking skin when the feeling of an accepted offering floods through him. He stares at what would have originally been the face of the statue, but nothing happens. The trees behind him continue to sing their song in the faint breeze, with the sounds of a lively woods never fading.

There is no outside sound, no out of place movement, no indication that he hadn’t just imagined the feeling. A leaf falling from one of the branches and landing on the pedestal, where the offerings were now gone, snapped him out of his staring contest. He muttered out a gruff thanks and sat down to eat, ignoring the feeling of being watched.

[weevmo]

Hihi, could you maybe accept some more lore to your after home wally as request for art? Have a good day!!

More under cut! Decided to go WAY back to do some preliminary explaining for it; explore Home and Wally's relationship and "responsibilities" .

[syekick-powers]

it's fascinating to me how tumblr users who talk about worldbuilding seem to fall under distinct camps of audiences who don't care about detailed worldbuilding logistics at all, audiences who just want things to make sense and cohere internally even if it's not perfectly realistic, and audiences who seem less interested in stories and more interested in just hearing about the tiniest most irrelevant minutiae of how a fictional world works to the detriment of actually telling a story. and then there are also storytellers on here who also fall under three similar camps of writers who don't really care about detailed worldbuilding and mostly paint their worlds in broad strokes, those who put a fair amount of thought into their worlds but don't really get down into the fine details, and those that plan every tiny little fucking thing out. the variety of humanity is truly fascinating

[shewhoeatssand]

New Kanekis for the TG Anime Exposition!

[siyuri]

Ef's moment of respite at the bottom of the Mariana Trench from amazing story Falling Falling Stars by @not-poignant

[flowercrowngods]

shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides

part 1 / 7 | or: read on ao3

The fog rolls in like a heavy cloud that morning, leaving the city in eerie darkness as Steve hurries toward the heavy door to the steel manufactory, scarf wound tightly around his neck to keep out the cold so uncommon for late September.

“Thanks,” he mutters to the gruff, broad man who holds open the door for him. He sees him every morning but has never had the chance to ask about his name. The question is on the tip of his tongue when, with a nod and a touch to his sturdy-looking hat, the man walks down a different corridor than Steve.

Where outside the fog was so thick that all noise seemed dulled, like cotton in his ears, the manufactory is a cacophony of banging and clanging, hissing and whirring, and Steve needs a moment to breathe the polluted, heavy air that’s always just a tad too hot for his lungs.

He doesn’t mind the work, is good with his hands and enjoys the single-minded focus it provides on a good day, the deafening noise loud enough to drown out most of the comments the other workers throw his way; comments about his father, his upbringing, and his rather sudden downfall when Richard D. Harrington decided to disown his eldest son three years ago without rhyme or reason.

Steelwork, engineering, intricate cogs that work massive machinery — they fascinate him, they keep him busy fourteen hours a day, and they leave him dead to the world when the shift is over and graciously let him sleep through the dreams that have been haunting him ever since he can remember being haunted.

It’s always the same dream, in the fall more than in the spring. A lighthouse trapped in the sea, waves rolling and crashing, water rising so high that it might as well swallow the lighthouse whole. And through it all, a beacon. And through it all, a voice he cannot make out. And through it all, a ticking that echoes through his skull even long after he gasped awake with a lungful of water that Robin says might be Tuberculosis.

He blinks away the gloom that has laid over his heart like the fog over the city, shakes off the trancelike feeling that overtakes him every time he tries to think about the lighthouse when he is wide awake, and rubs away the headache that comes with sleep deprivation. It’s fall again, which means he spends his nights haunted by ghostly images of a lighthouse he’s not even sure exists, robbed of all chances at resting if he doesn’t work himself to the point of absolute exhaustion.

They are earlier this year, the night terrors. Everything is a little earlier this year.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder as Emerson arrives behind him, leading him to their station with idle chatter about the weather and the horrible, horrible fog that Steve has not the patience to partake in today — which is just as well for Emerson and his sunny disposition, he’ll simply talk enough for the both of them. Steve is fond enough of him to let him be as he falls into the routine of working steel and breathing overheated, coal-stained air.

They work in unison until noon, the headache dull enough as long as he keeps busy, but almost blinding when he stops for even a second. A booming voice makes him look up from his station, though, as he is being summoned to the office.

It’s never a good sign, and Steve can feel the blood draining from his face, pulling the ache with it as it travels down his spine and settles in his centre in a pit of nausea.

“Oh no,” Emerson murmurs under his breath, even managing to sound genuine about it. “What did you do?”

Images assault his mind. Prison, if he’s lucky. Asylum and electroshock therapy if he’s not; if his father changed his mind about making it public that his eldest son and heir deserves punishment, or treatment for moral insanity. Steve tries not to think of that too often, tries not to look at men like that anymore — tries not to look at anyone anymore until the public forgets about him.

But every time he is reminded that he exists is another time of fear. Fear of being found out.

“I… have no idea,” Steve says after a while, looking up to where the door to the office looms above all of them, leaving them to feel like prisoners in a panopticon.

“Better not keep ‘em waiting, then. Probably too late to run, eh?”

“Probably,” Steve says, dazed, not really listening to Emerson as he kicks into motion and walks briskly up the stairs, pretending not to feel everyone’s eyes on his back.

It is out of a nervous habit that he pulls the watch from his pocket, its silver chain linked to his vest. It springs open in his hands as he takes the steps one by one, providing comfort for no reason other than it’s his. It doesn’t show the time, never has, but after losing everything at his father’s whim, the pocket watch stayed with him.

“Keep it,” Richard had sneered. “The blasted thing isn’t worth a penny!”

The fingers only ever moved incrementally over the years, and backwards, but still there is something about the watch that makes him keep it close at all times. Collecting himself, he closes his hand around the light metal and filigree ornaments and mentally counts to three before putting it back in his pocket and knocking on the door.

“Ah, Harrington,” the superior manager says, his voice sounding like gravel as per usual. The man has a habit of competing with the steel manufactory’s chimneys, only he smokes cigars instead of coal dust like his workers. Steve remembers the smell of fine cigars, and this office smells like the best among them.

It only helps to strengthen his disdain for the man.

Still he nods and aims for a pleasant smile. “You asked for me, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” the man says, leaning back in his thick leather chair and motioning for Steve to take a seat at the sturdy, delicately engraved mahogany desk. “Sit down, sit down, time is money and I give you more of that than you deserve anyway. I have a proposition for you and you are in no position to decline, yes?”

“Yes?” Steve says dumbly, taking his time to sit down just to spite him.

The man, however, is not as easily perturbed. “That’s what I want to hear, I have to admire your morale, Harrington. Here,” he turns and reaches for a cabinet, rummaging around for a minute before—

The blood in Steve’s veins freezes, leaving him cold and too hot all at once.

Underneath the beefy hand, he makes out a photograph — or possibly a postcard — showing a stark white lighthouse trapped in the sea, gigantic waves crashing into it, threatening to tear it down and carry it along to wherever the tides lead. The beacon of light is steadfast and stubborn, guiding and pointing at something that’s out of the frame, but what Steve can only assume is absolute nothingness out in the open sea.

He slides it over the table to lie in front of Steve, and he fights every urge to recoil, only gripping the arm rest far too tightly.

“See, we got a telegram earlier today that they’re having problems with the lighthouse up north. They say it’s something with the generator, not fit enough to last in the cold, where the air is made of saltwater more than oxygen.”

Steve nods, though he is only halfway listening, his heart hammering in his chest at the picture of the lighthouse, etched onto the paper like it has no idea it is also etched on the very forefront of Steve’s mind — has been, for almost three decades now.

“And since you’re the only one here traditionally educated in reading and writing,” the man continues, either unaware of Steve’s dizziness or delighting in it, “and you know your way around a machine or two, fixing the generator and handling the light shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even an offer.

Steve wonders if maybe he fell down the stairs and hit his head, if maybe the sleep deprivation is finally leading to hallucinations like Robin keeps warning him.

“You want me to fix the lighthouse?”

“That is precisely what I want, yes. Stay there a while, find out what seems to be the problem.”

He’s getting up, walking over to a cabinet, pulling out a half-empty bottle of what Steve can only assume is whisky. A biting, earthy smell floats through the room, thick enough to cling to his clothes if he stays here much longer.

“You’ll find yourself familiar with the equipment, as it is us who supply them. In fact, you have built generators and fixtures and engines like that. You’re a bright spark, Harrington, I can admit that. You’re the best fit. And I’m not asking.”

His jaw clicks shut, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table as he meets those dark eyes head-on.

“When do I leave?”

An ugly grin spreads the man’s face, gaining too much joy from other people’s powerlessness down the food chain.

“Tomorrow. If I remember correctly, and I usually do, you do not have much business to attend to, and even fewer things to pack. I trust you will find your place at the train station at five tomorrow morning. Emerson will know to fill your shoes in your absence.”

How long will I be gone? he wants to ask, but is too afraid that the answer will only be another cruel smirk and a sip of whisky.

He gets up, certain that he is being dismissed, and getting no sign that he’s wrong.

“Oh, and Harrington.” He stops with his hand on the door already. “Perhaps this is a good time to mention that the lighthouse is without a keeper. I have offered your services for the time being, seeing as you will already be there. The salary, of course, will be thrice as much as your usual.”

The daze is back, smelling of saltwater air and whisky, rushing in his ears like waves bursting on the cliffs.

“What happened to the old keepers?” he dares to ask.

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“Yes, it does. What happened to the old keepers?”

“I think you shall find out soon enough.” A beat of silence — horrible, tidal silence. Then, “You’re dismissed.”

***

The train ride is blessedly pleasant, the first class ticket providing the luxury of comfortable seating and relative silence, the wheels occasionally clicking along the railway loud enough to drown out the near-deafening rushing of the ocean in his ears — or perhaps it’s not the ocean, perhaps it is his own blood, pumped with fear and apprehension.

The only upside to all of this is the telegram he’s been gripping tightly all morning so as not to lose it, not to forget about it, not to think it was a dream. A childish, hopeless dream, a longing for company to battle the fear of the dark.

I’ll meet you there. 3 days.

Signed: Robin Buckley. She never took his name, said she did not want to be associated with Richard and the Harrington wealth that came with the Napoleonic wars — never mind that they happened almost a century ago.

Blood money isn’t wealth, Steven, she’d said to him on many occasions, and he loved her for it all the more.

Maybe it will be fine if Robin is there with him. Maybe they won’t end up succumbing to madness like people are wont to do, subjected to the endless loneliness of lighthouse keeping. Confronted with a darkness so deep it needs human invention to remain habitable. Maybe, he wonders idly and with shortness of breath, the world will end if all its lights are gone. Maybe all that will remain is nothingness and the ruthless sea — maybe, until the sun rises again and the light returns. But up north, the sun doesn’t stay all that long. Up north, they say the darkness is different. They say it’s sentient. They say—

A servant offers him some tea or coffee if he pleases, ripping hit out of his obsessive spiral of apprehension and fear.

“Yes, thank you,” he breathes, miming quiet politeness to cover up the lack of air in his lungs. The servant nods, not at all perturbed by Steve’s rather horrific disposition, and moves along.

The tea helps a little. It’s hard to think horrible thoughts when there is a steaming cup in your hands smelling comfortingly of herbs and just a hint at something spicy. It feels almost primal, his fear of the lighthouse — but just as primal is the comfort he finds in the warmth spreading from his hands all the way through his body. The shaking stops after a minute, and breath has returned to his lungs in a way that doesn’t leave him scared to let it out.

It will be fine. The sea will lose its terror, and so will darkness. He will read, and fix what needs to be fixed, and laugh at it all with Robin by his side, who will teach him about birds they will never see, about authors that don’t live anymore, and about the stars they get to watch.

It will be fine. He will be fine. Always, with Robin.

***

He arrives at the seaside town just before nightfall, and the first thing he notices is not the rushing of the ocean, but the crispness of the air that feels vastly different in his lungs to the grey and brown, polluted city air. It’s like he’s a babe taking his first breath in this world; and just like a babe, he is overcome with the urge to cry. He doesn’t, only pinches the bridge of his nose and grabs his bags — two of them, filled only with clothes and books to pass the time.

The walk to the next inn is a long one, and by the time he arrives there — guttural laughter coming even through closed doors and windows — he is frozen to his bones. If he’d thought that fall was quick to arrive in the city, he might as well have entered an arctic winter up here. The half suspects, though, that the cold comes from his empty stomach and the bitterness that replaced the fear just as well as the actual, biting cold.

And to think it’s only just early September.

He pushes the door open and finds it blissfully warm, a large fire roaring in the fireplace and in the hearth, leaving the food steaming on the plates. Silence settles almost immediately, and Steve freezes on the spot. Being perceived in a situation he has no control over has never been his strong suit, and he wonders just what these people have heard about him. If they heard anything at all.

“Come in or get out, but leave the cold out there,” a large lady says from behind the bar, an apron wrapped around her skirt and a towel in her hand as she eyes him with wary but not unkind eyes.

“Forgive me,” Steve says, stepping further into the inn and letting the heavy door fall shut behind him.

“Ahh,” someone says from where he’s sitting on a round table with six other, quite burly men. Fishermen, Steve assumes, or harbour workers, if their sun-tanned skin and general muscular build are any indication. He places his jug of beer on the table and eyes Steve rather closely. “You’re the boy they sent. Who will fix the lighthouse, aye?”

“Aye,” Steve says stupidly, internally cringing at himself. Then, turning towards the woman, “Have you a room to spare?”

“Have you money to spare?” she retorts, clearly mocking him for his odd choice of words — it’s hard, laying down his aristocratic upbringing, especially in a town auch as this.

“Of course,” he says. “For food, drink, and someone to bring me to the lighthouse in three days.”

Another man of the group snorts loudly, shaking his head and studying his ale like it would tell him the future.

“No way, boy. Ain’t no one gettin’ close to that thing.”

“She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close. ‘S what lighthouses are for, eh? No getting too close. You get too close, you die. Simple as that.”

Steve takes it in, the pale faces of the men all nodding along, the thousand yard stares they all have in common — and his fear is back. But greater than his fear is his annoyance with men who insist on calling him boy and decide to speak in riddles instead of making sense.

“Haunted?” he asks, taking one of two spare seats at the table, nodding at the woman in thanks as she brings him an ale that only barely smells like piss. “How?”

“Haven’t you heard?” a fourth man, the oldest of them, speaks up. “There’s a curse on the lighthouse. No one gets out alive. We only ever bring her new stock, like cattle to the slaughterhouse. She takes. She takes and takes, boy.”

“So you do bring them,” Steve points out, far too tired and irritated to listen to a ghost story before he’s even had a proper, warm dinner.

The men still, and Steve places a tower of money in the centre of the table.

“It’s yours,” he says, looking at each of them, one after the other, “if you take us there in three days. Four, if the weather decides to play.”

“Us?”

“My wife,” Steve says.

“Fine,” one of them, the one who first spoke to him, grumbles, reaching for the money. “Now go. This table is for grownups, boy.”

With an eye-roll and an air of arrogance, Steve gets up and finds a seat at another table closer to the fireplace. Soon after, fresh stew is placed before him and he dives in.

***

The lighthouse towers on top of the cliffs and Steve watches, mesmerised, as he makes out its shape even in the pitch black darkness. It’s eerie, the power it emanates, the myths and legends that weave around it and its kind. Legends that would be fascinating learning about them in the safety of one’s bed, but which are horrifying to remember days before the nameless fates could be one’s own.

The darkness of the night really is endless here without the lights of the city, and he can only imagine how the lighthouse would help, how it would bring back hope and security, a promise of safe passage. It’s brings him a sort of peace; a purpose, imagining this town in the lighthouse’s beacon. Safe for the night, safe until the sun comes back.

Still it doesn’t ease his night terrors, filled with whispers as they are, growing in urgency and almost clear enough to make out.

Three days pass. Four. Five. There is no sign of Robin. Anxiety grows within him, because Steve knows Robin was going to take the seaside route from the Cunningham estate — well, one of them, at least.

She has a mind of her own. She takes and takes, boy. She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close.

What if…

No. No, there is simply no way. Haunted lighthouses taking lives. There’s no— no way. He won’t fall for their ghost stories.

Unfortunately, however, they don’t fall for his charm either, and on the seventh day, when the sea is calm and the sun steady above them, the man who took they money — Old John, apparently — approaches him.

“We’re leaving now,” he says, shoving Steve ahead of him, deaf to his protest that they have to wait, they have to wait. “Your sweetheart ain’t coming, kid. Don’t think she’ll be coming anywhere ever again if she really took the ship. They talk of a ship that got lost in the storm, burst on the cliffs because there was no light. I’m sorry, kid, but I won’t risk waiting any longer.”

A ship lost in the storm?

But… No. No!

“No,” he whispers, letting himself be shoved onto a tiny boat and rocked this way and that, feeling nauseous for more reasons than one.

He’s wrong, Steve knows; feels it in his very soul. Robin is not dead. She’ll come.

She… She will come. She won’t leave him alone, all alone, in this place that has been haunting him for years and years.

She’ll come.

The lighthouse towers above them, perched on top of cliffs that make Steve understand why nobody wanted take him here. There’s no safe way of getting close, let alone climbing up the stairs carved into the cliffs, leading up to the door with no railing, no rope to hold onto. One large wave crashing into him, and he’d belong to the ocean.

He wants to cry again. Wants to curl in on himself and weep as the reality of everything begins to settle in the deepest, darkest places of his heart.

If he leaves the boat, he’ll be trapped with no way of getting out, no way of contacting the land they’ve left far, far behind. Supplies are said to last several months, he knows, he studied the file he got. Several months without human interaction unless Robin magically, wonderfully appears in a few days after all.

“Good luck, kid,” is the last thing he’ll ever hear of Old John as he pulls himself onto the cliffs, reaching for his bags from the old man’s hands. The sea is deafening here as waves crash and burst relentlessly, and he can’t hear what else Old John is saying, but he thanks him and salutes, which the seaman returns with an air of melancholy.

Steve climbs the stairs, soaked to the bones by the splashing water, but somehow — miraculously — malign his way up. As he turns around, fog is starting to gather above the water, but he can make out the tiny silhouette of the boat.

He watches, and it’s meant as a last goodbye, one last glance at his one way out. But terror fills him as he watches, helplessly, powerlessly, as Old John’s boat keels over and disappears. He keeps his eyes fixed to the spot, not daring to look away until there’s proof of life. But Old John doesn’t break the surface again.

And Steve is left filled with horror and the absolute certainty that he might not make it out if he sets foot inside the lighthouse.

Behind him, the door opens with a horrible, terrifying creak, and the beating of his heart is too loud for any other noise to exist in Steve’s world right now.

🌊 part 2 (coming 26 October)

tagging (trading tags for kindness): @klausinamarink @vampeddie @steviesummer @sharpbutsoft @auroraplume

[lavendernlilac]

May I request Ariana Griande and Scar/Hotguy:3

Not very good at this so bear with me- but I would love to see something nsfw with them! Your writing is so silly/pos

I can imagine Grian would just wear it to mess with Scar for the fun of it

Have a good day/night!

griande and hotguy you say?? 👀 granted there’s uh. nothing explicitly nsfw in this because exposition got away from me. but! if anybody wants a part two….

sorry this took me so long to write T^T

——————

She has to be messing with him. She has to be.

Why else would Griande be wearing a silky, backless red dress to some fancy party? She’s talked Scar’s ear off hundreds of times about how much she hates the parties! Yet here she is, walking around in a dress that runs just a bit past her thighs, a sweetheart neckline rounding out her chest just perfectly.

Scar has a job to do, thank you! He’s her hired bodyguard, the city’s beloved Hotguy. And he’s meant to be protecting said city’s beloved idol, Ariana Griande.

Which he can totally still do. Because staring at Griande is half his job anyway. Definitely.

So he follows her around for most of the night, and Scar swears she’s messing with him. She leans a little too low, or presses herself right up against him as she goes around and mingles with other high class people. Scar’s never been more grateful for his mask, because he’s certain his cheeks are red.

And there’s only so much of it he can take.

He’d like to give himself a pat on the back for making it to about three hours. The minute the clock hits hour four, he’s practically ready to snap. Or break in half. Because Griande is killing him.

Thankfully, she seems aware of it too, for she pulls him in close by the strap of his quiver and whispers in his ear, “Follow me?”

Scar looks at her with wide eyes behind his mask, and he hopes he doesn’t sound too desperate when he answers her, “Your wish is my command, m’lady.”

There’s a bit too much pride in Griande’s eyes when she grabs his hand to pull him toward the elevator.

Initially, Scar had been uneasy about Griande staying in the very hotel this big party was happening in, but now he can’t be more grateful for it as she leads him right up to her room. The moment they’re inside, Scar wastes no time in pulling her flush against him, pressing her to the closed door. He smashes their lips together, hands gripping her waist.

“You,” he breathes, moving to leave a warm trail of kisses along her jaw and neck, “are a terrible tease, Miss Griande.”

He hears her laugh in return, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I have no idea what you mean, Hotguy.”

He nips at her skin, playful. “I think you know exactly what I mean.” Scar tugs at her dress, “Wearing this… standing so close… you were killing me tonight, G.” He moves back to capture her lips once more, grinding his hips against her. He hears her muffled noise and satisfaction curls in his chest. “All night, walking around, knowing I couldn’t touch you. A terrible torture method, truly!”

Griande laughs at him, “Aw, should we put this torture to an end then?” She uses her hand to pull Scar down into a kiss, who more than happily goes into it. “Give you a chance to touch?”

He grins in answer, “We should.”

[demigod-of-the-agni]

Spider-Man India, but... where from India?

A SUPER long post featuring talks of: cultural identity, characterisation, the caste system, and what makes Spider-Man Spider-Man.

I’m prefacing this by saying that I am a second-generation immigrant. I was born in Australia, but my cultural background is from South India. My experiences with what it means to be “Indian” is going to be very different from the experiences of those who are born and brought up in India.

If you, reader, want to add anything, please reblog and add your thoughts. This is meant to be a post open for discussion — the more interaction we get, the better we become aware of these nuances.

So I made this poll asking folks to pick a region of India where I would draw Pavitr Prabhakar in their cultural wear. This idea had been on my mind for a long while now, as I had been inspired by Annie Hazarika’s Northeastern Spidey artwork in the wake of ATSV’s release, but never got the time to actually do it until now. I wanted to get a little interactive and made the poll so I could have people choose which of the different regions — North, Northeast, Central, East, West, South — to do first.

The outcome was not what I expected. As you can see, out of 83 votes:

THE RESULTS

South India takes up almost half of all votes (44.6%), followed by Northeast and Central (both 14.5%) and then East (13.3%). In all my life growing up, support towards or even just the awareness of South India was pretty low. Despite this being a very contained poll, why would nearly half of all voters pick South India in favour of other popular choices like Central or North India?

Then I thought about the layout of the poll: Title, Options, Context.

Title: "Tell us who you want to see…"

Options: North, Northeast, Central, East, West, South

Context: I want to make art of the boy again

At first I thought: ah geez. this is my fault. I didn't make the poll clear enough. do they think I want them to figure out where Pavitr came from? That's not what I wanted, maybe I should have added the context before the options.

Then I thought: ah geez. is it my fault for people not reading the entire damn thing before clicking a button? That's pretty stupid.

But regardless, the thought did prompt a line of thinking I know many of us desi folk have been considering since Spider-Man India was first conceived — or, at least, since the announcement that he was going to appear in ATSV. Hell, even I thought of it:

Where did Spider-Man India come from?

FROM A CULTURALLY DIVERSE INDIA

As we know, India is so culturally diverse, and no doubt ATSV creators had to take that into account. Because the ORIGINAL Spider-Man India came from Mumbai — most likely because Mumbai and Manhattan both started with the same letter.

But going beyond that, it’s also because Mumbai is one of the most recognisable cities in India - it’s also known as Bombay. It’s where Bollywood films are shot. It’s where superstar Hindi actors and actresses show up. Mumbai is synonymous with India in that regard, because the easiest way Western countries can interact with Indian culture is through BOLLYWOOD, through HINDI FILMS, through MUMBAI. Suddenly, India is Mumbai, India is a Hindi-only country, India is just this isolated thing we see through an infinitely narrow lens.

We’ve gotten a little better in recent years, but boy I will tell you how uncomfortable I’ve gotten when people (yes, even desi people) come up to me and tell me, Oh, you’re Indian right? Can you speak Hindi? Why don’t you speak Hindi? You’re not Indian if you don’t speak Hindi, that’s India’s national language!

I have been — still am — so afraid of telling people that I don’t speak Hindi, that I’m Tamil, that I don’t care that Hindi is India’s “national” language (it’s an administrative language, Kavin, get your fucking facts right). It’s weird, it’s isolating, and it has made me feel like I wasn’t “Indian” enough to be accepted into the group of “Indian” people.

So I am thankful that ATSV went out of their way to integrate as much variety of Indian culture into the Mumbattan sequence. Maybe that way, the younger generation of desi folk won’t feel so isolated, and that younger Western people will be more open to learning about all these cultural differences within such a vast country.

BUT WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH SPIDER-MAN INDIA?

Everything, actually. There’s a thing called supremacy. You might have heard of it. We all engaged with it at some point, and if you are Indian, no matter where you live, it is inescapable.

It happens the moment you are born — who your family is, where you are born, the language you speak, the colour of your skin; these will be bound to you for life, and it is nigh impossible to break down the stereotypes associated with them.

Certain ethnic groups will be more favourable than others (Centrals, and thus their cultures, will always be favoured over than Souths, as an example) and the same can be said for social groups (Brahmins are more likely to secure influential roles in politics or other areas like priesthood, while the lowers castes, especially Dalits, aren’t even given the decency of respect). Don’t even get me started on colourism, where obviously those of fairer skin will win the lottery while those of darker skin aren’t given the time of day. It’s even worse when morality ties into it — “lighter skinned Indians, like Brahmins, embody good qualities like justice and wisdom”, “dark skinned Indians are cunning and poor, they are untrustworthy”. It’s fucking nuts.

This means, of course, you have a billion people trying to make themselves heard in a system that tries to crush everyone who is not privileged. It only makes sense that people want to elevate themselves and break free from a society that refuses to acknowledge them. These frustrations manifest outwardly, like in protests, but other times — most times — it goes unheard, quietly shaping your way of life, your way of thinking. It becomes a fundamental part of you, and it can go unacknowledged for generations.

So when you have a character like Pavitr Prabhakar enter the scene, people immediately latch onto him and start asking questions many Western audiences don’t even consider. Who is he? What food does he eat? What does he do on Fridays? What’s his family like, his community? All these questions pop up, because, amidst all this turmoil going on in the background, you want a mainstream popular character to be like you, who knows your way of life so intimately, that he may as well be a part of your community.

BUT THAT'S THE THING — HE'S FICTIONAL

I am guilty of this. In fact, I’ve flaunted in numerous posts how I think he’s the perfect Tamil boy, how he dances bharatanatyam, how he does all these Tamil things that no one will understand except myself. All these niche things that only I, and maybe a few others, will understand.

I’ve seen other people do it, too. I’ve seen people geek out over his dark brown skin, his kalari dhoti, how he fights so effortlessly in the kalaripayattu martial arts style. I’ve seen people write him as Malayali, as Hindi, as every kind of Indian person imaginable.

I’ve also seen him be written where he’s subjected to typical Indian and broader Asian stereotypes. You know the ones I’m so fond of calling out. The thing is, I’ve seen so much of Pavitr being presented in so many different ways, and I worry how the rest of the desi folk will take it. 

You finally have a character who could be you, but now he’s someone else’s plaything. Your entire life is shaped by what you can and can’t do simply because you were born to an Indian family, and here’s the one person who could represent you now at the mercy of someone else’s whims. He’s off living a life that is so distant from yours, you can hardly recognise him.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, yeah? But, again, you’re looking at it from that infinitely narrow lens Westerners use to look at India from Bollywood.

AND PAVITR PRABHAKAR DOESN'T LIVE IN INDIA

He lives in Mumbattan. He lives in a made-up, fictional world that doesn’t follow the way of life of our world. He lives in a city where Mumbai and Manhattan got fucking squashed together. There are so many memes about colonialism right there. Mumbattan isn’t real! Spider-Man India isn’t real!! He’s just a dude!! The logic of our world doesn’t apply to him!!!

“But his surname originates from ______” okay but does that matter?

“But he’s wearing a kalari dhoti so surely he’s ______” okay but does that matter?

“But his skin colour is darker so he must be ______” okay but does that matter?

“But he lives in Mumbai so he must be ______” okay but does that matter?

I sound insensitive and brash and annoying and it looks like I’m yapping just for the sake of riling you up, so direct that little burst of anger you got there at me, and keep reading.

Listen. I’m going to ask you a question that I’ve asked myself a million times over. I want you to answer honestly. I want you to ask this question to yourself and answer honestly:

Are you trying to convince me on who Pavitr Prabhakar should be?

... but why shouldn't i?

I’ll tell you this again — I did the same thing. You’re not at fault for this, but I want you to just...have a little think over. Just a little moment of self-reflection, to think about why you are so intent on boxing this guy.

It took me a while to reorganise my thinking and how to best approach a character like Pavitr, so I will give you all the time you need as well as a little springboard to focus your thoughts on.

SPIDER-MAN (INDIA) IS JUST A MASK

“What I like about the costume is that anybody reading Spider-Man in any part of the world can imagine that they themselves are under the costume. And that’s a good thing.”

Stan Lee said that. Remember how he was so intent on making sure that everybody got the idea that Spider-Man as an entity is fundamentally broken without Peter Parker there to put on the suit and save the day? That ultimately it was the person beneath the mask, no matter who they were, that mattered most?

Spider-Man India is no less different. You can argue with me that Peter Parker!Spidey is supposed to represent working class struggles in the face of leering corporate entities who endanger the regular folk like us, and so Pavitr Prabhakar should also function the same way. Pavitr should also be a working class guy of this specific social standing fighting people of this other social standing.

But that takes away the authenticity of Spider-Man India. Looking at him through the Peter Parker lens forces you to look at him through the Western lens, and it significantly lessens what you can do with the character — suddenly, it’s a fight to be heard, to be seen, to be recognised. It’s yelling over each other that Pavitr Prabhakar is this ethnicity, is that caste, this or that, this or that, this or that.

There’s a reason why he’s called Spider-Man India, infuriatingly vague as it is. And that’s the point — the vagueness of his identity fulfils Lee’s purpose for a character that could theoretically be embodied by anyone. If he had been called “Spider-Man Mumbai”, you cut out a majority of the population (and in capitalist terms, you cut out a good chunk of the market).

And in the case of Spider-Man India? Whew — you’ve got about a billion people imagining a billion different versions of him.

Whoever you are, whatever you see in Pavitr, that is what is personal to you, and there is nothing wrong with that, and I will not fault you for it. I will not fault you for saying Pavitr is from Central due to the origins of his last name. I also will not fault you for saying Pavitr is from South due to him practising kalaripayattu. I also will not fault you for saying he is not Hindu. I also will not fault you for saying he is a particular ethnicity without any proof.

What I will fault you for is trying to convince me and the others around you that Pavitr Prabhakar should be this particular ethnicity/have this cultural background because of some specific reason. I literally don’t care and it is fundamentally going against his character, going against the “anyone can wear the mask” sentiment of Spider-Man. By doing this, you are strengthening the walls that first divided us. You’re feeding the stratification and segmentation of our cultures — something that is actually not present in the fictional world of Mumbattan.

Like I said before: Mumbattan isn’t real, so the divides between ethnicities and cultural backgrounds are practically nonexistent. The best thing is that it is visually there for all to see. My favourite piece of evidence is this:

It’s a marquee for a cinema in the Mumbattan sequence, in the “Quick tour: this is where the traffic is” section. It has four titles; the first two are written in Hindi. The third title is written in Bengali*, and the fourth title is written in Tamil. You go to Mumbai and you won’t see a single shred of Bengali nor Tamil there, much less any other language that's not common in Maharashtra (Western India). Seeing this for the first time, you know what went through my head?

Wow, the numerous cultures of India are so intermingled here in Mumbattan! Everyone and everything is welcome!

I was happy, not just because of Tamil representation, but because of the fact that the plethora of Indian cultures are showcased coexisting in such a short sequence. This is India embracing all the little parts that make up its grander identity. This scene literally opened my eyes seeing such beauty in all the diverse cultures thriving together. In a place where language and cultural backgrounds blend so easily, each one complementing one another.

It is so easy to believe that, from this colourful palette of a setting, Pavitr Prabhakar truly is Spider-Man India, no matter where he comes from.

It’s easy to believe that Pavitr can come from any part of India, and I won’t call you out if the origin you have for him is different from the origin I have. You don’t need to stake out territory and stand your ground — you’re entitled to that opinion, and I respect it. In fact, I encourage it!!!

Because there’s only so much you can show in a ten minute segment of a film about a country that has such a vast history and even greater number of cultures. I want to see all of it — I want him to be a Malayali boy, a Hindi boy, a Bengali boy, a Telugu boy, an Urdu boy, whatever!! I want you to write him or draw him immersed in your culture, so that I can see the beauty of your background, the wonderful little things that make your culture unique and different from mine!

And, as many friends have said, it’s so common for Indian folks to be migrating around within our own country. A person with a Maharashtrian surname might end up living in Punjab, and no one really minds that. I’m actually from Karnataka, my family speaks Kannada, but somewhere down the line my ancestors moved to Tamil Nadu and settled down and lived very fulfilling lives. So I don’t actually have the “pure Tamil” upbringing, contrary to popular belief; I’ve gotten a mix of both Kannada and Tamil lifestyles, and it’s made my life that much richer. 

So it’s common for people to “not” look like their surname, if that’s what you’re really afraid about. In fact, it just adds to that layer of nuance, that even despite these rigid identities between ethnicities we as Indian people still intermingle with one another, bringing slivers of our cultures to share with others. Pavitr could just as well have been born in one state and moved around the country, and he happens to live in Mumbattan now. It’s entirely possible and there’s nothing to disprove that.

We don’t need to clamber over one another declaring that only one ethnicity is the “right” ethnicity, because, again, you will be looking at Pavitr and the rest of India in that narrow Western lens — a country with such rich cultural variety reduced to a homogenous restrictive way of life.

THE POLL: REINTERPRETED

This whole thing started because I was wondering why my little poll was so skewed — I thought people assumed I was asking them where he came from, then paired his physical appearance with the most logical options available. I thought it was my fault, that I had somehow influenced this outcome without knowing.

Truth is, I will never really know. But I will be thankful for it, because it gave me the opportunity to finally broach this topic, something that many of us desi folk are hesitant to talk about. I hope you have learned something from this, whether you are desi or a casual Spider-Man fan or someone who just so happened to stumble upon this. 

So just…be a little more open. Recognise that India, like many many countries and nations, is made up of a plethora of smaller cultures. And remember, if you’re trying to convince Pavitr that he’s a particular ethnicity, he’s going to wave his hand at you and say, “Ha, me? No, I’m one of the people that live here in the best Indian city! I’m Spider-Man India, dost!”

(Regardless, he still considers you a friend, because to him, the people matter more to him than you trying to box him into something he’s not.)

*Note: thank you dear anon for letting me know that the third title was Bengali, twas my mistake for literally completely forgetting

[niymue]

me annoyed bc my gameplay choices require me to makeover all the curious family men and the pleasant sisters

[zylphiacrowley]

Adventures in the Northern Wilds pt. 2

<previous - next>

[logically-asexual]

thinking about logan in losing my motivation and how much i love him. there’s this 20 second clip that exemplifies two wonderful characteristics about him that we barely see anymore

first

him starting not knowing something but thinking and using his logic to figure out the answer. and having fun being a detective. now they just have logan know everything and explain it to the rest. but i miss this. it’s more realistic and more fun! you can see thomas’ brain working in real time which is the goal of the show. and you see logan enjoying himself.

and second

he loves teaching, he loves sharing the joy of discovering or learning something with the others. he doesn’t just tell patton the answer, he tries to prompt him to make the same discovery himself, like any good teacher who likes their job would. again. now logan just explains everything with no room for the others to figure it out by themselves. which must be as boring for him as for the viewer. that’s not how a good class is conducted.

logan deserves a chance to be a good teacher and a detective. even if he’s sometimes wrong in the end, he doesn’t like being corrected but he always accepts it once he’s convinced he was wrong and always promises to consider what he just learned. he deserves to have fun and be himself in this whole process.

[igotsnothing]

Beginning/Previous/Next

[prince-liest]

A snippet from chapter 3 of The Last Bus Stop in Hell, Now Boarding in conjunction with some thoughts on the subject, because I've gotten some comments to the tune of, "I can't believe Charlie, Vaggie, and Lucifer are just okay with this?!" most of which are p clearly just people being rightfully frustrated with the horrible situation but still prompted me to want to talk about how I see canon, since those thoughts are actually a direct echo of me rattling the bars of Angel's comments about getting fucking waterboarded at work like, "WHY IS NOBODY HELPING ANGEL DUST?!"

I was going to write this scene anyway, but I just wanted to be Very clear about where I stand on the subject of how much Angel Dust is telling people about his work life, vs the things he has been actively hiding from them, because this is the only way that canon makes sense to me.

I think there's a huge difference between Charlie seeing Val and Angel disappear into a room and Angel coming back with a bruise before yelling at her to get the fuck out like he's unholy levels of pissed off at her for setting the whole damn studio on fire and putting them all in danger, and Charlie understanding what Angel's work life is actually like, drugs and rape and abuse all included.

Given how she reacted to the bruise before Angel told her to piss off, I think there are several lines between What She Knows and the reality that would be skipped merrily the fuck over with regards to whether or not she'd continue listening to Angel telling her that he's got it under control, jesus fuck, please leave. In particular, I think it's worth noting that to get her out of the studio, he framed the situation as her making things worse, and I think she very much internalized it as "I fucked up, I literally set the building on fire, everything was fine before I got here, it was my fault, and Angel is angry at me," which is also why she was SO upset and sorry about everything that happened.

From her limited view of the situation, it looked like she caused a huge mess and Angel caught the fallout, not that Val's way of treating Angel is a regular occurence - and that's not even getting into the fact that she didn't even see what actually happens between the two of them behind closed doors.