#men who literally were not interested in their own children's entire existence

[luxstring]

Written by the lovely @ceruleancattail , thank you so much for doing this art trade with me, it was a pleasure doing this with you. You were easy to chat with, direct & a fast worker [my god ur speed]. I hope to do another trade with you in the future ^v^. Now I feast.

The abundance of the stars in the sky isn’t something that’s celebrated often enough.

Pollution has congested the sparkling lights above, rendering the night sky as a void rather than the divine sight that our ancestors once behold, many an age ago. If you’re lucky, you’ll see the moon. Maybe the North Star.

That’s about it.

Not that most people notice, either way. Children of men were always so absorbed in their own lives, bustling around here and there in order to strive to make a living. Working, studying, all in a flustered rush.

No one really has time to take it slow and look up anymore. It’s a pity, truly.

For taking it slow is all that Malleus knows.

It’s an unfortunate characteristic of someone of his lifespan. Why rush about when you have quite literally almost all the time in the world? The Fae have long laughed in the face of time, prancing around on earth’s time-worn surfaces still as youthful as the day they were born.

Unfortunately that sort of existence tends to get... lonely, sometimes. Knowing that everyone you meet is flowing in a different time as compared to you. He’s gotten to know many, over the years... he doesn’t know how they’re doing, anymore. Malleus has never been too overly fond of goodbyes.

He loathes them, in fact.

If he had it his way, everyone would last forever, in this picture perfect fairytale with him. Happily ever after, as most stories go. Yet life doesn’t work out that way, does it? So Malleus resigns himself to walking at his own pace, exchanging brief moments of time with the short-lived.

However, it’s surprising to have someone who’s able walk through life the same

“Draconia.”

A soft, gentle voice rung out, as sonorous as a church's bell. It echoed through the silent landscape, a wonderful sound so familiar to Malleus himself. Something he's heard, over and over again, through the flow of time.

A finger pokes Malleus' cheek gently, the touch much like a refreshing night breeze.

"Spacing out again, are we, my prince?"

Chuckling, Malleus shoots the newcomer a gentle smile.

"No. I was simply... appreciating beauty."

A twinkling laugh, as bright as the stars in the sky. A tall figure slides through the foliage, every footstep as light as dewdrops on grass. Grey hair flowed down his scalp, framing his face perfectly. Clear azure eyes peered at Malleus somewhat curiously, a faint amusement twinkling deep within.

The entire world seemed to fall silent when Stolas spoke. As if they were waiting with bated breath just for the sound of his voice. Sometimes, Malleus felt the same way.

It was an odd feeling, really. Malleus wasn't ever one to wait on others. Others waited for him, made allowances for him, as a member of the Draconia family.

His heavy name came with pressure. Malleus was rather accustomed to the weight on his shoulders. A regal mantle laid upon him, to be borne by his body until the day he finally breathes his last. Every single one of his movements was calculated, was done with purpose. Scrutinised by all eyes in the room, whispers echoing off the walls.

However, whenever he was with Stolas, he didn't feel that pressure. There was something about Stolas' manner that set Malleus to ease. Almost like being blanketed by the swirl of stars in the night sky, gently embraced by the night's breeze.

Perhaps it's the maturity of Stolas' age. Malleus admits that it's a comfort to have someone who's lived as long as he has by his side. Perhaps.

The ghost of a grin playing on his lips, Stolas withdraws his finger, chuckling softly.

"You jest. I am not one of your precious gargoyles."

Tilting his head slightly to the side, Malleus regards Stolas with a renewed interest.

"You wouldn't be a gargoyle, Stolas Minci."

Blinking in surprise, Stolas asks:

"Oh? Then do pray tell, what exactly would I be, my dear prince?"

Pausing for a moment, Malleus hums to himself. Carefully thinking about what exactly Stolas was. What he was, to Malleus himself.

Stolas was the faint glow of the stars, pinpricks of light in the night sky. He was the North Star, always within view, ready to guide the lost back home. A reliable presence of stability, a trustworthy being. Someone who's lasted for millennia, still glowing as brightly as he did, decades ago.

Stolas was gentle touches, careful brushing of fingertips against each other then they walked side by side.

Stolas was midnight walks done around campus, silently observing the beauty hidden by the dark shawl of night.

Stolas was... someone Malleus loved, truly and deeply.

Muttering softly, Malleus let those words of truth slip from his lips.

"You are Stolas Minci. Nothing more, nothing less. I wish not for you to change.

You are....precious to me, after all."

[contraspem--spero]

Listen I'm about anti-natalist as you can possibly get but like if you'd learn pedagogics and it's history and realise how much of it was invented by Men maybe you'd understand a lot about why our education system is the way it is

[hyperlexichypatia]

This post reminded me of it, but my partner has observed that in contemporary gender discourse, maleness is so linked to adulthood and femaleness is so linked to childhood, that there are no "boys" or "women," only "men" and "girls."

This isn't exactly new -- for as long as patriarchy has existed, women have been infantilized, and "adult woman" has been treated as something of an oxymoron. Hegemonic beauty standards for women emphasize youthfulness, if not actual neoteny, and older women are considered "too old" to be attractive without ever quite being old enough to make their own decisions. There may be cultural allowances for the occasional older "wise woman," but a "wise woman" is always dangerously close to being a madwoman, or a witch. No matter how wise a woman is, she is never quite a rational agent. As Hanna K put it, "as a woman you're always either too young or too old for things, because the perfect age is when you're a man."

But the framing of underage boys as "men" has shifted, depending on popular conceptualizations of childhood and gender roles. Sometimes children of any gender are essentially feminized and grouped with women (the entire framing of "women and children" as a category). In the U.S. in the 21st century, the rise of men's rights and aggressively sexist ideology has correlated with an increased emphasis on little boys as "men" -- thus slogans like "Teach your son to be a man before his teacher teaches him to be a woman."

Of course, thanks to ageism and patriarchy (which literally means, not "rule by men," but "rule by fathers"), boys don't get any of the social benefits of being considered "men." They don't get to vote, make their own medical decisions, or have any of their own adult rights. They might have a little more childhood freedom than girls, if they're presumed to be sturdier and less vulnerable to "predators," but, for the most part, being considered "men" as young boys doesn't really get boys any more access to adult rights. What it does get them is aggressively gender-policed, often with violence. A little boy being "a man" means that he's not allowed to wear colors, have feelings, or experience the developmental stages of childhood.

This shifts in young adulthood, as boys forced into the role of "manhood" become actual men. As I've written about, I believe the trend of considering young adults "children" is harmful to everyone, but primarily to young women, young queer and trans people, and young disabled people. Abled, cisgender, heterosexual young men are rarely denied the rights and autonomy of adulthood due to "brain maturity."

What's particularly interesting is that, because transphobes misgender trans people as their birth-assigned genders, they constantly frame trans girls as "men" and trans men as "girls." A 10 year old trans girl on her elementary school soccer team is a "MAN using MAN STRENGTH on helpless GIRLS," while a 40 year old trans man is a "Poor confused little girl." Anyone assigned male at birth is born a scary, intimidating adult, while anyone female assigned at birth never becomes old enough to make xyr own decisions.

Feminist responses have also really fluctuated. Occasionally, feminists have played into the idea of little boys as "men," especially in trans-exclusionary rhetoric, or in one notorious case where members of a women's separatist compound were warned about "a man" who turned out to be a 6-month-old infant. There's periodic discourse around "Empowering our girls" or "Raising our boys with gentle masculinity," but for the most part, my problem with mainstream feminist rhetoric in general is that it tends to frame children solely as a labor imposed on women by men, not as subjects (and specifically, as an oppressed class) at all.

Second-wave feminists pushed back hard on calling adult women "girls" -- but they didn't necessarily view "women" as capable of autonomous decision-making, either. Adult women were women, but they might still need to be protected from their own false consciousness. As laws in the U.S., around medical privacy and autonomy, like HIPAA, started more firmly linking the concepts of autonomy with legal adulthood, and fixing the age of majority at 18, third-wave feminists embraced referring to women as "girls." Sometimes this was in an intentionally empowering way ("girl power," "girl boss"), which also served to shield women (mostly white, mostly bourgeois/wealthy) from criticism of their participation in racism and capitalism. But it also served to reinforce the narrative of women as "girls" needing to be protected from "men" (and their own choices).

I'm still hoping for a feminist politic that is pro-child, pro-youth, pro-disability, pro-autonomy, pro-equality, that rejects the infantilization of women, the adultification of boys, the objectification of children, the misgendering of trans people, and the imposition of gender roles.

[drbased]

ok I have to talk about 'the dialectic of sex' by shulamith firestone because it was one of the first proper feminist books I read and I didn't have the confidence back then to address this book:

so this is still the only book I've read so far that actually uses the words 'radical feminist' - except her definition of this politics is essentially transhumanist luxury space communism. because her understanding is that the 'root' of women's oppression is our reproductive capacity and therefore no matter what happens society will never fully be able to share the burden of childbirth and child-rearing across both sexes.

this book feels so evocative of its time - like there was a small window of pure hope shortly after the invention of the pill and the hippy movement where everything entirely changed for women. like, think about it: up until that point unless you use some sort of condom (which men don't like using - and also not 100% effective anyway) you're basically always vulnerable to being impregnated by a man during piv, which is considered the basic form of sexual intimacy wth men, which women are expected to engage in to be considered full members of society. so women would have all been in some sort of constant state of low-key fear; one sex - or rape - away from having a child that would change their entire existence. that's got to really fuck you up, especially your relationship with your own body. and you could get an abortion but only if you're incredibly lucky, and still getting an abortion is probably more like surviving a car crash than anything - like you're glad you made it through but also you're still damaged psychologically and probably physically as well. and it's such a silent fear as well - because women are supposed to want babies and babies just happen so you're not allowed to complain that this is because your husband always wants sex and he's the one who impregnates you but if he does people say 'she got herself pregnant again'. like there's layer upon layer of psychological terrorism surrounding men's impregnation of women and that's gotta mess you the hell up.

so the invention of the pill - holy shit, just imagine it. the hope. you can take the pill in secret, you can take the power back, you're not uniquely vulnerable to your own bodily forces anymore, that gives you time to fucking think, to be alive, to feel, to feel vulnerable, to feel free. it's like literal magic. if the most basic of happenings - pregnancy - can be actually prevented, then what else can we do to the body? what else can science do for us?? how more free can we get?? It's women's first time to (ironically) feel like a god, able to transcend the body. I'm actually surprised that I've not found more writings like shulamith's - that there weren't more women spurred on by this amazing discovery into further transhumanism. I guess the problem was that women were starting to notice that whilst women were able to change their own individual lives with the pill, that wasn't making men behave any differently.

but I still find it fascinating how this definition of radical feminism hasn't survived at all. as it stands on radblr, the 'root' of women's oppression is men, and therefore the only real solution is separatism. but like, what happened to the brand of feminism that says, uhhhh isn't it actually kinda fucked up that half the human race are burdened entirely with pregnancy, birth and child-rearing? and could we maybe be freed from that if we used science to bring about children another way? I'm not even agreeing with her that that would solve everything (because regardless even if we *could* make babies in a tube, that doesn't mean all women are going to magically become infertile, and it certainly doesn't mean than men are going to be less violent against us), but I'm very interested in questioning what the 'root' of women's oppression is - because modern 'radical feminism' has a lot of gaps to allow for a simplistic narrative that I'm sure many in the community, definitely myself included, are rapidly tiring of. and I think it shows in the separatism debate, which rages on because no one can think of any other solution, because the unspoken tenet is that what the 'root' is is solved and agreed-upon, and therefore the answer is just so damn obvious that the women who don't agree must be scared and stupid. I've been wanting to address this in some form or another for years now, and I guess I'm dipping my toes in it now.

at the very least, I'd like to know if someone has a good source on where the term 'radical feminism' came from and how its meaning has evolved over the years. in ariel levy's 'female chauvinist pigs' she touches on this debate that started in the late seventies that led to the fracturing of feminism and the creation of liberal feminism - and it seems to be along these same lines of separatism vs fucking men. I've always found it odd that there's essentially no middle ground here - like you don't need to embrace 'sluttiness' in order to want to have a healthy sexual relationship with a man, but it seems the liberal feminist side chose that, meanwhile the only other 'mainstream' option seems to be separatism. obviously a lot of the women in radblr don't actually fully agree with that - but all us hetties are suspiciously silent on that subject.

to me the issues with separatism go further than simply sex with men - sure it's psychologically good for you to only purchase from women owned businesses and only read books by women etc etc, and it financially uplifts other women. but also we live under capitalism, which obscures our reliance on each other. when you buy from that woman-owned business, the person delivering your package is likely to be male, the person who assembled the vehicle he drives is likely to be male, the person who constructed the roads he drives on is likely to be male. this is not to say that men are vital - but rather, your 'separatist choice' is a fundamentally capitalistic one that exists more for your peace of mind than being anything actually radical - as in, nothing about the 'root' of women's oppression is addressed in doing so. there's no ethical consumption under capitalism yadda yadda. and only speaking to women irl is also less of a capitalist action but still ultimately an individual one. there's so much emphasis on personal actions as the height of feminism and it screams liberal individualist to me. like you took 'the personal is political' and ran with it.

but if the root of the problem is men, then that's simple, isn't it? just don't interact with men. don't have sex with men. don't pay men, apart from the men who happen to be an inescapable part of the supply chain, they will inevitably get paid by your actions anyway, but you don't have to think about that because that's what capitalism does: it makes you think you have this magical power as an indvidual to make real radical choice in the world, to 'vote with your dollar'.

I'm not exactly calling for firebombing a walmart but I'm bored with the capitalism-loving individualistic liberalism of what this community calls 'radical feminism' - but that same thought-terminating cliche keeps getting thrown at us: 'we're radical, which means we grasp at the root, and the root is male violence, so you can't call yourself a radical feminist if you don't want to do the basic things of not wearing make-up and not fucking men'. and nobody ever seems to stop and question, does any of that actually address the root of our oppression? capitalism isn't the only economic system that has ever oppressed women, but it's the one we live under, and it's very good at sneaking into the backdrop of our lives and naturalising hierarchies - capitalism becomes its own justification, e.g. women choose low-paying jobs just because that's what we gravitate to, yanno?

being genuinely anti-capitalist recomplicates politics all over again, because suddenly it's not an easy men vs women but also men vs women vs rich people, some of whom are women??? and like, what's the solution to that? do we stand with men agains the capitalist system and risk our voices getting silenced, or do we go full single-issue and just go fuck it, capitalism was created by men for themselves like solanas said, so if we stand against men then idk capitalism will just sort of fall by itself? or in reality it's just not addressed at all. separatism itself always sits there as a thought-terminating cliche in and of itself - an accusation ready to be levelled at anyone who wants to question any of these unspoken tenets of radblr. and the goal-post is ever-shifting - separatism is women's land, but if you say that's not a real solution in our capitalist interconnected world then you get accused of not wanting women's spaces because that's obviously what separatism has been about this whole time. also separatism is not fucking men, actually it's not about that it's about prioritising women (vague), and on and on and on - the argument always shifts so the word stays pure. but like, is separatism an end-goal? a political tactic? something you do to enrich your own life and psyche? something to give space for consciousness-raising? I saw someone ages ago claim that the suffragettes wanting the right to vote was somehow separatist because idk, the women were making spaces for themselves? but wanting to involve yourself in male politics is literally assimilationist, no??

I'lm going to stop rambling for now but this was good to get my thoughts out there - I enjoy my theorising in this space but I'm also deeply interested in questioning. I've noticed time and time again that discourse is always stopped by 'you're not a real radical feminist if you do/don't do x' and I've found it really odd and telling that no one's questioned that? like sure I know we've built our whole political framework on 'words mean things' but also it's always worth questioning the definition of 'radical' and what the 'root' of our oppression is, and what we can actually do to address it, and if our narratives and assumptions are too simplistic. the community would be all the better for it imho. I already think the influx of 'tirfs' in the community and the khelif debate has been opening up these unspoken simplistic narratives on the nature of gender vs sex, of socialisation vs low-key biological essentialism, and I think we can push that kind of questioning even further. ramble over.

[targaryenluvs]

the last one standing

pairings: robb stark x fem!targaryen!reader, aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader

summary: the one where you’re set to marry your younger brother, aemond. and the night beforehand you run away, a last moment of freedom before you’re life is gone. but end up in a not-so foreign land where you discover the ending of the House of the Dragon. and maybe fall in love along the way.

warnings: none

a/n: i literally cleaned out my drafts and found the part two of this, just uploaded!!

The fifth moon. The wedding was set in stone and the prospect of marriage loomed over your head everywhere you went. The small folk congratulated you wherever you went. You were known for your own kind nature, connecting with the people of Kings Landing whenever the opportunity showed.

“Y/n the Kind”, or “The Diamond of the Realm”, these were two of many names you’d taken under your wing. When word of your marriage reached the ears of the people of Westeros many people decreed it unlawful, per usual, but most were entirely shocked. Why would such a sweet hearted girl be wed to a cold-hearted man?

Since your early years you managed to gather plenty of suitors. Most started enthralled with the idea of courting, (and eventually marrying) The Diamond of The Realm, but most actually ended up befriended by you. As you liked to point out to your mother as many a chance as you received, “These men come along seeking a wife in me, most end up leaving with a trusted friend. I do not know how exactly, but I suppose my kind nature is so sweet they see me as a confidante, a sister.” Which your mother was not happy to hear, but never questioned you. “Well you wouldn’t exactly scare them away as Rhaenyra tried in her years. Perhaps we need to find someone more durable, strong-headed.”

And that person just so happened to take shape in your younger brother; Aemond.

As children you got along quite well. Helaena and Aegon were always to be set together, as were the two of you; but you were always opposed to the idea. You were 4 years his senior, and had offered the idea of yourself and your twin brother’s marriage. But deep down you knew you wished for anything but, as did Aegon. You weren’t particularly close as children to anyone of your three brothers. Helaena had common interest with you, but you always were closer with Rhanyra’s children, Jace and Luke.

Your relationship was fine, until Laena Velaryon’s passing, and the fight of Prince and Princesses, as you had dubbed it. You had defended Luke’s actions in front of everyone claiming self defence, Alicent was confused, Aegon amused and Aemond disheartened. Was he that annoying? His own sister, nay intended, finds their bastard cousins more so family then himself?

Afterwards you never really interacted with Aemond, he kept to himself, grew and grew, trained and became a man. A Prince. Whilst you learned and taught, drunk your feelings for a period of time with Aegon and drowned in suitors.

As you gazed into the starry night above, you pondered the question which had been running rampant the past few days, would your dear half-sister Nyra and your uncle Daemon, or “Dae” as you said, take you in? Risk a war to keep you from a miserable existence, chained to a child bed, pumping heirs by the second?

You knew they would. As much as they despised the blacks you always felt as if you were one of them. But you could never risk their lives in such reckless ways. You could hear your mother and septa screaming in your head, “How dare you ponder over such treacherous thoughts?” “This is your duty!” “The birthing bed is our battlefield.” Which you had heard from the Queen, although you had heard similar from Nyra.

You needed to clear your head, you figured.

After half an hour of persuading Ser Criston Cole, who was coming to check on you, that is.

Your Nyraxes was asleep, but as you approached her head lifted off the ground, her scales painted a breathtaking dark violet, with dark blue and silver streaks like Dreamfyre. The pair got a long well, you and Helaena always flew together. With the violet came gorgeous amber eyes. She grew incredibly quickly, half of Vhagar’s size at the mere age of 20.

Your siblings always mounted their dragons with saddles, they treated their dragons as that, just dragons. You and Helaena cared for your girls as if they were your children.

You carefully mounted Nyraxes and set off for anywhere but the Red Keep. As you flew with no particular destination in mind you viewed a circular stone arrangement in a valley below. You’d been riding for thirty minutes or so and decided to dive down for a break before returning to your chambers.

Once you landed you soothed Nyraxes, “Gīda ñuha riña, gīda. Ēdrugon lo ao jaelagon ñuha jorrāelagon.”

Calm my girl, calm. Sleep if you wish my love.

The sight was a marvel, these stone statues in the middle were solid, they did not budge in the slightest. Upon gazing the sculptures and stone you felt yourself grow weary, but not before you stumbled across an ornate mirror.

What you didn’t realise was that this mirror was the origin of your tiredness. You felt waves of calm wash over as you slowly drifted into the sleeping realm.

-

The birds you would normally hear in Kings Landing were distant, in the back of your mind. What you did hear was a howling, or was it barking?

“Lady what is it?” Sansa spoke as she chased after her dear Lady. Robb reprimanded her, “Sansa slow down, you’re legs will fall off. And if you return home injured mother will have my head.”

(I’m so sorry for that 😭)

“Yes, I am being careful father.” Sansa mocked. “You think you’re being funny do you? I can make people laugh too Sansa.” Robb teased as he ran after his younger sister, only to look up and find nothing. Not his sister nor her direwolf.

Robb’s brows creased and confused, as was the rest of him. Soon worry triumphed his emotions, “Sansa? Sansa, this is not fun to joke of. Sansa!” He rushed forwards to be face to face with a violet scales dragon, flaring its nostrils whilst its tail wrapped around the shivering body of his mother.

“I thought dragons were supposedly extinct!” Sansa whispered to her brother, careful of her movements since she wasn’t exactly in the mood to get burnt to a crisp. “They most definitely are.” “Then tell me what in the hell is infront of us Robb.”

At the sound of voices your eyes opened, as a wave of cold air smacked you upfront. As you turned you were met with two people, staring directly at you, then Nyraxes, then you, then Nyraxes. The loop continued until you questioned them.

“Who are you?”

“Robb Stark of Winterfell, Eldest son to Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, this is my younger sister, Lady Sansa Stark. And you?” He questioned as he straightened his posture in an attempt of courage infront of the woman and the dragon, mostly the dragon.

“You don’t know who I am?”

“I’m afraid not my Lady.” Robb spoke as he extended his arm out, infront of his sister as a barrier between herself and the dragon.

“Princess Y/n of House Targaryen, your princess, The Diamond of the Realm.”

“Targaryen?”

“That is what I said is it not? Who are you imposters I’ve never heard of Eddard nor Catelyn or the two of you. Where is Cregan Stark?”

“Cregan Stark, my princess, is my ancestor. From many moons ago.”

You looked at him as if he had just slapped you, “How-How many moons would you say?”

“It’s hard to say, people can’t exactly make out an exact year for his death. But I would say perhaps one hundred thirty to fifty. Although I am not the most reliable source Princess.”

You couldn’t hear anything around you.

It’s not possible. How could your life have been so very long ago? Were you still dreaming? Was this a cruel joke Aegon decided to organise for his amusement? Did you die- no. Not possible.

Your surroundings were changing, more so spinning.

“I think she’s awake now. Robb! Jon! Come quick!” The voice was definitely loud, as if you could hear it bouncing off the walls. A young girl perhaps? You heard fast footsteps against the harsh floor, fading away as slower, more intimidating steps made their way towards the room you had been allocated.

You were still so cold. You felt horrible for feeling bad for yourself when Nyraxes was probably freezing!

Nyra. Was she safe? Had she flown to warmer places and was soon to return? Or had she been taken prisoner somehow?

The anxiety and worry had you shooting up out of bed just at the thought of Nyra being in pain, or worse.

“Feeling all right there Princess?”

You looked to the door and saw the same man from before, Robb.

His name was Robb.

As you finally looked at him. His light brown beard, fair skin, divine eyes staring straight at you, his hair looked so very soft. He leaned against the doorway with a smirk on his face as you realised you had been staring, his nickname for you hot on the tip of his tongue.

“Princess? You there? Or do you need more time to stare at me? Because I do not mind it all.” He grinned whilst making his way to you.

[navree]

me @ you calling Lucerys boring! 😆 come on, he's just a kid! cutting out aemond's eye was bad, i agree, but i don't think he was as bland as everyone says. his imposter syndrome in 8 and 10 was interesting to watch at least. he was a brave little boy.

I mean I don't really see anything brave about bringing a knife to a fight he not only had fuck all to do with but where he was clearly at fault (Aemond did nothing wrong, he tamed a free dragon, Baela and Rhaena get a pass because they're grieving but Jace and Luke had no business being involved and certainly no business escalating into 4 v 1 violence against the clear cut victim), trying to literally murder someone because I don't know what the fuck you're trying to do when you stab a knife at someone's face but it's certainly not a warning shot, showing zero remorse for it at all, and at worse acting like a little snot when in the same room with your victim. The fact that Luke got away with this scot free (didn't he literally say "I didn't do anything" you boring little asshole you stabbed out someone's eye that is the opposite of not doing anything!) is an absolute travesty of justice that stains everyone involved (mostly Viserys and Luke but I'm not letting Rhaenyra "pls torture the ten year old stabbing victim until he tells me how he figured out that these white dark haired children aren't the sons of my black platinum blond husband" Targaryen off the hook either). Aemond could have died, not only from the initial wound, but from the myriad of infections or other issues that could have plagued him during the healing process. For God's sake, Viserys nicks himself on the Iron Throne and they have to lop off his arm, his infected injuries and their treatment have already made him pretty firmly decrepit by Driftmark, the fact that Aemond healed without any serious and lifelong and further damaging complication is a goddamn miracle. And even kids know that murder is bad, I'm pretty sure that if I were Lucerys's age and I tried to commit homicide I'd have to deal with some consequences.

And I'm sorry, but I call him boring because he is! They wrote a boring character! That's not on me for picking up on it, that's on the writers and the myriad choices they made that led to them severely underdeveloping several characters, most prominently Lucerys (Jace and Baela and Rhaena at least get another season of life to develop further, Luke gets four episodes and they knew that going in). This is a song I've been singing literally since the show was airing and it's not gonna change, cuz he's dead and therefore stuck with his boring character and complete lack of characterization.

Him being a kid is not a character trait, and it certainly doesn't make him more interesting anymore than, say, his eye color would. The impostor syndrome thing they kinda tried didn't really work because 1) it's not impostor syndrome if it's true, he's not a Velaryon and Vaemond was 99% in the right in that entire thing (I don't like him throwing out misogynistic slurs, you can point out that these aren't Velaryons but Strong bastards without stooping to calling Rhaenyra a whore, I hate men sometimes) 2) in episode 8 it exists for one single line and is not a driving force for him at all for the remainder of the episode to the point that it could be cut out and mean nothing, especially since that scene was only there to introduce adult Aemond and 3) it doesn't even make sense because the person who was set up as having issues with his lack of Velaryon heritage and Harwin being his father was Jace. Jace is the one who hears the rumors and clocks it early on in childhood, Jace is the one who is deeply affected by it to the point of bitterness towards his own mother, Jace is the one who grieves Harwin but also feels angry that he can't express it. All of that was set up as part of Jace's arc, not at all Luke's, who is literally set dressing up until he decides to commit criminal offenses in the middle of the night. And then time skip, and suddenly Jace is A-OK and Luke, who has shown no issue before now (or any personality at all) is slightly concerned about it for one line in episode 8 before going back to being a piece of cardboard until episode 10.

And I'll be honest, the second that scene came out in episode 10, I immediately saw it for what it was, which was a very obvious patch job. The writers were clearly aware that they had not given the viewers any reason at all to care about Luke one way or another, so we weren't going to feel a lot when Vhagar (deservedly, imo) munches on him. So they hastily added in this really heavy-handed scene of poor uwu soft boy Lukey who is so concerned with doing right and needs to blink up tearfully at Mommy and be her sweet boy and get little kisses to assuage his worries, so that we'd feel some emotion and then be said when he becomes the Jonah to Vhagar's whale. It just doesn't work because there was nothing for him before then and therefore I don't care, I just feel bad Rhaenyra.

Luke is a bland and boring character. That's not an attack, that's just what the writers did. They tried to cram too much into a ten episode season, literally twenty years of history, and it caused a lot of characterization problems for a lot of characters, particularly for the Team Black ones. And a consequence of that is that the character with the least amount of time for development got not development and no personality. He's a plank of wood, he's a platonic version of the sexy lamp trope; there's nothing there and he exists only for us to feel bad when the lamp is smashed. Seriously, name me five individual character traits that Lucerys has. He's a momma's boy, even though I'm not really sure that's a character trait but I'll give it to him, and I guess he's devoid of empathy, considering that he doesn't appear to feel literally any remorse for mutilating Aemond (seriously, is it like the Dothraki and "thank you"? does the word "sorry" not exist in Valyrian languages? you can't even send an apology gift basket or a note?). But he's not brave, as there is no scene that shows any bravery or courage, and he's not noble or kind or thoughtful because there's nothing that shows any of that, or anything that shows him being the opposite, cruel or cowardly or weak, because he's a basically a character who could be played by sticking a wig on a mop and waving it around. And any characterization of insecurity exists as something hamfistedly crowbarred in at the last minute in his final episode to try to manipulate the audience's emotions with less sensitivity than D&D trying to tug at our heartstrings by having Drogon try to nudge Dany awake after she's killed.

But there is a character that I do consider to be a brave little boy, though I regret to inform y'all that it is Not a fourteen year old with no depth or personality or written characterization whose main claim to fame is maiming a person without apology and then dying. Nah, the brave little boy title goes to post-Driftmark Aemond. Aemond, at ten, is delivered a life altering injury whose recovery was likely very slow and very painful, involved a lot of worry about whether he'd have to deal with infection or further risk of death, and had to relearn how to do literally everything now that he was half blind, and he did all of it. He survived, and he thrived. He relearned how to walk, how to balance, his spatial awareness. He learned how to fought and even became incredibly good at it, and maintained his bond with Vhagar, as well as trying to keep himself mentally sharp as well. He did all of that, despite the huge setback he was dealt with at age ten. That's brave, go Aemond.

[tuttle-did-it]

(a rant about Star Trek: Picard)

So I just watched an episode of The Ray Bradbury Theatre (S.2, e11), 'There was an Old Woman.' It aired in May of 1988.

In this episode, an old woman, Tildy, played by Mary Morris, is surprised when men come into her house with a wicker basket that is the general shape of a coffin. There's a strange man who is completely silent. Tildy talks to him, yells at him and eventually tells all the men to get out of her house.

Turns out, predictably, they've come to collect her body and she is dead. The silent man is obviously Death, and he seems to respect the fact that she's spent all this time yelling at him because he eventually just puts his hat on and leaves.

For 30 minutes, this 70+ woman essentially monologues about her life. How she had refused to marry, how she had refused to have children. How she had raised her sister's daughter (and loved her) when she died. How she had never compromised her needs and wants for men. And how proud she was of all of this.

In the end, Tildy screams at the men at the funeral parlour to give her back possession of her own body. Confused, they agree. She gets back into her body, and goes back to her house.

Tildy was the primary focus for the entire show. Her needs, wants and desires were paramount. Sometimes she talked about men, but most of the time, she talked about herself and her own life.

Tildy was allowed to be angry. She was allowed to be emotional. She was allowed to tell men to leave her space. Tildy demanded autonomy over her own body- she literally screamed at about 10 men and argued to get possession of her own body back. Tildy yelled at all the men to take her body back home, to pick her up and put her back over her body, and then SHE found a way on her own to take control back over herself. And then she kicked all the men out.

Raffi's entire storyline in season 3 has been Worf telling her to control herself and calm down, but Tildy, in 1988, was allowed to be angry and emotional the whole time.

Tildy, as a ghost, got more respect from all the men in the room than Shaw has shown Seven in every scene.

The final scene is her in her chair, Tildy happily muses that the coroner's sewing up of her chest during her autopsy was 'decent sewing, for a man.'

Tildy had more agency and identity in a show from 1988 than ANY of the women from Star Trek: Picard have had in season 3 in particular.

All I could think about when watching this was how much more progressive this episode was compared to what I've seen from Star Trek: Picard.

How, in Picard, they keep everyone (but especially the mature women) in dark corners so you can barely see their faces. Picard's age is one that feeds directly into the plot at various points- sometimes there are light-hearted jokes, but for the most part, we're encouraged to relate and understand what life is like for man 'past his prime'.

Where is this discussion of age for Crusher? For Troi? For Laris (remember she exists?)? For any of the women? Riker gets to complain that his knees are shot- where's Crusher talking about her shoulder replacement? Oh, wait, that's right- Crusher's barely allowed to speak. Instead, she has to have long meaningful glances. And Gates does this amazingly well, but the men are allowed to monologue whilst the women are stuck in dark gloomy corners with ~meaningful glances~.

Tildy had her own unique storyline and identity that had nothing to do with the needs, wants and trauma of all the men around them. Because Seven, Crusher and Troi in particular have each been denied independent storylines, forced instead to orbit the men and mitigate the men's trauma and stories. Even Sidney's plot revolves around Daddy issues and a love interest with Picard's son.

And all I could think was how sad it was that this 70+ year old woman had more agency and identity in a show from 1988 than ANY of the women from Star Trek: Picard have had in season 3 in particular.

How we're allowed to SEE her -- LOOK at these lines.

Picard keeps all of their characters, but especially the ~women of a certain age~ in dark shadows. Gates McFadden literally said that she couldn't even see Patrick Stewart during filming for their scenes.

The saddest thing is, this episode from 1988 is not that groundbreaking; rather, it's just that Picard is that much of a failure when it comes to women.

In DS9, they gave Keiko her own storyline, and she wasn't even a main character. They gave Grilka her own storyline and she was in two episodes. So why can't Picard bother to give Seven something more to do than sit there and listen to abuse from Shaw and trauma-dumping from Picard and Jack? Oh, and wax lyrical nostalgia. Not enough.

And this isn't just a Star Trek: Picard thing. Yes, hands down, TOS was awful toward women and rarely let women even speak to each other. TNG only let Crusher and Troi talk to each other when it was about men and they were in leotards. But by the time they reached DS9, things were better. Kira is allowed to be angry when we meet her- and she stays angry for a long time. There are storylines about her anger. Keiko hates DS9. She's allowed to have a storyline about that. And for Voyager, Janeway has plenty of chats with B'Elanna, Kes and Seven that are not about men. B'Elanna is, like Kira, allowed to be angry (though VOY often takes a step backward saying that she is 'out of control' with her emotions-- notice the white woman (Kira) is allowed to be angry, but the woman of colour (B'Elanna,) is out of control. Some racial bias there, I think). Janeway is allowed to be occasionally batshit crazy, and that's okay.

Point is, by the time DS9 and VOY came on, they figured out that it was okay to have women as a focus for a story, and they were allowed to have their stories and plots and identities and needs and wants and mistakes of their own. There was room for improvement, but it was the 90s and it was better than TNG. Kira and Dax were allowed to be together to talk about nothing significant. They did this well on DS9, and although they could have done better on Voyager, the women were still autonomous and had their own identities.

So if Janeway, B'Elanna and Kira were allowed to be angry and emotional more than 2 decades ago, why is Raffi is treated as defective for her emotions? Why is she treated as a time-bomb who can't be controlled-- who is so out of control, by the way, that they have to separate her and Seven?

Dax (and Evil Kira!) are allowed to have romantic relationships with women and a career at the same time- something Seven and Raffi are not allowed to do because Matalas doesn't think you can have both simultaneously.

Star Trek: Picard has NO EXCUSE.

Gates McFadden, Jeri Ryan, Michelle Hurd, Michelle Forbes, Marina Sirtis and Ashlei Sharpe Chestnut have done amazingly well with the tiny crumbs they've been given this season. They've managed to make what are completely forgettable and insignificant moments realised just through brilliant acting- to move their characters beyond what few bits there are for them on the page. They deserve so much more than to only exist in order to further the needs and wants of the men in the show, and to give the men a sounding board to process their trauma.

But here's what I'm asking myself...

WHY IS AN EPISODE FROM A SHOW FROM 35 YEARS AGO MORE PROGRESSIVE IN ITS DEPICTION OF WOMEN THAN STAR TREK: PICARD?

In conclusion... tl;dr

The petrol of Nostalgia that this show [Picard] is currently running on is not enough because the very era they're being nostalgic about was more progressive than the current show.

[stormxpadme]

Whumptober 2023 No. 31 - Emptiness/Setbacks/“Take it easy.”

Scogan Bingo challenge | SBC_005 FREE Scogan Bingo challenge | Halloween/Spooky-themed adoptables 9 - Back From The Dead

When Hank called Logan and told him to get his ass to Stark Tower this instant, Logan almost told the blue furball to go fuck himself.

The dust of the Phoenix and Cure crises was only just starting to settle. They'd literally buried their dead – or rather, honored them, as two of these three graves were notoriously empty – just yesterday. Politicians all over the world were circle-jerking to who could come up with the most absurd new restrictions for mutants, punishing everyone for a few insane motherfuckers going off the rails once more, while the Cure kept on tearing their race apart from the inside.

And in all that mess, Ororo and Logan were suddenly entirely alone, supposed to lead a whole damn mutant school with what little they'd managed to read up in Charles' last message to them and his files by now, and with what Ororo had caught in the cause of the years of how to organize this place. When they weren’t busy trying to explain to completely distraught children what the fuck had happened without even understanding it themselves yet, or listening to minors cry themselves to sleep, they took the occasional minute in their respective apartments for a breakdown of their own, not even having begun to process this whole clusterfuck personally. Seriously. The very last thing Logan had any interest in right now was condescending bullshit from that douchebag billionaire Stark and that walking flag parody of a team leader who had both been happy to sit out this whole crisis on their asses although they usually never got tired of interfering with the X-Men's dealings. But in the end, Logan got on his bike and drove downtown anyway, not least because getting out of this house full of depression for an hour might actually save his sanity. And also because no matter how far he was from accepting that still? He'd probably just been promoted to full-time team leader, after already having been Scott's second-in-command since Alkali Lake. At least temporarily. In spite of Charles, of Jean herself, telling it to his face, part of Logan still refused to accept that Scott was gone. It couldn’t be. Not when the two of them had only just begun admitting how they felt about each other before Jean's return, approaching at snail's pace, not even daring to put a label on things yet … But they'd been ready to see where this surprising new path would take them, together, before Jean's return had ripped it all to pieces, literally. Just considering that to be true had Logan's hands clench so hard on the handlebars of his – Scott's old – bike that they deformed under his mutation-enhanced strength and he almost skidded off the damn road thanks to the activated hyperspeed. Not good. Maybe Logan only held on to denial in spite of literally just having buried a non-existent corpse, in spite of all eulogies and Ororo's tear-stained looks from her sunken dark eyes whenever they met his, because he had no idea what would happen if he finally moved on to the stage of acceptance. If the animal inside tore loose from its chains in the grief inevitably waiting at the end of that line, Logan's mind blanking out as rage and hate took over, with not even anyone left to vent it on … Logan had a funny idea, then Ororo would be left on her own as Principal for good, at least until Hank would deign to move his arrogant ass back to Mutant High. As long as Logan could possibly prevent such an unhappy outcome, he had to try, somehow. No matter how loud that exasperated voice in the back of his head was, calling him delusional. He'd done stupider things. "Care to tell me what the fuck is so important that you couldn’t tell me on the phone?" he snapped after parking his bike in Stark's impressive garage full of fancy sports cars and admittedly quite pretty bikes, and the elevator had automatically brought him only one floor up to the Tower's cellar. The sickbay, the laboratories, where Hank had spent the last few days for some reason, instead of being in Washington to try and help calm the general mood down as he'd actually said he would when leaving.

"You'll have to see for yourself. You wouldn’t believe me." Hank nodded him along a long sterile hallway, paws clenching and unclenching restlessly in a kind of agitation Logan had rarely seen in this guy before.

"You know that's what they tell the dumb jocks and chicks in the movies before leading them to the slaughterhouse," Logan grumbled, only even more annoyed instead of curious. If this was about some unnecessary new invention of Stark's again, supposed to make the world for mutants easier and in the end probably turning out to be just as much a tool of war and division as that damn Cure, Logan would break some expensive machine on his way out on pure accident.

Or maybe it was a trap; not unlikely either. Stark and Rogers notoriously weren’t huge fans of mutant-kind; probably even less now that whole Phoenix catastrophe.

But since thanks to his healing factor, Logan usually didn’t have a lot to fear from any threat, he finally shrugged and played along, rummaging in his jacket for a cigar, just to annoy his on-and-off-teammate a little about ash and smoke in sterile environments. Logan entirely forgot to light it though when he entered the examination room he was being shown to and was suddenly standing before a huge glass tank filled with transparent fluid in which a human body was floating.

Scott.

He only vaguely noticed from the brief pain in one wrist and the dull thud of metal that his legs had given out under him. The voices of Hank, of Stark and Rogers in the background, of some blonde in a revealing white corset Logan didn’t know, turned to incomprehensible noise, nothing but his rapid breathing, his racing heartbeat echoing in his mind as he stared at the body of his dead partner.

Scott. And he was not dead.

Only when the first shock subsided and Logan's eyes weren’t that clouded by terror anymore, when he remembered how to blink, his mind caught on to the fact that no, contrary to his first panic, he hadn’t been called here because Scott's corpse had finally been found, on display here for sick entertainment for some reason. Logan's instincts, once more, hadn’t been off at all.

The ghostly pale, almost white body, intubated and hooked to IVs and drains through holes in the tank's ceiling, wasn't moving on its own, lazily drifting in whatever fluid that was, but it was breathing. Listening closer, drowning out the voices in the room consciously now, Logan could even make out a very slow, faint heartbeat.

There were some details he couldn’t wrap his head around right away, and he should probably be asking about those to suspend the last of his disbelief … But for a moment, all he could do was gaze at the man he thought he'd never see again with his eyes burning, his body shaking, and send a silent thanks to whoever out there might be responsible for fate for this most unexpected surprise. When a strong paw grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him rudely, Logan almost ran his claws through Hank's guts on pure instinct, but after another few deep breaths, he could somehow get himself together and push himself back to his feet. It took a lot of self-composure not to immediately hurry over to that tank, up the metal stairs leading to the top, just to try and touch the man inside, just to go sure. First, he needed details. "You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on, McCoy?"

"We've been trying for five minutes," Rogers from his silent corner answered dryly, arms crossed in front of his ridiculously broad chest. With his usual wing mask pulled back from his face, the Avengers' leader looked remarkably pale himself, his square jaw set tight as he regarded that tank with not half as much joy as Logan, which immediately provoked the wish in Logan to get over there and shove boy scout out of the room. That Scott and Steve had never been exactly friends was no secret in the world of the enhanced, and Scott wasn’t in any position to fight a possible attack right now.

Well, that was what Logan was here for. "Not sure I need to hear anything from you, flag boy. Hank?"

"Much as it pains me to say, you should show our hosts a bit of politeness for once," Hank answered with an askew smile. "It was them, and our friend Emma Frost over there, who received the request to attempt this experiment. It was part of Charles' will, drafted right before his death. He knew there was a very real chance he wouldn’t survive when Erik and he set out to stop Phoenix. The letter he wrote for Ororo and you wasn’t the only one. He knew Stark is the only person not stopped by legal or moral boundaries with the technical means to achieve what Charles had in mind, and Rogers as team leader had to sign the whole deal off. Grudgingly, I might add. Steve doesn’t have a high opinion on illegal laboratory experiments from personal experience. But in the end, we all decided together that Phoenix was an extraordinary force no one could have seen coming or had a chance to fight, and that people Jean unwillingly has on her conscience should get a second chance if possible."

"Is there any way I can make you get to the point before sunrise, King Kong?" Logan wearily rubbed his eyes, trying his best not to let all those formalities and details get to him that he couldn't be caring about any less right now. Sure, that something was shady about this whole thing had been clear the moment Stark's security had patted him down for cameras outside. And if what Hank was implying was true – and given what Charles had read in Jean's mind about how Scott had died, Logan had to assume, it was –, they better made sure that the how about this whole deal would indeed stay within these walls. Or Scott would end up locked away as a lab rat in some S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. But as far as Logan was concerned, none of that mattered right fucking now. "You telling me I'm looking at a human clone?"

"The technique's been sound for more than a decade," Stark barged in for the first time, a proud grin plain to see twitching under his stupid goatee. "No one's allowed to use it is all. Those who don't give a shit about that are usually working for illegal organ farms or fertility facilities, or doing human experiments, since breeding a fully grown body within weeks in an egg is useless for anything else when you don't have the mind and soul to go with it. That's what we have her for." A fond glance toward the one Hank had called Emma, full of the affection and interest going with a couple of hormones too many, interrupted Stark's usual litany of self-praise.

"I run a school similar to Charles'." The woman brushed back the hood of a white cape she'd drawn deep into her face, apparently sensing Logan's usual apprehension towards strangers, and regarded him with a not-unfriendly but impatient-feeling look before turning back to the tank. "Charles' and my power sets are also similar. We've been working together for decades. I did many things wrong in my youth which is why I'm keeping out of most crises and huge battle these days, to not get tempted again. But when Charles really needed me, he could always count on me, he knew that. When I received his letter, I rushed to the place he described for his own rebirth immediately, but there's no sign of him, at least so far. At this point, there's no telling if we can bring him back. But Tony's been saving the DNA of many other enhanced in his databank for these kinds of cases for a long time. So once Steve approved, he and I turned to a next case we were pretty sure we could succeed with. And for a while, things went well, as you can see." Somehow, Logan didn’t like that limitation in the woman's last sentence, especially with how dejectedly, almost in resignation she raised her hand to the crystal clear glass of the tank, her eyes closing for a moment as she seemed to reach out with her mind to the person inside, only to shudder back both physically and mentally immediately.

Sensing Logan's exploding impatience, Hank grabbed him by the arm before he could ask again, in a far ruder manner this time, and led him away a few steps while Emma visibly tried to recollect herself. "Bringing a mind back postmortem is not a cake run. Usually, when you try, these souls have already left off to … wherever you believe people go when it's time. That's not for us to know at this time. What we do know is that there is a kind of mental limbo between death and that other sphere of existence that many souls rest in, especially when they were ripped from life early. If a patient's soul is there and for how long, no one can tell before a telepath tries to find them. The good news is, Emma found Scott. He's definitely still somewhere around. Emma thinks, Jean had a hand in that. Or well, the part of her that was still her. Jean knew about Charles' emergency plans for such situations and probably wanted to make sure, Scott at least had a chance to come back."

"Still waiting for the but, King Kong." Logan had to physically stop himself from scratching the massive metal lining the walls, or slap one of the people in here over the back of their heads so that someone would finally talk.

"She can't pull him out." Hank's sunken eyes withdrew even further behind their membranes as he turned to the tank, burying his hands deeply in the pockets of his lab coat. "His soul is resisting. Emma keeps on running into setbacks, every time she thinks she has a grasp on him. He slips away, or it's just an illusion, and then he shuts her right back out. She can't clearly communicate with him, his mind is in disarrange. After what happened, not much of a surprise. Emma can't tell if he's just confused and scared which would be an entirely normal reaction or if he doesn’t want to be brought back. And if the latter is the case, Logan … Then we have no right to force him. Not to mention that we probably can't, anyway, even if Rogers was willing to ignore the condition he's made for the procedure to be done. We need to go sure, and soon. You can only keep a fully bred clone without a mind on life support for so long."

"Then stop wasting time." Finally understanding his role in this whole drama, Logan shuddered, his eyes meeting Emma's sharp blue ones as he tried to prepare in vain for the unloved upcoming intrusion of a telepath. Nothing he would usually agree to voluntarily, especially not after Phoenix … But even if this whole thing would go wrong, even if it should indeed turn out that Scott no longer wanted to face a world going down the drain, in which case even Logan would have to accept that … At least he might get the chance to talk to the man he'd come to love for a last time.

Tony, having listened to their conversation sneakily of course, showed a relieved grin, the guy surely happy that such a dubious and doubtlessly costly project maybe wasn’t doomed to fail after all. "I'll have everything set up."

Logan just nodded vaguely, not half as enthusiastic about what was to come. With his arms wrapped around his own body as he suddenly felt freezing cold from the residing shock, he strode back to the tank, swallowing thickly as he beheld the shape inside, this time with the necessary knowledge and rationality. Which didn’t make the humiliating sight of a naked, helpless shape openly on display for everyone entering to see, easier to bear. Not to mention there were still things that seemed simply off about this reproduced body that Logan couldn’t put on the slightly blurred view of the containment fluid, much as he tried. "He looks different."

"He looks remade," Hank corrected him, apparently knowing exactly what Logan's sharp sense of vision was aimed at. "You do realize Scott's team hadn’t only formed right before you came to join them at Liberty Island, right?"

"Meaning?" Logan's impatience with guessing games was at an all-time low.

Hank pinched the bridge of his flat nose with an exasperated sigh. "For two people so madly head over heels for each other, you two made remarkably little effort, looking into each other's files and past. Scott's had hip replacement on both sides before he was even 20, Logan. Either Jean or I relocated his jaw more often than we cared to count. Hardly any of his teeth were his own on the day he died. He's had two ribs missing. 15 percent of his skin was Shi’ar tissue replacement for third-degree burns. Need me to go on? If you look at him and see a changed physique, it's because you haven’t met him before he was orphaned and Charles turned him into a child soldier. And that’s before we take into account, he probably will no longer need his glasses now. Though I would prefer putting them on for safety reasons anyway if we try this whole thing until we know for sure."

Logan had no words left to say for a moment, not even to repeat that they were of course going through with this. That there was no way he wouldn’t at least try to bring Scott back, seeing as he was the only one left close enough to the guy to have a chance at that … But was that really the truth? With Logan apparently never really having shed his shallow belief from the beginning, that before Liberty Island, Scott had never really been in a true war?

Even afterward, he'd never had the impression that his partner was prone to exaggerated physical damage in the field. Scott had always been remarkably fit for his slightly slim stature, fast, athletic, and an excellent hand-to-hand combatant. At least while Logan had been in the field together with the X-Men, he honestly couldn’t remember the guy ever coming home with as much as a sprained ankle.

"What happened that he suddenly stopped throwing himself off every cliff within reach?"

"You happened." Coming to stand behind him, Hank rested his hand heavily on Logan's shoulder, their eyes meeting in the faint reflection of the water, distracting Logan from the frightening sight of one bony, absurdly smooth thigh right before his eyes. "When you became part of us, you became his shield, Logan. And I promise you, none of us ever took that for granted. Even the ones of us not always residing in Westchester, only joining the team when shit hits the fan … We all have a great deal of love and respect for our young Captain here. Devastation among our kind upon learning of his fate runs deep. But that's not even why I called you. The one thing Rogers and I can agree on, the main reason why Steve said yes in spite of his inhibitions, is that Scott never really had a chance for a real life of his own after Charles took him in. He was raised with nothing but the fight ever since he was twelve. If there's anyone who deserves another shot, it's him. Do your best, please. That's all I'm asking you."

"Mean to, McCoy." Logan gave the guy a short, serene nod before pushing his hand away and straightening his posture, gritting his teeth. No use, drawing this out any longer than necessary. "So, where's that Frost woman?"

*****

"He'll try to push you out, to get rid of you." Emma was still preaching by the time she and Logan lay down on the narrow stretchers installed right next to the top of the tank in a haste, while Stark proceeded to open one of the small treatment holes in the solid metal disk covering the tank, for the last necessary step. "Once all of our minds are connected, you'll see things both from his and your and possibly even from my past that his subconsciousness creates to scare intruders off. It's possible he'll believe it isn’t you. You'll have to find a way to convince him. When you encounter other souls waiting in the limbo, ignore them. You don't want to communicate with the dead, Logan. Believe me, it's not worth it."

"And here I was thinking that was the plan," he commented dryly, raising his hand in tired defense when Emma was about to break in another sermon. "I got the idea, Snowflake. McCoy says, time's short, so let's get a move on it." Glad when the woman finally shut up, Logan allowed Hank, albeit reluctantly, to restrain his ankles and right wrist to the damn stretcher with adamantium cuffs of which Logan decided he didn’t even want to know where Stark had them from. None of them was hot on Logan's instincts taking over his mind at the wrong moment in such a mental exceptional situations, and his claws accidentally going through the wrong person within reach. His left arm was encased in a longer, looser shackle to his left, fastened to the tank's lid … And then there was suddenly the alarmingly cool but hauntingly familiar sensation of a well-known hand in his. In a very true sense of the word, it was like touching an empty hull, entirely unmoving, filled by only the faintest rush of blood beneath the surface … But given that Logan had been certain not too long ago he wouldn’t ever feel that touch anymore, he had a new lump in his throat anyway. He refused to turn his head toward that hole in the tank lid because the sight of that freshly crafted body still creeped him out, focusing on Emma instead whose small, thin shape had relaxed deeply into the stretcher's hard surface, her breathing going deep and evenly as she fell into a kind of deep meditation more by the second.

Just when Logan was about to open his mouth to ask, the woman suddenly grabbed his shackled hand without a warning, and Logan's world drowned in darkness.

******

He woke up in the Mutant High. For a moment, Logan was almost tempted to believe, this whole shit had been an especially detailed dream, even worse than his usual nightmares as it had felt so damn real, including getting someone back he'd thought lost … That he might actually be able to do that if he didn’t fuck up again, he only remembered when he sluggishly sat up from where he was curled in a ball in the corner of the living room, and the disorientated greyness of sleep and dampened sleepy condition of his senses didn’t go away. Not a dream. An illusion. His legs felt wobbly when he stood up, as if the floor beneath him was shaking, and after a first tentative step, he realized it was, the wooden boards not only creaking but dented, like mud, with every cautious step. When Logan looked down, he saw that he was barefoot suddenly, and leaving a trail of bloody footprints on the expensive beige carpet though he couldn’t make out any injury on his body. Not that he was having one right now as he had to remind himself repeatedly. Just as little real as the creepily authentic-feeling environment of a building he knew to the last corner and crevice, looking, sounding even smelling the same … except that it was yawningly empty. Remembering Emma's words and suspecting, he wouldn’t be seeing a welcoming committee anytime soon, Logan turned to the door to the garage after a moment of hesitation.

This was where Scott had fled to when he'd needed an hour for himself. To tinker with one of his rides sponsored by Charles over the course of the years, to free his head with something for his hands to do, to make something broken work again, as he had once told Logan. Every now and then that had helped, forgetting how helpless they all were, in spite of all their powers and efforts, against the dangers that mutant world was facing every day and the ongoing bigotry of far too many normal people.

But when Logan opened said door, it wasn’t to dozens of expensive rides. Instead, he was standing in the middle of a battlefield, gunshots going off all around him, the air thick with smoke, blood, and powder, causing his instincts to spring to life instantly. He threw himself behind the cover of the next best huge rock before he'd even really taken in the situation, the flag and uniforms of a hostile country long wiped off the maps, the corpses of a unit he'd once been part of laying all around him, guts out, explosions in the distance decimating the rest of the men to zero.

Except one.

When Logan retched and turned away from a scene he'd never seen in such detail in his dreams, reminding himself arduously that none of this was real, none of this could hurt him, he realized he wasn’t alone in his hiding spot.

Kneeling before him on the blood-soaked ground was one of his arch enemies although Logan needed to look twice to recognize that much sharper-looking face without hip-length, unkempt hair and filthy fur clothes. Creed's eyes were the same though, filled with perverted lust for killing, torture, and human flesh, his uniform red all over from blood that wasn’t his, his claws deeply in the neck of the guy he'd buried himself in, lost in his perverted urges for fast, sadistic satisfaction. His canines, too, were dripping with blood as he looked up to grin broadly at Logan, winking at him playfully without ever stopping what he was doing. "Gonna join the fun or what, Jimmy? Offensive's a bust anyway. Time to have some fun."

That voice, never exactly pleasant for the ears even in real life, was screeching like nails on a chalkboard, reminding Logan more effectively than any warning earlier that all he encountered in here was part of some mind in shambles, and it probably didn’t matter much if it was his own or the dying, trapped one he'd set out to find. These new splatter images just planted into his memory along with a whole bunch of new intrusive fears and self-loathing, he could think about when he'd finished the damn mission. Before he wordlessly left, he cut off Creed's ugly head with his claws anyway. Just on principle.

The violent act of defiance seemed to attract attention. After Logan's next blink, he was back in the living room, and this time, not alone. Only it wasn’t the lively chatter and laughter of dozens of enhanced fleas around him, brightening even his worst days in a way he'd never expected it, moving into this damn house back then. Perched on the ground, on the sofas, the windowsills, were unmoving, ghostly silhouettes, none of which he knew. Some looked almost like wax figures, their skin shining in the nearly entirely desaturated colors of the surroundings, some showed the often terrible wounds they had died from. None of them were breathing but all of them were alive in this weird, ghostly way of existence that this place of dread only offered.

When Logan made a hesitative step towards the stairs, to continue his search, a little girl with a high forehead, long brunette braids, and eyes somehow looking creepily familiar came to stand in his way, a doll with a broken face in her hand, her eyes empty like from a 70-year-old veteran. "You can't go up there! No one is allowed up there!"

Logan tried to ignore the creepy phenomenon like he'd been advised, going around it only to find the damn thing had moved like ghosts obviously did and was right in his path again, baring worryingly sharp teeth at him. "Yeah, well, I'm not like other people, kiddo." He made another useless attempt of sneaking by the girl, wincing at the sound of his own, also far too gravelly voice, sounding like coming from some scratchy LP played too slow. He was just as little real as everything else in here; he should better not forget that. Which hopefully meant, the same non-existent rules of nature applied to him. Taking a deep breath, bracing himself, Logan sprinted off, running right through the girl. He thought to taste copper in his mouth for a moment, all his insides clenching at the sensation of being penetrated thoroughly by something he couldn’t even identify, his brain flooded with a whole heap of memories that weren’t his own. He had to hold on to the stair railing, panting … When he opened his eyes again, he was certain, that damn thing must be gone now.

Instead, the girl was two steps above him now, grinning at him menacingly. Blood slowly began to drip from her lips, her ears, her eyes, soaking her stained shirt and jeans, but she was still smiling, obviously delighting in Logan's growing shock. Under his disbelieving sight, two long claws of bones on each side started to emerge from her hands as she crouched down in a position before him that he also knew damn well, about to pounce.

Suddenly, Logan had to fear he wasn’t half as immune to such an attack as he'd thought, not with how frozen he suddenly was in place …

"Laura! That's enough. He's a friendly."

In spite of the kid grudgingly disappearing immediately, Logan was still entirely unable to move a single muscle, his blood ice cold in his veins from one second to another. This voice, he would have recognized in a million after just one syllable. "Jean." This was the cruelest illusion of them all, so much worse than any blood and violence that had been haunting him all his life anyway. This was what he'd really dreaded, agreeing to this whole thing, knowing how likely he was, he'd stumble into memories of this kind in Scott's mind and at a loss how to deal with it, just days after Jean's death …

"Logan. Look at me." She was closer now, but still at a respectable distance to his claws, and Logan suddenly realized, her voice wasn’t distorted and screeching.

The scent of her rose perfume hit his nose and promptly brought tears to his eyes. This was the last thing he'd sensed of her as she had died in his arms. When he had killed her.

"You didn’t. You saved me." That pleading gentleness in her warm, deep voice finally enough to get through to him, make him turn around on shaking knees, Jean smiled at him gently, every bit the flawless beauty as which he'd been allowed to behold her just for a few minutes at a stretch upon her last return, whenever that out of control side of her hadn’t prevailed.

She'd still been somewhere in there, under all that madness and lust for destruction; he'd known that the whole time. If only he'd tried just a little harder …

"Logan, you got it all wrong." Even now, in a place that didn’t even really exist, she could still easily read his mind … And all of a sudden, as she stepped closer, every bit as graceful with her floating, fiery hair, her tight green dress, Logan was certain that this was definitely real. Jean nodded softly, a small smile on her beautiful lips. "I'm neither a memory nor an illusion. I'm much like them." She nodded at the ghostly shapes in the distance that were no longer a threat, obviously having a great deal of respect for her for some reason. "I'm not sure for long I'll be here. I still need a while to make peace with all that happened. But I only can do that because you had the strength to end it that day, Logan. I will never forget that." Close enough now for him to feel her warmth, encasing his non-body in this eerie place like a wool blanket, Jean reached up to softly wipe the tears from under his eyes, from his beard, a look of so much honest affection in her dark eyes that it broke his heart all over. "You need to stop blaming yourself. Nothing you could have done, or anyone else, could have changed the outcome of this. Charles didn’t know this but he was wrong about me. I wasn’t schizophrenic, Logan. I was possessed. By a cosmic force that none of you could recognize when you encountered it. One that fortunately died with me before it could really emerge. If it would have, it would have torn the whole universe to pieces. It's only thanks to you that didn’t happen." The grip of her hand on the back of his neck tightening, Jean shyly pulled him in, remembering only too well what had happened the last time they'd been this close.

But that had been another person, nothing of what Jean had really been like in life, and Logan's feelings for Scott weren’t in the way of how much he'd also cared about this woman back then either. The three of them had long stopped trading on such outdated moral boundaries. When their lips met, a bit of color seemed to seep back into the world around him, his thoughts finally no longer that clouded. Suddenly he was a hundred percent sure where he would find the person he was looking for, and he still had to hurry the fuck up. But one thing, he still needed to know. "Jeannie …" Grabbing her thin shoulders as she tried to turn away with a satisfied nod, having fulfilled what she'd come for, he fought the new lump in his throat in vain, trying to put all into words into seconds he'd never been able to tell her when she'd been alive. Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe she knew, now that she seemed to know everything going on in the world of both the dead and the living. And then, even more so, he needed her to tell him something, or he would wonder all his life. "If this works, Jeannie … Can we bring you back, too? You're a telepath, you can find your way back alone …"

"Any body I would slip back into, Dark Phoenix would already be waiting in for me," Jean answered, choked, wiping her eyes in the same deeply rooted sadness and longing that probably kept her here still. "I can't risk all life for a single one, Logan. But you can be sure, I will keep a close eye on all of you, especially on you two." She pointed her chin up towards the first floor with a tender smile. "You'll take care of him for me, right? That's all I ask of you."

"Always, Red. I'll see you. One day." No longer bothering to fight his tears, Logan pulled her hand close for a last fleeting kiss on it before forcing himself to turn away from this hopefully last, the hardest meeting in this damn ghost house.

****

Scott was waiting for him in the same place, the same hunched position that Logan had found him so often in back then before his death. On what had once been Jean's and his bed, staring dully to the ground, haggard and pale, entirely absent from the world, long before he'd been forced to leave it. And just one time too many, Logan hadn’t tried hard enough to break this dangerous cycle of depression and grief back then, failing to stop his lover from basically throwing himself at Dark Phoenix' feet.

Not this time. "Hey, Slim." Never hesitating for a second, he knelt down on the floor in front Scott, closing his hands around that stubbly, hollowed face, lifting it until he could be sure Scott was at least vaguely aware of him. "Time to go home."

"Been trying." Scott's choked, far too quiet voice didn’t sound like he was seriously aware of a living presence in this shambled world of his, more like he was talking to himself. Or to an image of someone he'd love to have by his side right now, the latter sparking at least the smallest bit of hope in Logan's soul that he wasn’t being too late yet.

"They won't let me. I got nothing left with the living. So why won't they let me find the light, Logan? Every time I see it, it's gone before I can get there."

"That's because that's not where your home is. Not yet." Logan gently brushed the hair from Scott's face, to take a look at his glasses, not surprised that he failed to see any smallest flash of red behind them. "Let me take these off for you, bub."

A surprising, almost violent jerk of energy went through Scott's lethetic body, his most deeply rooted fears still just as real as in his first life. "Don't!"

"It's fine, Slim. Look at me. It's alright. Your blasts are gone. You can control them now." Logan gently held Scott's wrists tight, glad that his lover didn’t pull away, not just vanishing under his grip like ghosts usually did. This was just as real as his last talk a minute ago. And he'd be damned if he'd leave this conversation partner behind, too.

Something clenched painfully in his heart when Scott let out a cynical, deeply hurt laugh. "The last time someone I loved told me that, I was ripped to particles a minute later."

"That wasn’t Jean. It was something that had taken hold of her. You know Jean would never have done that to you, Slim. She loved you more than anything." Logan took a choked breath, bracing himself against possible disbelief, hostility even, at the sound of something he'd never been able to bring himself to say before, a neglect he might be bitterly regretting in a second. "Just like I do."

"You …?" Scott stared at him in visible shock but at least looking more there than he'd been in all these weeks before leaving for Alkali Lake back then, in spite of all of Logan's efforts to reach out to him. This time, when Logan carefully pulled the glasses away from Scott's face, he didn’t startle back. A beautiful sky-blue was staring back at Logan, wide with grief and confusion and pain … and suddenly, the longer they were fixed at him, with just a hint of understanding and hope. "You … Are you real? Are you here? For me?"

"What do you think? That I'd battle demons and play haunted house because I'm bored, instead of watching some game over a six-pack on a Friday night?" Logan threw Scott a crooked smile but quickly turned serious again, resting his hand on his lover's cheek again with tender circling fingertips on his temple which had helped Scott's frequent headaches back then so often, relieved to see Scott's eyelids flutter in beginning relaxation as if not a day had passed since then … And just like that, Logan knew what to do. "We had our first date in the Danger Room, a month after Alkali Lake. You kept on running into my claws because you were all over the place, and I had to stitch you up. We had a beer in the pool of your blood, we toasted to Jeannie, and then you cried on my uniform for half an hour. You deleted the record afterward, by the way, in case your obsessive brain is trying to convince you I'm someone else right now."

Scott shook himself a little, starting to look clearer by the second, his posture straightening, yet there was a distraught frown on his face as he looked around the room, his breathing promptly going too fast and uneven. "I … I don't … What …? Logan, what are you doing here in the Further? This is no place for you, you need to go …"

"Not without you, bub." Two knuckles firmly on his chin, Logan turned Scott's head back to him, seeking his gaze once more and never letting go of it. "I promised you, remember? When we kissed for the first time, on loungers under that swanky Ford Probe of yours. Starter was a bust. You needed something to fix after two of the teenagers were almost shot to death by bigots in the city. We were both covered in motor oil and you were crying again. I told you that day, you're no longer alone in all this shit and that I'm not going anywhere. I'm holding to that, Scott." Logan's thumb softly grazed Scott's far too-dry lower lip, brushing away the salt from his cheeks just like he had back then. "Phoenix is defeated, and most of us are still up and fighting. You have a lot left to live for, and someone who doesn’t want to live without you. I know how much you're hurting and I will do all I can to help you with that. But you have to let me. You have to trust me one more time. Think you can do that?"

Finally, Scott nuzzled firmly into that touch on his face, the last of his tears starting to dry on his skin. For the first time in what felt like months, Logan saw the shadow of a smile curl on his pretty lips. "I never stopped trusting you, Logan."

Relief flooding his soul, Logan reached out and pulled his lover in his arms, clumsily, with a jerk, pulling him right on top of him just to wrap his arms around him tightly, Scott's surprised, breathless chuckle in his ear. His eyes falling close, he suddenly found with a hint of a bad conscience that he had no real idea how they should get out of here, now that he'd found his target. Frost had probably told him but with his attention span not exactly being the greatest earlier … Before he could follow that trail of thought any further, his mind short-circuited a second time within an hour.

******

"Take it easy, Summers. Easy! Calm, deep breaths. I know that hurts like a bitch. Give your muscles a minute, they're new to this whole deal. That's it, just keep breathing. We got you …"

Logan awoke with what felt like probably the first damn hangover of his life, all his muscles stiff from a thrashing against his restraints that he couldn’t remember, the bitter taste of bile in his mouth, and the mother of all headaches behind his eyes. But he also awoke to the sight of Hank and Steve pulling out a certain reborn body from that damn medical tank, still snow-white and far too thin and covered in a sickening layer of drugs … But, far more importantly, underneath, carrying the grounded, familiar scent Logan had once fallen in love with, and moving on its own. "Frost?" He barely dared to ask, absolutely convinced for a moment after all these days of grief and the losses that the X-Men had suffered in the last crisis, that there was no way this could have really worked out, that it was probably just muscle spasms he was seeing, and that Stark would just shoot that zombified body right back into pieces in a second before it could harm anyone …

A small female hand, trembling from the effort of the job and weak still, came to rest on the wrist it had just freed from the last hackle, giving his hand a long, amicable squeeze. "Great job, Logan."

Only at the mention of his name, this instinctive, panicked struggling of the cloned body suddenly stopped, Scott's bare shape, still dripping sterile fluid, sinking onto a third stretcher next to them without resistance now, discreetly covered at last by a blanket Hank had brought, the patient's raspy breathing gradually slowing down. "Logan?"

"'m here." Weakly scooting over to the other stretcher that Emma had been nice enough to leave, feeling battered both in body and mind but happier than on any damn day since Alkali Lake, Logan bent over his lover, with his face firmly buried against Scott's neck, a strangled sob in his throat when he could feel that pulse against his cheek there finally going steady and strong.

A little too fast, even, when Scott tried to wrap his arm around him in return with muscles that would only have to learn again how to move right. At least turning his head to press his lips to Logan's ear, he managed, murmuring a hoarse, whispered thanks that wouldn’t have been necessary. "You came for me."

"Always, Slim. Told ya. To hell and back." Logan straightened up again to capture his lover's lips in a tender, long kiss before resting his head on that bony chest for long, precious minutes of an intimacy he'd thought never be allowed to feel again. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so happy before.

*******************************************************************************

@whumptober | @whumptober-archive

@scoganbingo

[mikka-minns]

I think the Chinese myths forbade the union of Gods and Humans make sense since they are entirely of different worlds China also used to have strict ideals and philosophies way back in Ancient times so I think it also influences their mythology, I mean I also heard that in their Myths, Gods have an obsessively strict Divine Hierarchy too, which tied back to their heavy hierarchy in real ancient periods

But it wouldn't make sense here as Vietnamese people came from the union of 2 Gods, hence we have a bit of divinity in each of us despite how everyone is fully human, even though the Age of the Gods' Children is already gone and since the 100 Children of the 2 Creation Gods, who are the Sea Dragon God and Mountain Fairy, were said to have married humans to widen the populace and filled up the lands with people hence the Vietnamese people were born, ig the God blood became dormant through thousands of years mixing with mortal blood

Though this can be an interesting concept as Vietnamese people are also called The Children of the Dragon and The Fairy to speak of their origin as Children of Gods. I think it would be fun to have Characters that are born with the God Blood active inside them hence they're the "Children of the Dragon and the Fairy", they're special as the divinity is active in them whereas everyone else is human since they're empty of such divinity

Sidenote: This might sound rude, but I feel that Erlang Shen might be jealous he was born in the wrong country since in the New Gods movie and I'm assuming the myths too, his family line has a sort of a "Human-God forbidden love" thing going on and in the movie, both his Mother and Sister were executed for it cuz they both have children with human men. I feel like he might feel unfair that in Vietnam, they quite made an entire country because of the unions of Gods' Children and Humans and a Major Mountain God here has a human princess wife for godsake (FYI she has her own mountain peak named after her and a temple right in the Mountain Range which her husband resides at, how romantic). Like bruh what's heavily forbidden in your own kind/culture/country is actually the opposite in another country and everyone there is totally fine with that forbidden thing that caused tragedies to your parents and sibling cuz that's what created them and another one from your kind but in a different land is doing well while committing that forbidden thing, free of punishment, it's quite unfair for Erlang if you ask me, that's why I'm quite suprised knowing that God-Human unions are forbidden in Chinese myths, technically speaking, I am literally a descendant of Gods and no heaven official has a problem with me, well I mean then they would have a problem with a country's population, wouldn't they? Lol Erlang Shen should move here, we're very welcoming here!

The gods in myths defenetly reflect the people that write them(i think that something we can all agree on).

I genuenly need a series of different mythological gods just existing at the same time and causing drama when they find out about each other

Erlang would speed to Vietnam so fast

And Wukong would hide, seeing as at least two pantheons normalize having intercourse with animals

[yhwhrulz]

Morning and Evening with A.W. Tozer Devotional: August 13th

Tozer in the Morning GIVE GOD THE CONTROL

I know that I am being repetitious - but this needs to be said again and again: our Lord will not save those whom He cannot command! The lifetime God has given us down here is a lifetime of decisions. Each person makes his own decisions as to the eternal world he is going to inhabit. We must decide to take Jesus for what He is - the anointed Savior and Lord who is King of kings and Lord of all lords! He would not be who He is if He saved us and called us without the understanding that He can also guide us and control our lives. The root of sin is rebellion against God, and hell is the Alcatraz for the unconstituted rebels who refuse to surrender to the will of God. There are many arguments about the reality of hell. A man might endure fire and brimstone and worm - but the essence of hell and judgment for a moral creature is to know and be conscious that he is where he is because he is a rebel! Hell will be the eternal domain of all the disobedient rebels who have said, "I owe God nothing!"

Tozer in the Evening Man - The Dwelling Place of God - The Once-born and the Twice-born

CLASSIFICATION IS ONE OF THE MOST DIFFICULT of all tasks. Even in the realm of religion there are enough lights and shades to make it injudicious to draw too fine a line between men and men. If the religious world were composed of squares of solid black and solid white classification would be easy; but unfortunately it is not.

It is a grave error for us evangelicals to assume that the children of God are all in our communion and that all who are not associated with us are ipso facto enemies of the Lord. The Pharisees made that mistake and crucified Christ as a consequence.

With all this in mind, and leaning over backwards to be fair and charitable, there is yet one distinction which we dare make, which indeed we must make if we are to think the thoughts of God after Him and bring our beliefs into harmony with the Holy Scriptures. That distinction is the one which exists between two classes of human beings, the once-born and the twice-born.

That such a distinction does in fact exist was taught by our Lord with great plainness of speech, in contexts which preclude the possibility that He was merely speaking figuratively. "Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God," He said, and the whole chapter where these words are found confirms that He was speaking precisely, setting forth meanings as blunt and downright as it is possible for language to convey.

"Ye must be born again," said Christ. "That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit." This clear line of demarcation runs through the entire New Testament, quite literally dividing one human being from another and making a distinction as sharp as that which exists between different genera of the animal kingdom.

Just who belongs to one class and who to the other it is not always possible to judge, though the two kinds of life ordinarily separate from each other. Those who are twice-born crystallize around the Person of Christ and cluster together in companies, while the once-born are held together only by the ties of nature, aided by the ties of race or by common political and social interests.

Our Lord warned His disciples that they would be persecuted. "In the world ye shall have tribulation," He said, and "Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake."

These are only two of many passages of the New Testament warning of persecution or recording the fact of harassment and attack suffered by the followers of the Lord. This same idea runs through the entire Bible from the once-born Cain who slew the twice-born Abel to the Book of the Revelation where the end of human history comes in a burst of blood and fire.

That hostility exists between the once-born and the twice-born is known to every student of the Bible; the reason for it was stated by Christ when He said, "If ye were of the world, the world would love his own: but because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you." The rule was laid down by the apostle Paul when he wrote, "But as then he that was born after the flesh persecuted him that was born after the Spirit, even so it is now."

Difference of moral standards between the onceborn and the twice-born, and their opposite ways of life, may be contributing causes of this hostility; but the real cause lies deeper. There are two spirits abroad in the earth: the spirit that works in the children of disobedience and the Spirit of God. These two can never be reconciled in time or in eternity. The spirit that dwells in the once-born is forever opposed to the Spirit that inhabits the heart of the twice-born. This hostility began somewhere in the remote past before the creation of man and continues to this day. The modern effort to bring peace between these two spirits is not only futile but contrary to the moral laws of the universe.

To teach that the spirit of the once-born is at enmity with the Spirit of the twice-born is to bring down upon one's head every kind of violent abuse. No language is too bitter to hurl against the conceited bigot who would dare to draw such a line of distinction between men. Such malignant ideas are at odds with the brotherhood of man, says the once-born, and are held only by the apostles of disunity and hate. This mighty rage against the twice-born only serves to confirm the truth they teach. But this no one seems to notice.

What we need to restore power to the Christian testimony is not soft talk about brotherhood but an honest recognition that two human races occupy the earth simultaneously: a fallen race that sprang from the loins of Adam and a regenerate race that is born of the Spirit through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus.

To accept this truth requires a tough-mindedness and a spiritual maturity that modern Christians simply do not possess. To face up to it hardly contributes to that "peace of mind" after which our religious weaklings bleat so plaintively.

For myself, I long ago decided that I would rather know the truth than be happy in ignorance. If I cannot have both truth and happiness, give me truth. We'll have a long time to be happy in heaven.

Copyright Statement This material is considered in the public domain.

[juszar2]

The sick obsessed prior employment partner I'd known what it was, and so when we were set to host lunch with an out of state potential business partner to bring services to the area, I was focused and had to encounter the sick obsessed up in arms telling me that Child Protective Services had come in and removed all of the children from the home of an immediate family member. She went on trying to tell me who she thought was responsible for reporting conditions. I did not want to know and she was again crossing lines that I'd been forever consistently trying to keep the boundaries in tact. All that I said was that I did not believe that the person would have done that. I changed the subject and tried to solidify the business deal. All that I could think of is how this obsessed could not see the gross that it had been likely over entire life and correlate the CPS situation. So this person attacked me for a good span of time obsessing and I had no idea... To include it saying that the disrespect and gross is also what it has "taught" its own. All of that.... And it cannot see how its deeds and the real self is nothing that could approach integrity. If a woman removes herself from your sick obsessed fixated "setup" con artist, demonic lowly behavior and spirit... You then attack her on a forum and obsess and discuss her. It is the most severe effort to reduce someone that I've ever heard of. Someone you did not even have a conflict with... So what would one say that this Sicko's problem is. Literal if she gets the hell away from, I'm stalking her. This and more is what this person is. Had tried to sabotage my exit, and then when God moved around it to let me out, opportunity accepted, it had been laying a scheme all the while grinning in my face and praising asking that I "believe in the mission" it's mission was to keep an income and favor in its presence.... By whatever means. Who in life has ever encountered this?

I'd have to live my entire life twice and get started now to compare to the lowliness and deeds this -it- has been. It makes no sense that you embark on such...but it could not imagine that I'd remove myself quite quietly and never see it again. That was apparently disallowed. Or else it said it would want to harm me. I found that so gross and still do today. I could vomit when I talk about, show it to other professionals, or think of it. Disgusting. I really could not believe the stalker that I inspire in some freaks. To be a person who is most often very quiet, but intelligent and I observe but... Silently. I thought to myself this has to be the worst case of obsession I've experienced yet. I really like private, dignified life so I knew that I needed to remove myself.

It found liabilities and like Satan does... Con's and pulls strings, sows division and brings conflict and turmoil. God forbid that I could have wiped any trace of the rot from my life. It is shocking. The con does not work on me. And so I will assist you but when the snake shows it's hissing at my life, I go ahead and remove myself from the snake. So odd that it had slithered with those unwise, especially at this age. But they're good at finding the weak. That one is older than me having had serious situations and is interested in having reproduced its sickness. And documented so. This is why there exists what does. It is ignorance, lowly, no dignity, no class, just personified and unbelievable. I don't try and understand it, I just don't want to live near it, know it, or have it obsessing over me. And again.... I was not even aware that this pining and obsession was following me. Had joined up with the homosexual. All I knew was that there was a lot of the element coming in and staff would mention the whole women living as men situation and more. But I would tell them I hadn't noticed and didnt even know this was such a prevalent thing. I lived a sheltered but respectful life. So everyone could do what they felt suitable for them. It just feels so gross every aspect of these people and knowing this possible toilet is like a woman and let folks see him used. Quite shocking. But there is even more than that with the prior employment partner sicko. The fencing, intercepting food funds in the US mail as it was processed, and even more is the rot that I lowered myself to assist and it did what it is... And showed folks publicly. And is certainly still stalking. Shocking. This whole situation is gross and if I'd not met a weak toilet paper outlined here on this blog, these low life's and adolescent homosexual stalker would be nowhere near my life. But it appears that there is a bitch*able slime like woman that I thought was a man who has caused this. It is shocking. This person claims conservatism and lies all day I know now. Quite shocking how far people can fall and what they would have attached to their name and life legacy. Otherwise they'd have to stalk me from outside of my life and discuss amongst themselves their feelings about a woman who wants absolutely nothing to do with them. Maybe still be so sever that they'd have still taken to a forum... But outside my life. Strange to live in the world knowing you are not a public figure... But you're stalked and you have met the lowest possible and he had me connect my life to him in an unchangeable way.

[walks-the-ages]

Seriously. Imagine making a matriarchal fantasy society that opresses and threatens men exactly like women are oppressed in medieval societies:

* fainting damsels who can't be expected to fend for themselves. Fighting or even hunting their own food is beyond their capabilities or not allowed because its Below Their Station (aka, not taught basic life skills to survive on their own, and if they do express interest, are pressured into stopping or looked down on.)

* traded around kingdoms like pieces of meat as political tools and apology gifts , including to Queens 4x-6x their age.

* can't be in the same room as unattatched Queens without being under threat of being sexually assaulted

* constantly under threat of being kidnapped and raped,

* in the above situation, the rapist owns their victim forever if the man's family comes to rescue him, but he's already been forced to father children before they get there.

None of these things are truly confronted or questioned by the characters or the narrative -- Instead of breaking the mould and bringing equality and social reform to Raksuran society, or at least starting a social movement..... Moon just tries desperately to Fit In and be a Good Consort.

Aka he has to learn how to fit his biologically -assigned role of "pretty baby making machine" ,

and then when he does have kids, we don't even get to see them or see them grow up or have them really exist, despite book one establishing how much he wants to have kids and raise children, to the point he was more than happy to adopt so he could have children with his partner at the time, because they were too genetically different to have biological children!

Not to mention, there's an entire biological caste system where half the population are born as workers who live literally just to work and clean and feed the upper class, who will never have the opportunity to leave home and strike out on their own , the only time they'll meet new people is when other kingdoms have sent political parties, and the only way you can ever travel is if the entire Kingdom/faction within the kingdom is being uprooted to move house, or if you're one of the extremely rare lucky few who had an Upperclass Male in your family tree, and you inherent special magical powers from that.

Imaging crafting an entire fantasy society based around oppressive sexist roles and a biologically-enforced caste systems where one group of a people does all the work and and not actually saying anything about how societies where groups of people are oppressed because of their sex or social status is actually a bad thing!

Raksura are fun because shape shifting dragon people are always fun (I have been reading fics with this premise since literally middle school lol) -- Raksura are NOT fun, because the unexamined and unquestioned biological essentialism throughout the entire series.

As a nonbinary aroace , this has been my issue with so many of the aforementioned 'shapeshifting dragon people' fics since middle school; but the other works, 'at least', were operating on the usual, familiar misogyny; to have Books of the Raksura flip that to a misandrist society, but then not even use that as a tool to show why any kind of oppression based on gender is bad, just really takes the cake of exasperation.

I need more people who love dragons and non human characters who are not afraid of media analysis and critical thinking skills to read The Books of the Raksura so I have more people to look at the accidental worldbuilding with and actually talk about the flaws in the books without flying off the handle and saying "oh em geeeeeee if you hate it so much why are you in the fandom?"

excuse me, I fucking love these books. I love the characters and the world. That's why I enjoy talking about it's flaws and how they could be fixed, or just fun ideas for taking the worldbuilding and following it to its logical conclusions

[anyasmcm]

October 2nd-10th research

I was really bored on Friday and decided to do an online puzzle. As I was completing the puzzle, I was reminded of my childhood visits to Canada to visit my grandmother. She suffered from dementia, and my childhood was spent watching her progressively decline: it started with forgetting to use soap when washing dishes or not putting things in the fridge, to her not knowing who her own children were and only remembering her siblings. My mom, brother, and I would do puzzles with her, and it was the only activity my brother and I could sit down and do with her where she was entirely in the moment. I then began thinking about puzzles as literal connections (connecting one piece to another) but also as conversational connections. My grandma's next door neighbor, Mr. Cheeseman (at least that is what my brother and I called him) would offer us puzzles to do with our grandma, as he had an extensive collection. I really enjoy conversational aids such as movies, games, and activities because they allow people to connect on a surface level by having the same interactions/experiences. This allows for conversation to flow easier, if you hit an awkward moment, you still have something to do with the other person that doesn't make the situation awkward. I then began thinking about how this could relate to my Capstone. At my Capstone advisor meeting, Jeff told me that I should try and do more performance pieces, since I expressed interest in pieces such as Marina Abramovic's "The Artist is Present". I would like to do a performative piece where I simply do puzzles with other people and allow the conversation to flow.

On Saturday, I watched the film "The House Bunny". This 2008 rom-com is the male gaze manifested into a film, but the comedy is stupid but also very perceptive. The main character, Shelley, views women as commodities simply because she was an orphan as a child and the only love she has received was from Hue Hefner after he welcomed her into his Playboy mansion. Her character, despite appearing flat, is incredibly dynamic. What does a woman become if she exists in a hyper sexualized world? How can women use sexuality to their advantage? Can women be sexually attractive to men while being intelligent? What is sexual empowerment? I have been thinking a lot about the role of women in society also because I read "The Great Gatsby" and "The Sun Also Rises" for my American Literature class. I also watched "A Clockwork Orange" for my Director as Auteur class. All of these works display women as commodities and sexual objects, but the most liberating work out of the 4 of them is the one that blatantly (no literally) has a woman call another woman a commodity to her face. I'm not sure how this relates to my current line of thinking, but in a lot of these works, backstory is essential to understanding women. In "A Clockwork Orange", women have little to no backstory. The only (not even backstory) depth we receive is through a mourning husband's words about how his wife killed herself after she was raped by the main character. Women are viewed as objects until there is a backstory that humanizes them. In "The House Bunny", it is the backstory I mentioned above. In "The Great Gatsby", it is Daisy's unhappy marriage to Tom that gives her just a little bit more depth, but she is still a relatively flat character (except to Gatsby). In "The Sun Also Rises", Brett's inability to stick with one man (despite being married) is seen as (potentially) excusable because her husband would force her, every night, to sleep on the floor with him by POINTING A LOADED GUN AT HER. It is almost as if trauma plays a crucial part in humanizing women, specifically in fiction. This extends outside of the world of fiction, but women are CONSTANTLY seen as a commodity UNTIL there is something that humanizes them. Questions like "how many people have you slept with?" Or "are you a virgin?" Require straight answers that commodify women. However, answering those questions by providing backstory; "I have slept with 20 men because I became a sex worker to make a living" or "I am a virgin because I am catholic and I believe in saving myself for marriage", women become humanized but ALSO make themselves vulnerable to whoever is asking the question. I could talk on and on about this, but all of this makes me wonder what place women have in the world. If we ignore questions about our sexuality, the asker could get butthurt and think we are prudes, without any realization that they are completely out of line asking questions like that. If we answer questions, we risk becoming a commodity and having a value attached to our heads. If we try to explain ourselves, we are humanized and vulnerable, which can be a dangerous situation given who you are talking to.

I created a sketch as a reaction to a lot of my thoughts after reading the various books and watching "The House Bunny".

Can you prevent sexualization and what does that look like? In Islam, Muslim women will cover their hair or face with a Hijab, Niqab, or Burqa to follow religious principles. Face coverings like masks were also used during COVID to prevent the spread of the disease. Helmets are worn for protection but they too also conceal parts of the face from other's view. Even in Mountain in the Sea, abglanz, conceal the wearer's face and also alters their voice to ensure that things like interrogations are completely expressionless. All of this has lead me to think about: how does concealing ones presence prevent sexualization? Does it?

[sneezemonster15]

I am new to Naruto fandom. Even newer to SNS fandom. I observed the shipping wars, and frankly, participated in it a couple of times. Just to see what it's all about. And I have come to one conclusion.

It's bonkers how far one will go to convince oneself about one's shipping whether it makes sense or not. At the end of the day, it becomes not really about the content itself, but one's comprehension and understanding of content. Which helps me understand why SS, NH, or NS stans exist. Their projection (which it certainly is) almost seems delusional and definitely inconsistent with the content itself.

When I first started watching Naruto, I wasn't aware of Naruto fandom. I am a cinephile and I am used to analysing content involuntarily while I am watching it. I wasn't expecting much from Naruto, I definitely underestimated it and wasn't expecting any emotional impact given it was shonen and I am very hard to please (yes, I am a film elitist). But as I kept watching it, I had to grudgingly change my opinion. By the time I reached Shippuden, I could tell that I was almost fevered with excitement and looking forward to more emotional impact.

I didn't watch it with any romantic lens, I was mostly interested in the fighting sequences initially. Hell, that's all I was expecting from a shonen show about ninjas. But at the end of vote 1, I was like, hmmm. What?? This was so emotionally wracking. Are they really just rivals, or friends? Now, I am a fully fledged cinephile and have watched a lot (a. Lot.) of LGBTQ films, given my interest in shows about emotional and sexual repression. And throughout my first watch of the first part, I kept picking up on the subtle sns moments without actively thinking about them. I was really into the story and wanted to see what will happen next. But at the end of vote 1, I had to stop and think, wait what, are they in love with each other? They are definitely not just friends. Or rivals. The language of their interaction in vote 1 is so fraught with underlying currents of repressed emotions that it just made the cinephile in me ask, what am I watching exactly? Like isn't it shonen (I am also relatively new to anime/manga) where gay relationships are a strict nono? Like why does it have all the tropes of repressed homosexuality in men, just like all the films I had seen. The way Naruto and Sasuke constantly gravitate to each other, their interactions at times feel like a borderline attempt at just staying close to each other, their violent, strong feelings and devotion for each other (land of waves arc) and then denial of those feelings (after the land of waves arc), their contant physical fights for no apparent reason, Sasuke goading Naruto for no apparent reason especially when Sasuke is not the type to talk without reason which had been made abundantly clear. Sometimes, it literally felt like he was flirting with Naruto (during the chuunin exams) while rejecting Sakura. Sasuke constantly appears to be caring and attentive towards Naruto while treating Sakura like trash. This was even acknowledged by Naruto who asks Sasuke to be nicer to Sakura. But Sasuke doesn't even think about it. He instead flirts (?) with Naruto. It made me think, why did the writer choose to do that? Why make it clear that in hierarchy, Sasuke keeps Naruto much higher than Sakura, so early in the show (when there hasn't been so much development either, we were mostly shown how they keep fighting and arguing with each other)? If they are supposed to just be comrades or friends, why pinpoint this? Why use this trope at all if it's about friendship, especially in a show that can't include a gay relationship.

And this kept happening consistently. The writer made the interaction between Sasuke and Naruto to be major turning points in the plot. Vote 1 fight made it clear to me that there was something more going on, but I didn't want to be presumptuous, so I kept it on the side and kept watching.

After watching Shippuden, I was convinced that none of it, was accidental. The writer painstakingly wrote a gay love story and was even obvious about it in a very clever way. Like he fucking got away with writing a gay love story in shonen. I know Naruto is basically a kids' show meant for entertainment purposes, but it touched so many important, dark and adult themes. I knew that it would be difficult for the writer to actually give a proper conclusion to these themes because they really aren't that black and white or even appropriate for children. So I wasn't surprised that he couldn't actually show peace being achieved after the war arc or slavery abolished in Hyuuga clan.

But one thing I was sure of. He wanted to show a gay love story, maybe out of a twisted sense of humor, I don't know. But that's what he did. He could not have made it clearer. He flagrantly used all the related tropes, visuals, sound, dialogues, hell the story. The fucking story...

He was so shrewd about it too. He made it so that people can take away whatever they wanted to take away from it as long as there was some plausible deniability about things that weren't made clear in the show itself. That fucking minx! But he knew that anyone who watches shit carefully, will be able to see what he actually did. He knew that at least some of us will be able to connect the dots. He went out of his way to make sure we connect the dots. There is no other way to explain why Sasuke repeatedly kept asking Naruto why he cared for him so much. There's no other way to explain why he concluded everything with the dialogue where Naruto explains that he hurts when Sasuke does. There's no other way to explain why that affected Sasuke to such an extent. Kishimoto went out of his way, like seriously, to tell the audience that they are Not just 'friends'. He basically used this friend thing with so much saturation and intent in such a twisted way that he made it into something else entirely. In that sense, the concept of 'friend' changed its meaning. Like you can try, but you can't change my mind about it.

Whether I approve it or not, but my takeaway from content depends mostly on the content itself. I do believe that more often than not, the simplest explanation is the right one. And this applies to the phenomenon of Naruto as well. Of course, as a viewer, I can't ignore that my suspension of belief relies on my own understanding of the external world and how I perceive visual language. But that is something that happens anyway, in tandem with consuming the content, while I was pretty much consistently objective about it.

I believe I have a pretty good understanding of how cinematic language works, and I know every creative or narrative choice has a reason and meaning behind it. Absolutely None of it is random. Cinematic language may not be universal in terms of styles, but all the styles definitely have a common ground. And any creator worth his salt knows it, he knows how his content will be perceived and what it is exactly that he wants to show or say. Do not delude yourself that it was accidental or on a whim.

I know for a fact that Kishomoto wanted to show a gay love story. I know for a fact that he wanted to show that Sasuke has feelings for Naruto and he knows it. He also wanted to show that Sasuke not only had feelings for Naruto but also knew that he couldn't show them openly. He wanted to show that Naruto has feelings for Sasuke as well but is confused and naive, like he is about so many other things. He wanted to show us that Sasuke is not into Sakura, that he doesn't even respect her. Any enthusiast of visual/cinematic language and narrative can tell all the above things without going into headcanon or deluded explanations (like SS, NH stans), with just on the basis of content they consumed.

At the end of the day, I don't ship SNS because it's in my head. I was forced to see and believe SNS by the creator. Not forced literally but forced to notice and acknowledge the emphasis and meaning of the twisted/manipulative ways of the creator.

Kishimoto, hats off to you, you sly bastard. You succeeded in trolling people endlessly, you had a lot of fun pitting people against each other, didn't you? Hahahahaha. Well, I call your bluff/or non bluff in this case since you obviously knew what you were doing.

[elamarth-calmagol]

What actually is LACE? (an informal essay)

What’s LACE?

Laws and Customs among the Eldar, or LACE, is the most popular section of the History of Middle Earth books.  It's available online as a PDF here: http://faculty.smu.edu/bwheeler/tolkien/online_reader/T-LawsandCustoms.pdf .  There’s a lot of LACE analysis in the fandom, Silmarillion smut fics are usually labeled “LACE compliant” or “not LACE compliant”, and I’ve been seeing the document itself show up in actual fics, meaning that the characters themselves are discussing it.

LACE is an unfinished, non-canonical essay split into several parts.  It covers the sexuality of elves, which is mostly what people talk about.  It also covers elvish naming (which I want to make a whole different post about), the speed at which elves grow up, changes that happen throughout their lives, their death and rebirth, and finally the legal and moral issues of Finwe remarrying after Miriel’s death.  The discussion about rebirth conflicts with Tolkien’s later writings about Glorfindel’s re-embodiment, but to the best of my knowledge, LACE is the best or only source for most of the topics it covers.

However, LACE is not canon since it doesn’t show up in the Silmarillion.  Counting all of the History of Middle Earth as canon is literally impossible, considering Tolkien contradicts himself all over the place.  It is only useful because it has so much information that is never discussed in the actual canon.  Many people consider it canon out of convenience.

Another important thing to remember is that, other than presumably the discussion of the growth of elvish children, the information is only supposed to apply to the Eldar (meaning the Vanyar, Noldor, Teleri, and Sindar) and not the dark-elves such as the Silvan elves and Avari.

The rest is behind the cut to avoid clogging your feeds.

Problems with LACE interpretations

But because it’s hidden in the History of Middle Earth (volume 10, Morgoth’s Ring), barely anyone actually gets the opportunity to read it.  I don’t think most people are aware that you can get it online, so it doesn't get read much.

I feel like this leads to a handful of people saying something about LACE and everyone else going along with it.  I definitely did this.  I was amazed by all the things that were in the actual essay that nobody had ever told me about, or had told me incorrectly.  For example, most people seem to believe that elves become married at the completion of sexual intercourse (whatever that means to the fic author).  In fact, LACE explicitly says that elves must take an oath using the name of Eru in order to be legally married.  Specifically: 

It was the act of bodily union that achieved marriage, and after which the indissoluble bond was complete… [I]t was at all times lawful for any of the Eldar, being both unwed, to marry thus of free consent one to another without ceremony or witness (save blessings exchanged and the naming of the Name); and the union so joined was alike indissoluble.

I’ve seen a marriage oath being included in a few stories recently, but most writers leave out the oath entirely and just have sex be automatically equivalent to marriage.  What would happen if elves had sex without swearing an oath?  I don’t know, but I’d love to see it explored.

Then there’s a footnote that might explicitly deny the existence of transgender elves... or not, but I’ve literally only seen it mentioned once or twice.  Overall, I feel like all of LACE is filtered through the handful of people who read it, and we’re missing out on a lot of metanalysis and interpretations that we could have because most fans never see the actual document.

Who wrote LACE?

I mean within the mythology of Middle Earth, of course.  Since LACE appears in the History of Middle Earth and not the Silmarillion, we can be pretty sure that J.R.R. Tolkien himself wrote it and it wasn’t added to by Christopher Tolkien.  But that’s not the question here.  Remember that Tolkien’s frame narrative for all of his Middle Earth work is that he is a scholar of ancient times and is translating documents from Westron and Sindarin for modern audiences to read and understand.  The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings come from the Red Book of Westmarch, and I believe The Silmarillion is meant to be Tolkien’s own writings based on his research (though it might also be an adaption of Bilbo’s “Translations from the Elvish”, but I haven't looked into that).  So what does LACE come from?

Christopher Tolkien admits in his notes that he doesn’t know.  He says, “It is clear in any case that this is presented as the work, not of one of the Eldar, but of a Man,” and I agree, because of the way it seems to be written as an ethnographic study rather than by someone who lives in the culture.  Honestly, it talks too much about how elves are seen by Men (e.g. speculating that elf-children might look like the children of Men) to be written by an elf.  This changes once it gets to the Doom of Finwe and Miriel, but that could be, and probably is, a story told to the writer by an elf who was there at the time.

Tolkien actually references Aelfwine in the second version of the text.  The original story behind The Lost Tales, which was the abandoned first version of the Silmarillion, was that a man from the Viking period named Aelfwine/Eriol stumbled onto the Straight Road and found himself on Tol Eressea.  He spoke to the elves and brought back their stories to England with him.  So it makes a lot of sense that Aelfwine would also write about the lives and customs of the elves for an audience of his own people.

Does LACE exist in Middle Earth?

I keep finding fics where first age elves discuss “the Laws and Customs” openly, as if it’s a text in their own world.  I usually get the impression that it was brought by the Noldor from Valinor.  But did the document actually exist in that time period?  For me, the answer is definitely not.

First of all, LACE was probably written by a Man, meaning it could not have dated back to Valinor in the years of the Trees, because Men hadn’t awaked yet.  In fact, the closest thing to an established frame narrative for it is that it was written by Aelfwine, who comes from the time period around 1000 CE (though Tolkien doesn’t seem to have pinned him down).  This is at least the fifth age, if not later.

But what if you don’t believe that it was written by a Man?  It still couldn’t have been written in the First Age, because it discusses the way the relationship between elves’ bodies and souls changes as ages go by.  For example:

As ages passed the dominance of their fear ever increased, ‘consuming’ their bodies... The end of this process is their ‘fading’, as Men have called it.

A lot of time has to go by in order for elves to get to the point of fading.  As a bonus, here’s another reference to the perspective of Men. LACE also discusses the dangers that “houseless feas”, which are souls of elves who do not go to Mandos after their bodies died, pose to Men.  How would they have known about that in the First Age?  It further says that “more than one rebirth is seldom recorded” (which isn’t contradicted anywhere I know of), and that’s not something you would know during your life of joy in Valinor, where almost nobody dies.  That’s something you learn after millennia of war.  This has to be a document written well after the Silmarillion ends.

So what about the sex part?  That’s all we care about, right?  Well, it is entirely possible that this was written down by the elves and Aelfwine translated it (though my impression is that he mostly recorded stories told orally to him and that elves were not very much into writing, at least in Valinor where you could get stories directly from someone who experienced them).  However, why would the elves write this down?  They know how quickly their children grow up.  They’ve seen actual marriages.  They don’t need that described to them.  And if they did have a specific document or story explaining the expectations of them when it comes to sex and marriage, why would they call it “Laws and Customs”?  That’s a very strange name for a set of rules for conduct.  I’m sure they had a list of laws written out somewhere in great detail, like our own state or national laws (that seems very in character for the Noldor, at least).  But I seriously doubt that those laws are what we’ve been given to read. LACE is not an elvish or Valinoran document.

Is LACE prescriptive or descriptive?

Here’s the other big question I’m interested in.  Prescriptive means that the document describes the way people should behave.  Descriptive means that it describes how people do behave.  And the more I worldbuild for Middle Earth and the culture of elves, the more I want to say that LACE is prescriptive in its discussion of sex, marriage, and gender roles.

But wait.  I’ve been saying for paragraphs that I think LACE is Aelfwine or another Man’s ethnographic study of elvish culture.  Then it has to be descriptive, right?

Does it?  How long do we think Aelfwine stayed with the elves?  Did he wait fifty years to see a child grow up?  Did he get to witness a wedding ceremony?  Did he meet houseless fea?  I don’t think he could have done all of that.  Maybe a different Man who spent his entire life with the elves could, but then when was this written?  When the elves were still marrying and having children in Middle Earth or when so much time had gone by that they had begun to fade already?

Whoever wrote this was told a lot of information by elves instead of experiencing it firsthand, the same way he heard the stories from the First Age from the elves instead of being there.  Maybe it was one elf who talked to him, maybe several different ones.  But did those elves accurately describe their society the way it was, give him the easiest description, or explain the way it was supposed to be?  If I was describing modern-day America, would I discuss premarital sex or just our dating and marriage customs?  Maybe people would come away from a talk with me thinking that moving in together equated to marriage for Americans in the early 21st century.  And I don’t even have an agenda to show America in a certain way, I'm just bad at explaining.  Did the elves talking to what may have been the first Man they had seen in millennia have an agenda in the way they presented themselves?

Or did the writer himself have an agenda?  Imagine going to see these beautiful, mythical, perfect beings, and you find out that they behave in the same immoral ways Men do.  Do you want to share the truth back home?  Or do you leave out things that don't match your worldview? Did Aelfwine come back wanting to tell people what elves were really like?  Or did he want to say “this is how you can be holy and perfect like an elf”?

Anyone studying the Age of Exploration will tell you that Europeans neber wrote about new cultures objectively, and often things were made up to fit the writer’s idea of what savages looked like. For example, my Native American history teacher in college told a story of how explorers described one tribe who (sensibly) didn't wear clothes as cannibals, because cannibalism and going around naked went together in their minds and not because of any actual incident.  Unbiased scholarship barely existed yet. Even Tolkien was extremely biased and tended to be imperialistic, as we all know.  There’s absolutely no reason to think that Aelfwine wasn’t biased in his own way.  (Of course, now we have to consider what biases a Danish or English man from the centuries around 1000 would have when it comes to things like gender roles. I assume he would have been more into divorce and female warriors than the elves are said to be.)

But is that what Tolkien intended? Probably not. He probably wanted LACE to be descriptive. But he also never got much of a chance to analyse the essay after the fact, which might have led to him discussing its accuracy and even the exact issues I just pointed out about explorers. Anyway, we know he's biased, and honestly, what he intended has never slowed down the fandom before.

Conclusion

In short, I take LACE to be a prescriptive document describing the way elvish culture is supposed to be, not a blueprint I have to stick to in order to correctly portray elves.  I also don’t believe the document that’s available for us to read existed even in the early Fourth Age, where The Lord of the Rings leaves off.  There maybe have been some document outlining the moral behavior of elves, as a set of laws, but thats not the Laws and Customs we have.

Of course, canon is up to you to interpret.  If you want Feanor discussing LACE with someone back in Valinor, go ahead.  If you want to throw out LACE entirely, go ahead.  It’s not even a canonical essay.  All of this analysis is honestly useless when you consider the fact that no part of LACE exists in any canonical book.

But that’s Tolkien analysis for you.

[fandomlovingfreak]

Glacial Passion (7/?)

Regulus Black/Reader

Rating: NSFW (at end of chapter)

Trigger Warning: Arranged Marriage, sexual content (consensual)

Word Count: 3715

MasterList Link I AO3 Link I Wattpad Link

Summary: Glacial, cold, icy… all words that described Regulus Black’s grey eyes. Was there truly no emotion behind those eyes, or did a caring man exist beneath? Could she defrost those glacial eyes?

Disclaimer: Regulus Black (Walburga Black, Orion Black, and Sirius Black) is a character from Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling. Reader or y/n is not owned by Rowling. This work has not been created for profit or financial compensation, and is a transformative fair use work in accordance with Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.

Notes: No notes really. Sorry for the wait.

Enjoy

***

Mother & Father,

(y/n) and I will be continuing our honeymoon for at least an extra week. We will be traveling outside of Paris. I will send an owl once we are settled in the hotel.

Walburga stares down at the letter. 

Cold shock fills her at her new daughter-in-law willingly is staying past the allotted time Regulus had planned for the couple's honeymoon. 

Walburga thought them to be so indifferent about one another that they would have arrived home days earlier than planned, not extend their time alone together.

Hopefully, though, this meant the next heir of the House of Black would be on the way.

Part of her knows her son will continue to be stubborn, casting those infernal charms. Walburga didn't understand why her son insisted on-- engaging with his wife if he was just going to waste the attempt with a literal flick of his wand. The way he ignored his duties to his birthright was infuriating. She had thought she had raised this son to honor his pure blood and pedigree. To never ignore the responsibilities he had to his family.

Walburga glares at her husband. Blasted Orion had been the one to teach Regulus the contraceptive charm. Although she is glad no bastard children are running around, something she knew Regulus was aware could not happen, she wasn't happy that her golden boy is presently defying her wishes. If Orion hadn't insisted on taking her son to his-- whores, they wouldn't be in this position. Regulus shouldn't have been exposed to those dirty blood, good for nothing tarts. 

Tainting one's flesh was as good as tainting one's blood, in Walburga's mind. Not that she'd express her thoughts to anyone of their status. Men of Pureblood never seemed to view things of this matter as she did.

She knew this from experience.

Walburga sets the letter down on the breakfast table, "Regulus and (y/n) will be extending their-- holiday for another week yet."

"Is that right?" Orion says absentmindedly, continuing to scan the Prophet. She can tell he isn't listening to a word she says. Even after all these years, Orion's inattentiveness still boils her blood to an extent. You would think one would get used to being ignored, especially after all the years she has had to get used to it.

"I wonder where he will be taking our daughter-in-law."

"Yes, very weird."

Walburga's expression sours-- further. She snatches up the letter from Regulus and storms out of the breakfast room without another word.

***

I bustle around the room when Regulus is away, posting another letter. The afternoon and night before had been nice, to say the least. Regulus had been sweet, almost affectionate, the entire time we spent together. It was a big change in a short amount of time, which worried me a bit. Hopefully, he wouldn't revert back to his old ways in the next few days. Merlin-- I hope he won't at all.

I rearranged the bed pillows for the sixth time, trying to distract myself from my thoughts.

The door's key noise disturbs my thoughts as Regulus steps into the room.

"Hi," I rub my hands down the front of my dress.

We stare awkwardly at one another for a moment before he speaks.

"I've been thinking about traveling outside of Paris. Would you be interested in extending our-- honeymoon?" 

I'm taken aback by his sudden choice in conversation, "Where outside of Paris?"

"We can go wherever you please," he holds my hand, pulling me closer to his chest. This is the closest we've been since before he committed to trying our relationship out.

I clear my throat, "I-- guess that I'm just not really picky about where we go."

He smiles, "Well, then I guess you'll just have to trust that the places I want to go are places you want to go."

***

Together we pack up our belongings, casually swapping small talk.

"Do you want to write to your parents?" Regulus looks up from packing his trunk. "I mean, you haven't seen them since the wedding."

"What?" I give him a weird look, "No. I don't have anything to say to them."

Regulus looks slightly alarmed, "What do you mean?" 

"No offense to you, but my parents practically forced me to marry you. I'm not too keen on speaking with them right now."

"You shouldn't just-- I mean, they're your parents."

"Doesn't mean what they did wasn't insensitive. I wasn't theirs to just... give away."

He reflects on my words before taking my hand in his, squeezing comfortingly, "Sorry."

"For what? I know you were coerced into marrying me. It's not your fault."

"I know that. And at some level, I was pushed towards-- doing the right thing-- but I also had the right to refuse, and you were not granted such a right."

I nod, looking away as tears threatened at the corners of my eyes, "It doesn't matter--"

"No, it does matter. You do matter." I meet his eyes. They're steely, the furrowed brow and sour expression I know are not for me. "Don't you see why I use the bloody contraception charms now? They've taken too much from us already (y/n). They're not going to take that away from us as well."

I blink again, "That's why?"

"Of course it's why. We're not-- we're people for Merlin's sake. You're not property (y/n). I won't let anyone treat my wife like that." I'm not sure what to say to him. Thank you? Maybe that would be appropriate. "Besides, we're too young to think of such things. Maybe in ten years--"

"Ten years?" I laugh, "you really think I can keep them at bay for ten whole years? Your mother would be calling in every fertility specialist in the wizarding world, insistent that something must be wrong with me. Certainly, she wouldn't believe the problem was you."

Regulus sighs, "Okay, fine. Not ten years, maybe-- five?"

"Regulus," I laugh, "I know you don't like it. I am completely aware that you don't like being pushed around and knowing that I feel bad for trying to trick you into doing what I wish. But, like you said earlier. You can refuse, do as you please, but I only have one option laid out before me as your wife. And, I can't wait forever for you. I don't have that option. In a much wider social stance, people will talk and make my life miserable. Along with that, your mother and my own will also make my life miserable. There's nothing I'd like to do more than to-- take time for us, or even just me, but that just isn't the life we can lead."

Regulus looks down at his packing. I have to change the subject, feeling that we've exhausted this conversation enough for now.

"Who are you sending letters to?" 

Regulus looks up, "Well, the first one was for my brother, and the one this morning was for my parents."

"Oh, I didn't know you were talking to your brother." I'm suddenly reminded that Regulus hadn't answered my questions.

"So..."

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you now to tell me about your childhood now?"

Regulus looks uncomfortable immediately. He rubs the back of his neck, "Um-- Sure."

I reach for his arm, hoping that my touch is just a little bit comforting, "You don't have to, Regulus. If you don't want to."

"No," his eyes look so... serious as he collects his thoughts, "I want to be honest with you, and this is a part of who I am." I smile at him, my fingers moving to intertwine with his. "My parents are-- well, they clearly are in a situation like ours. Except it has been a very long time now, and nothing good came from the union."

"Well, not exactly nothing," I squeeze his hand.

Regulus rolls his eyes, "I'm not sure Sirius and I are something good, but okay, yes. Not everything was bad if you insist." His reserved smile has butterflies exploding in my stomach. "Anyways, my father has always chosen to be... well, he's always strayed from my mother. Even when I was a child, I'm sure he chose to be unfaithful even before Sirius and I. And-- uh..."

"What?" I'm not sure I want to know. He's developed a pink flush on his cheeks, not meeting my eye suddenly.

"Well, I was just going to-- confess, I suppose, about his favorite whorehouse."

Frowning, I ask what he means by confessing? What in the world is the connection between Orion's favorite whorehouse and Regulus.

It dawns on me exactly what he's confessing to, right as he speaks.

Regulus reddens further, "I'm sure you understand where I am going..."

I guess I have no reason to be upset over Regulus's past trysts. He was older than me, and most importantly, he was a pureblood man who was expected to... well, act as a pureblood man acts. And that included sleeping around as a bachelor, or in the Black family's case, sleeping with a select group of people their patriarch has chosen.

"Orion thought that we should uh-- learn in preparation for our marriages. Get out any wildness in our systems with the protection of women who were paid and wouldn't try to blackmail with a bastard child." 

I feel the cold glacial feeling of guilt rise up from the pit of my stomach all the way to my skin. Had I been-- Had I been causing him to relive a painful moment when I demanded--?

"And well, there are plenty of other things that were-- questionable about my parent's parenting style. My mother, you probably recognize she is a cruel, cold woman. A part of our recently exchanged letters, my brother and I were talking about a memory of our mother. Before she was the woman, you know, she was, well, a much more loving mother to the both of us. You actually were the one who brought forth the memory."

"I did?"

Regulus nods, reaching to cup my cheek in his hand, "It was the night we went to that-- the restaurant my father suggested. You said something about-- uh, a potential child giving you the love you seek from me."

I look away, feeling embarrassed by my words. To some extent, I do-- or did believe that having Regulus's heir, that a child's love could replace the feelings that should be between us as a couple.

"I--" I'm not even sure what to say. "That was wrong of me. I mean, eventually, it has to happen but pushing you-- or well attempting to trick you actually, because I thought..." What did I think? That he was hopeless? That I'd be stuck in a marriage that would parallel his parents and every other miserable Pureblood couple that has come before us.

"You have to remember that I am far from-- where you want me to be." Regulus's thumb traces under my eye, "But I certain I want what you've been asking me for."

***

Our packing takes longer than we'd expected as we spend more moments in conversation about our pasts, present, and hopeful future.

Regulus tells me about his first owl, a little brown owl originally named Maverick but nicknamed Rick because Regulus hadn't been able to pronounce it at age six. He tells me about family vacations that ended in disaster and his first date with a half-blood girl in year four that went terribly wrong. He reluctantly tells me about losing his virginity after I argue he already knew my story. With each moment, I feel more connected to him. How you feel at the beginning of the relationship when you're getting to know someone, the silly stuff that matters because you want to know them.

Checking out of the hotel is a bit-- strange, to say the least. As my husband talks to the witch at the front desk, who introduced herself to me as Seren, has been grinning an extra amount at Regulus, who appears to be oblivious to the flirtatious nature of the girl.

I'm surprised by the annoyance I feel as she flirts with my husband right in front of me. Without a second thought, I reach for his hand. I make sure that the ring Regulus gave me is obviously placed as I look Seren straight in the eye. Her eyes fall on the large purple jewel before her eyes shoot back up to mine. She at least has the decency to look embarrassed, her cheeks pinkening. Regulus frowns slightly at the interaction before going back to paying the witch.

I can't say that I'm not glad when we officially check out and walk out of the door. The jealousy is alarming, but what am I supposed to do when someone is ogling my husband? 

"I'm not completely oblivious, you know." Regulus glances at me, a small amused smile on his face.

"To what? The girl flirting with you?"

He chuckles, "That and your possessive behavior."

I look at him outraged, "I was not possessive."

He holds up my hand, "What was this about then? You casually wanted to hold my hand?"

"So what if I did?" 

Regulus rolls his eyes, "If that's what you really believe you were doing and not claiming me--"

"Claiming you?" I snatch my hand away.

"What else are you doing when you're showing off that ring?"

"I'm hardly claiming you. She was just-- too comfortable for my liking."

Regulus makes a sound in the back of his throat, "If you say so."

I bite the inside of my cheek, "Why didn't you do anything?"

He tries to hide a smile, "I hardly was indulging her."

"You didn't tell her to--" fuck off.

"I guarantee you, my dear wife, I have been deflecting her attempts all week." Oh, so maybe this wasn't exactly Regulus's fault... completely.

"You have?"

He stops me on the sidewalk, "Yes, of course. Do you really think I would flirt with another woman? Especially now?"

I shrug, "I guess-- no. I don't think you'd do that."

He shakes his head, "Of course I wouldn't."

***

I hold (y/n) tight against my chest as I apparate us to our new destination, remembering how she reacted the last time we apparated. 

The moment we're safely on the ground, I continue to hold her, asking quietly if she's okay in a hushed tone. (y/n) nods, her fingers gripping the sleeve of my coat.

For a second, I contemplate pressing a kiss to her temple as I rub my hand up and down her back, but I stop myself before I go through with the reaction. Even with the small progress we've made, it feels too intimate, even as a gesture of comfort. 

"Tell me when you're ready," I whisper.

Slowly, (y/n) pulls away from my embrace, (y/e/c) eyes opening hesitantly.

"I really don't like it." She says hesitantly.

"I can tell." We stand still for another beat before she confirms she is in better shape.

"Where are we?"

"Cork, Ireland." 

Her eyes widen with curiosity, "Really? I've never been. Dad's been a few times, but obviously, with school and other things, I hadn't had the chance to successfully convince him to take me with."

"So there were places you wished to visit." I can't help but tease her as she prattles on about the things her father has told her about the city we're visiting.

"Of course, but you spring things on me too quickly. I can never recall things when I've been surprised."

I chuckle, "Fair enough. We should check in soon; it's nearly ten. Whoever's running the front desk won't be happy we've arrived so late."

***

By the time we've checked in and opened the door to the suite, it's nearing ten-thirty. 

(y/n) takes a quick peek around the room before turning back towards me, "I suppose we should unpack--"

I don't let her finish the statement as I take two large steps towards her, cupping her face in my hands and kissing her soundly on the mouth. She makes a sound of surprise but doesn't pull away or smack me or something she ought to do, really. I'm not even sure where this need to kiss her came from. Maybe the way the soft light of the dimmed bedroom lights landed across her person, making her picturesque, ethereal even.

All I do know is that I must have her this instant. Must feel her soft skin under my fingers, feel her silken warmth as we move together atop the sheets of the hotel bed.

I have to have her, and I can only hope she feels the same way.

Tentatively, I run my hand down her spine, fiddling with the ridiculous amount of buttons that I could easily open with the flick of my wand. Something about the thought of painstakingly unbuttoning each individual button was incredibly erotic.

"I can never seem to control myself when you're around," I whisper as I kiss below her jaw. The way she seems to melt under the words has me smiling against her neck as I continue to kiss down to her exposed collarbone. These damn dresses she wears always showed off just enough cleavage to draw my eyes towards the neckline. "Do you wear these dresses on purpose? Torturing me all day, having to see only the tops of your breasts." Her breath hitches, egging me on. "Do you like it when I talk about your body like that? Like the way, just the sight of some of your naked flesh has me turned on? Hm?"

"Regulus--" My name comes from her lips like a prayer. 

"Tell me what you want." My hands worship her body, squeezing her covered tits. I would do anything to get this blasted dress off of her.

"I-- I want you."

"Want me to do what? Use your words, kitten."

Her lips, red and abused, open and close attractively once or twice before she finds her words, "I want you to fuck me."

"Fuck you? You want my cock, huh? Is that it? In any way that I'll give it to you?"

She blinks, a bit confused, but nods. I can't believe I've rendered my wife so speechless, so cock-hungry she can barely articulate what she wants.

"Let's get this off then," I tug at the neckline of her dress, "turn around, kitten." She quickly obeys, and I get to work on the buttons, finding I can release her from her dress easier than I had previously imagined. 

The fabric hits the floor as I gaze at her naked back, "turn back around. Think you've teased me enough. I want to see those tits."

Slowly, she faces me once again.

"I think I wanna fuck these," I say as I reacquaint myself with the feeling of her breasts in my hands.

"You want to-- what?" I often forget that my wife's sexual experience starts and ends with what we've done. She's looking at me like I've said something odd.

"You want me to show you? I think you'd look lovely with my cock between your breasts." I discard my pants, shirt, and jacket, pulling her towards the bed, lightly guiding her down to the floor as I sit.

"What about fucking me?" She frowns up at me.

I chuckle at her indignant frown, "Don't worry, darling. I plan on cumming inside of you. Now, push your tits together nice and tight around me. There we go."

Hesitantly, she does as I say. The sight alone has me twitching. 

Gently, I thrust up. If I thought the view before was good, seeing her innocent face watch as I seek pleasure from a new place on her body. She's radiant, on her knees, watching my cock disappear and reappear. 

"Do you like that, darling? Like watching?"

Her eyes flit up to meet mine, "Yes." It takes nearly everything within me not to cum on the spot. Merlin, what was this girl doing to me?

"Do you want me to fuck you, kitten?" I hold her chin, so she has to look at me.

"Obviously." There's that attitude I expect. Chuckling, I pull her from her knees, maneuvering her on her back.

"So impatient. Just itching to feel me deep inside ya, huh?" She nods, "words, darling."

"Yes, please."

The first inches feel like coming home. She makes those breathy noises I love, pleading with me for more, to give her everything and anything I can. 

It's a symphony in the room, the headboard of the old creaky bed knocking against the wallpapered wall, the noises (y/n) makes every time she moves her hips against mine... There's no doubt that we're alerting the rest of the occupants exactly what we're doing in room twelve. 

This thought stirs something inside of me. Clumsily, my fingers find her clit hoping to get her exactly where I'm at.

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop--" her voice is utterly fucked as she practically chants these words.

"Cum for me, kitten. Don't hold back." Merlin-- please don't hold back.

If our neighbors weren't aware of the little-- musical act happening in our room, they were now. (y/n) writhes beneath me, fingernails digging into the small of my back.

"Fuck--" I don't hold back as she clenches down hard. 

Was it ever this good with someone else? I can't think of a single woman who makes me cum as hard as I do with (y/n).

As the weaker aftershocks continue to rack my body, I lay down next to her, pulling her into my embrace. I reach for my wand in my discarded jacket, silently casting the charm.

(y/n) looks like she wants to say something, but I stop her, kissing her forehead.

"I promise, someday. But not today." (y/n) doesn't say anything but nods as she gets more comfortable in my arms. "You know, this is the first time we've done this."

"What do you mean?" (y/n) laughs, "we've done this a few times now."

"Not that. I mean, usually, one of us runs off after we've done that. This is the first time you're voluntarily in my arms."

(y/n) makes a soft noise of agreement, "That's true."

I smile. This was progress.