#old music and the slave women

[l3st1b0urn3s-707]

I promised a Birthaday of the world review (because this book was amazing) and here it is!

The birthday of the world and other stories is a collection of short stories by Ursula K. Le Guin. All of these stories are about gender rols, and they specially talk about women, and most of them are part of the Hainish Cycle. Let's talk a bit about each of them:

Coming of age in Karhide was probably my favourite one. I might be biased because I love The left hand of darkness and this story is also set in Gethen, but it was trully amazing. It's about how a young Gethenian goes through their first kemmer and loses their virginity. I just love this world so much and the cultures in it, and this is a great story to learn about their society and how sexuality works there.

The matter of Seggri is set in a world where the male population is significally lower that the female, which leads to segregation and a reversion of gender roles. Men are just seen as trophies and only have reproductive purposes. That's it until some Ekumen mobiles arrive to Seggri and everything starts to change. It was so good, it had various points of view and deals with such interesting topics!

Unchosen love and Mountain ways are set in O (same planet as A fisherman of the inland sea, which I have yet to read), where marriages or sedoretu involve 4 people. The first one's about a couple between 2 boys looking for the rest of their sedoretu. One of them, tho, feels a bit trapped in the relationship and doesn't know what to do. The other story's about a sedoretu formed unconventionally. Both of them were so fun, I really enjoyed them and they made me want to know more about O.

Solitude's narrated by the dauhter of a mobile from the Ekumen, who talks about her experience growing up in a world where men and women are separated. I found this one a bit more boring than the previous ones, but it's still really interesting.

Old Music and the slave women was also so good. Old Music's a mobile from the Ekumen living in a planet where slaves have rebelled against their owners. He meets some slave women who are still working for some government officials and tries to protect them and survive through an incoming war.

The birthday of the world wasn't really for me, I didn't like it than much. This one's set in a world ruled by God, which is actually a couple between a man and a woman. The male part is dying, so two of their children will have to marry and become God themselves.

The last one, Paradises Lost, is actually a short novel. It's the only story which isn't part of the Hainish Cycle, and is set on a spaceship traveling through generations to a planet safer than Earth. Some members of the last generation that will live in the ship before its landing will have to deal with the members from a religious group that don't belive the ship's actually going to stop. This one was really interesting. The main characters were really cool, and I loved how the story changed from just showing you the everyday life in the ship to a much bigger conflict. It was great.

So, the book in general was super cool. I really liked how the themes are treated in it, it all just works so well. Some stories were better than the others, but overall they were all really enjoyable. I think that it's really worth reading, even if you haven't read anything by the author or the Ekumen series, because it's simply perfect. I loved it so much!

[genderkoolaid]

So it is with Florence Hines, a Black singer and drag king who got her start on the stage sometime around 1891, when she began to receive particular notice for her performances with Sam T. Jack’s Creole Burlesque. When the show came to Paterson, NJ, on November 23, 1891, “hundreds were turned away from the doorway” before the Creole Burlesque was even scheduled to take the stage, according to the Paterson Daily Caller. In their review, they called out Hines in particular for being an “excellent male impersonator.” The Creole Burlesque was a standard minstrel show, featuring all Black performers, led by a white manager, giving skits, songs, and scenes that featured standard variety acts (everything from clog dancing to drag) set in a pre-Civil War Southern plantation fantasy. But within a few years, Sam T. Jack would launch The Creole Show, an important milestone in Black performance in America. For the first time, an all-Black revue was presented as a modern, staged performance — not as an “authentic” recreation of Black life. According to Whiting Up, a history of white face entertainment by Black theater historian Marvin McAllister, The Creole Show was “a major outlet for Black artists interested in… developing a comedic tradition that was racially grounded but not riddled with stereotyping.” In another important departure from tradition, instead of hiring a man to play the traditional lead role of interlocutor or master of ceremonies, Sam T. Jack hired Florence Hines. As a drag king, Hines performed a routine that made mock of the “dandy” — flashy, modern, young men who drank and dated openly, and wore the latest clothes. One of her most famous numbers was “Hi Waiter! A Dozen More Bottles,” whose first verse went: Lovely woman was made to be loved, To be fondled and courted and kissed; And the fellows who’ve never made love to a girl, Well they don’t know what fun they have missed. I’m a fellow, who’s up on the times, Just the boy for a lark or a spree There’s a chap that’s dead stuck on women and wine, You can bet your old boots that it’s me. Many white drag kings of the day also performed this song, and similar dandy characters. For these performers, the dandy was a way to needle the men in the audience. But for Black performers, taking on a dandy role was also a way of resisting degraded depictions of Black people that were common on stage at the time. As Kathleen B. Casey wrote in The Prettiest Girl on the Stage is a Man, “when worn by a Black performer, the tuxedo with tails, cane, cape and a top hat countered the image of the ragged, shoeless plantation slave.” Thus, Hines made a natural choice for a show that wanted to show an entirely new kind of Black performance. By 1904, The Indianapolis Freeman would report that Hines “commanded the largest salary paid to a colored female performer.” In their book, Out of Sight: The Rise of African American Popular Music, 1889-1895, Lynn Abott and Doug Seroff wrote that “Hines’s male impersonations provided the standard against which African American comediennes were compared for decades.”

[randombush3]

labor omnia vincit

alexia putellas x reader

words: 7538

summary: well, it’s how you meet your wife (posh + becks style)

content warnings: a little bit of drugs and alcohol

notes: HEY HEY HEYY. this is a TRILOGY and here’s the first part. enjoy the build up x

2015. London. 

You groan at the thought of singing another word. The mug set haphazardly on the ledge reserved more for instruments than crockery, half in the air after the last time you returned it to its place, is now empty. There is no hot water left to soothe your burning throat, and there is no patience remaining in your finite store. 

The girls, on the other hand, seem to soldier on. A harmony is incorrect? They sing it again. The producer, a fat old man called Dave whose taste in music might rely on his taste in women, isn’t a fan of a certain beat? They are thinking of ways to change it. 

Ever since your single was released two years ago, this has been your life. Or, at least, the less glamorous side of it. The other side, consisting of sold-out arenas, exclusive clubs, and a world tour that only increased your total domination over the music industry, has been paused while you and the girls slave away on the second album. Apparently, you’re being uncooperative. You would call it boredom. 

“It’s four in the morning, Dave,” Anya states, jabbing out her index finger towards his Rolex, paid for with the revenue from the last single you released. It topped the charts for days. Dave glances down at the clock face with a grunt. “Look, Y/n’s already left us and gone to bed.” 

“Still here,” you murmur, rather unconvincingly, from your spot on the far-too-comfortable sofa behind the mixing desk. Sprawling out even further, you wrap your legs around the third member of your group, Gio. She squeals as you pull her on top of you. “I want to go home, though.” 

“Don’t we all know it,” Gio giggles. She’s had at least six cups of coffee since you arrived at the studio for the second recording session of the day – a solid nine hours ago. That was only after a break for a late lunch or early dinner (whichever your dietician preferred to call it). 

“We need to finish.” 

“I need to sleep,” you reply. Gio scrambles off you in time to avoid the glare you are sent by your producer. “And I’m not sleeping here again. Last time it gave me a crick in my neck and I’m fairly sure the cleaner felt me up.” 

“The sexy cleaner is mine,” Anya declares, jerking you upright. Your stomach lurches with emptiness. “Otherwise, I agree. Let us fuck off home. Please, Dave.” 

He looks at the three of you, bags under your eyes, making long rubbed off (or cried away, in Gio’s earlier over-emotional state). You have changed out of the outfit the paparazzi pictured you in earlier, opting for the stained, grey joggers you folded away in your Birkin. Anya and Gio snuck in so that they weren’t caught in their pyjamas. 

Dave sighs. 

“Tomorrow, don’t go for lunch with any of your silly boyfriends. Come here for noon, and we’ll finish when we finish. We’re getting this album done, and you can’t fire me until it’s out.” 

His sense of humour is appreciated, even if his work ethic is not, and you practically bolt out of the studio, friends in tow. 

Anya grabs your hand as you rush down the corridor, making your way to the exit. “No lunch with your boyfriend,” she repeats Dave’s words, mocking his gristly voice. You roll your eyes, snatching your hand away from your friend before pushing open the back door of the studio, heading towards your new BMW i8. 

You have been friends with Anya Kazi and Giovanna Bartoli since the age of two, meeting them on the first day of nursery, specifically after cutting one of Gio’s ringlets off with safety scissors. Though Anya happily clapped along, she did not defend you, and so you went for her hair as well. Your teacher, hoping to quell the budding animosity, placed all three of you in time-out, where a united front was formed. It hasn’t been broken since that moment, though a few years ago, you were terrified it would be. You, with a well-concealed preference for women, however, have managed to keep your friends. They assured you that they 1) already knew and 2) could not care less. 

“You don’t even like cars,” Gio scoffs at the sight of your latest purchase, your last name printed proudly on the number plate. “Was this an ‘I’m famous’ buy or did your daddy get it for you?” 

“He emailed me a few recommendations,” you answer off-handedly, sliding into the driver’s seat, switching on the ignition. It growls with a mean, menacing precision, the engine’s quality known and heard. “And don’t pretend that your family doesn’t have a Roll-Royce parked in the driveway of their million-pound townhouse.” 

“You are just as much from Hampstead as I am, girl.” 

You roll your eyes, stifling a yawn. Anya pulls out in front of you, no doubt speeding off to avoid the boy-racers you and Gio become at this time of night. 

Your flat has progressed from that of the one you shared with the girls in Princess Park two years ago. It’s nicely decorated, you like to think, with most of the work being done to it while you were touring. 

The walls are hung with artwork; some your own, some not. The canvases and frames adorn every room, dictating the vibe, declaring your individuality to any visitors who choose to admire the paintings and sketches. Then, if they were to look at the shelves dotted around the space, they’d see books with matching themes to the art. Your living room has a print of Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’, blown up in a gilded frame, hanging above your green leather sofa, adding colour to the white walls, and then a bookshelf filled with navy-bound novels about whatever you fancy. You’re quite chuffed with the design, though it was really the interior designer you hired who came up with the idea. 

Without a second glance to any of the intricate details of your home, you stumble your way to the bathroom, going through the motions until it is time to get into bed. It’s a big bed – one that often feels too big for just one person – but the mattress is inviting and you dive into a deep sleep head-first, knowing you will not be getting up until someone calls you tomorrow morning. 

…

Barcelona, seven hours earlier. 

The bar is busy, as most are in Barcelona at this time of night, and the girls are out for dinner and a post-training drink. The wine glasses have deceived them all, though, because they have been emptied and refilled a few more times than Xavi would be impressed with. 

A young, budding star does not drink during the season, the alcohol drought both self-inflicted and encouraged by every coach who promises to take her far. Her eyeliner must be smudged by now, but Alexia can’t leave yet because Jenni has promised that she can stay over at her place and she needs her to take her back. 

The reason for her temporary relocation is that Alexia is fed-up with her mother’s pestering, seeing as it is only one week into the season and she is already being called a workaholic. She can’t stay in that house tonight, especially when her little sister is the complete opposite: sleeping with anyone who gives her a chance and never doing anything that will help her future. Eli Segura is baffled by the lack of balance in her life – two daughters, two extremes – but she is the most concerned with her eldest, angering Alexia to no end. 

Alexia is also fed-up with this conversation. It’s all the girls seem to be talking about these days, utterly consumed with this new English girl group just like the rest of the world. 2sday has completely taken over all interesting topics of discussion, and Alexia doesn’t think she can handle being asked which one of their songs she likes the most one more time. 

She likes them, she guesses, but so does everyone. Todo el mundo is in love with all three members. 

The girls are discussing who their favourite is. 

“She’s Italian though, and that’s cool of her,” Jenni argues, putting forward her case for Bartoli as if she chose to have parents from a certain country. Alexia hums in thought, thinking of the pictures she saw from the world tour – how long her legs are, tanned and sculpted and shown off nicely by the mini-skirt she wore. “Did you know that her little sister is a model? She’s called Cristina or something. The beauty is practically in her DNA.” 

“Aren’t all three of them models?” asks Marta pointedly, finger tapping the photoshoot on the magazine cover.

“Well, all three of them are sexy,” Jenni replies, remembering just how enamoured the world is with the three break-out stars. “Ale, which one is your favourite?” The magazine that had sparked this conversation is slid towards the twenty-one-year-old, and she looks at the picture on the front page: you, Gio, and Anya, all dressed in oversized suits with nothing underneath, hair slicked back and eyes piercing, ‘girl power’ brandished over the bottom of the photograph. 

“Y/n L/n,” Alexia answers easily, fascinated by the sculpture of your face. She thinks you are beautiful, in a less crass way than her teammates. “And you lot sound like men with the way you talk about them.” 

“Ooh, Alexia is getting all high-and-mighty,” Jenni teases. “Looks like it’s time to take the baby home.” 

“She’s cranky because she’s tired and it’s past her bedtime,” adds another teammate, though Alexia is too wound up to really care who. 

They all make little pouty faces at her as she finishes the last of her glass of water, the clear liquid standing out against the deep red of most of the table. Jenni rolls up the magazine and swats her shoulder with it, before handing it over to its owner and finally allowing Alexia her rest. 

In silence, they sit in her car – an old Ford in need of replacing but not on the footballer’s list of things she will buy with the money they are now getting. FC Barcelona Femení has become, at last, a fully professional team, and Alexia looks ahead to the future with a hopeful dream and the knowledge that she will need to work hard if she ever wishes to become the best. Jenni has become a good friend ever since she joined the club last year, and she brings a global ambition to the friendship that she knows Alexia does not have. Jenni is from Madrid, and plays for Barcelona because she can, not because it is her club. Her team is the same as her grandfather’s, and she often expresses to Alexia her wish to play for them someday, as well as scoring in every league she possibly can. Young Alexia Putellas has never once considered stepping foot outside of Spain. 

Not only that, but her father died three years ago and here, in Barcelona, is where she feels closest to him. She cannot fathom a life past the plazas and the cobbled streets of her home. And she’s glad. She’s safe here, and she needs nothing more than her team, her family, and a football at her feet.  What more could she possibly want? 

As she settles on Jenni’s sofa, blanket pulled over her body, head resting on a plump cushion that smells faintly of Jenni’s dog, Alexia decides to watch whatever is on TV right now. Jenni, in an attempt to learn English, has found an English news channel that seemingly reports on ‘exclusive’ celebrity news. There you are, plastered on the screen, your picture zoomed in to the point of the pixels blurring.

The woman speaking has a high-pitched and critical voice, saying words that Alexia does not hear. She stares at your picture, considering the life you have, imagining that, one day, footballers like her have the stardom of Beckham and Messi and Ibrahimovic. Though she herself does not crave that exposure, well aware of her shyness, she thinks about the future with a wistful sigh, lost in her dream as the English woman narrates what she can see, judging how you have opened your mouth to take a bite of the food, listing the brands you are wearing. 

And, in her weird, exhausted haze, she sees your face. It’s probably only because you’re on the screen and she’s staring at it, but you are there as she pictures the growth of women’s football. You’re there in the stands as she plays in front of a sold-out Camp Nou, cheering and singing along to Catalan chants she knows you’d never actually know in real life. Slowly, she falls asleep, and, just before she closes her eyes, you are there: back to her, dressed in a familiar shirt. Alexia. 11. Somewhere in a far-off fantasy land, Alexia Putellas marries you that night. 

…

It’s Sunday. 

You drive to your parents’ house in Hampstead, only twenty minutes away from the flat you now live in, to reluctantly attend their weekly Sunday Roast. Before, it was a condition of remaining on the booking list for the annual family holiday, seeing as you had declared university was going to wait until after your gap year and then had become a popstar instead. Now that both you and your brother can afford to come anyway, the tradition is there for sentimental value. A world tour made you realise how much you love them all, even your annoying older brother. 

Your parents are lawyers who met at university and found love in a city that they never moved out of, both of them doing extremely well for themselves. They raised you and your brother to ski, horse-ride, and attend prep schools and public schools, although boarding school was not quite desirable. Your dad speaks in a booming voice, received pronunciation an act used for court, slight Mancunian accent lilting his words whenever he relaxes. 

“Darling!” your mum exclaims, surprised at your attendance just like she is every week. “Come on in, come on in. Daddy has the footie on, and your brother is on his way. Don’t you have songs to sing? How come you’re here?” 

Ushered inside your own home, you smell the brief scent of your family before adjusting to it all and fitting right back into the chaos. There’s beef in the oven, and the roar of the crowd playing faintly from the kitchen where your dad must be preparing the potatoes. He’s proud of his potatoes. 

You slip off your shoes – a new pair of Uggs – and follow your mother to the kitchen. Dad is there, doing exactly what you’d expected, hands working instinctively as his eyes focus on the TV, mouthing along with the commentary as Manchester United take on their opponent. “Sit down,” Dad says as soon as you walk in, pointing at the stools tucked into the island. “We’re not doing too badly, and today should be an easy win.” 

“I know. I do watch the football without you, Daddy.” 

He tuts. “Yeah, but you don’t get the same level of commentary on your own. Plus, United isn’t even what I wanted to talk to you about. I have thought of a publicity move that you should definitely make – it would really help you guys out.” You entertain his suggestion, knowing that’s what dads do, sitting back on the stool with a smirk on your face, already thinking of an interesting way to tell him he is being stupid. “So, what I was thinking was that you guys do a half-time show! You love football, and the girls love footballers – what isn’t to like? Plus, I bet any club would jump at the chance to make some money from extra tickets sold just to see you.” 

“And you haven’t already contacted our manager?” you check, finding your father to be quite unpredictable and rash. His ego is also far too inflated by clients who don’t see him for the kind but bumbling fool he truly is, and so he often takes it upon himself to put forward any ideas he has to your management team, much to everyone’s inconvenience (the last thing they need, amongst sorting out photos of you snogging girls and your friends in various compromising positions, is an old man telling them what he thinks will boost your image). “It’s a good idea, I must admit. I’ll bring it up.” 

“Good stuff.” There’s a clang of metal as the potatoes go in the oven too, and the fridge opens with a pop as your dad begins to fish out the carrots and parsnips to complete your meal, Your mother is responsible for everything else. “Try to get it at Barcelona or Real Madrid,” he says off-handedly. “Imagine singing in the Nou Camp. That’d be crazy.” 

“Not the appearance I dreamt of when I was little, but I’d still get to touch the grass,” you agree. 

“Y/n, we knew you’d never be a footballer. You haven’t got the coordination for that.” They tried to support you, they really did, but then music lessons took over and the sport became a form of entertainment, not exercise. “Women’s football is really something, though. In twenty years, it’ll be good. Maybe you should invest.” 

“I know zero women’s footballers, apart from – what’s her name? Kelly Smith. The English one?” 

“The Arsenal player, yeah. It’s a shame we don’t have a proper women’s team.” 

“Should I fund one?” you joke, but his face lights up and he has taken you seriously. “Okay, I know we’ve been successful thus far, but we haven’t raked in that much. Who knows! It could all go to shit and I could end up right where I started, in my childhood bedroom with no degree and no choice but to mooch off my parents.” 

“I get the sense that you’re slightly stressed about this album,” Dad says slowly, smiling wide, proud to have worked you out. He has always been good at that; knowing what you are feeling. It is a wonderful trait for him to have, seeing as your mother struggles with emotional connection of any kind. She is too much of a corporate big-shot for that, anyway. 

“It’s killing me.” You sigh, slumping on the stool. “It’ll be released and then we’ll hop on tour and I’m so tired. Anya has a crush and Gio’s dating someone and now all of our songs are about love and I just… I don’t know about that. I don’t know if I will ever know about that.” 

And, though he hesitates, Dad walks around the island and places a hand on your shoulder, telling you that you will find the right man someday. 

Deep down, he knows that the daughter who loved to watch football and never once commented on their hairstyles or pretty faces – the girl whose crushes on members of boy bands always seemed half-hearted and forced – is not a daughter who is going to bring home a man one day, with a smile on her face and a ring on her finger. He knows. It is quite possible that he has always known. Whether he is going to bring it up before you feel comfortable to talk about it is a different matter, especially since your mother has dreams of her daughter’s husband that she has whispered to him ever since they found out their second child was a girl. 

Sunday is pretty routine, which you are grateful for. Your brother, also a lawyer, discusses his latest case, resembling the stories your father used to tell at the dining table: stories you’d both yawn at when you were younger. You dish out a few industry secrets, recounting your most recent trip to Cirque Le Soir. With disdain, your mother berates you for any possible drug-usage, scolding you for something you have not admitted to but somehow knowing that you are guilty of it anyway. It feels much like the family dinners of your teenage years, but you suppose that pop stars never really have to grow up and decide that it isn’t all bad. After all, you drive home in a very stylish car.

Then, the week starts with another gruelling, waste-of-time day at the studio, where you go inside before the sun comes up and emerge long after it has set. Dave is decently pleased with the vocals so far. There are another seven tracks to go, but most of those are being written by other people. Mark Ronson, you’ve heard, is open to working with your group. It’s all very exciting, even if you feel like you have run a marathon by the end of the day. 

On Tuesday, you remember to tell your manager and publicist (she’s a woman of many talents) about your father’s idea. At first, her reluctance is extremely evident, but it later dissipates once she thinks about it, having promised you and the now-excited girls to see what she can do. 

You are on a private plane to Barcelona before you can realise what is happening. 

Bags packed with more make-up and spangled underwear than proper clothes, and sunglasses shielding your hungover eyes courtesy of last night’s consoling of a newly-single Giovanna Bartoli, you try your best not to vomit while in the air and even squeeze in a spot of light reading. The girls laugh (wincing at the sound) when they see you revisiting the Aeneid. You like Virgil, though, so you don’t mind. 

“How many days are we here again?” Anya asks, equally hungover. 

“Three,” replies your manager, not bothering to look up from her laptop. “Today, tomorrow, and the day after. Please check if the players are married before you do anything with them.” 

“I’ve sworn off men,” mumbles Gio miserably. She stretches her legs out with a sniffle, and then draws them back in to protect her broken heart. “If I’d get off with any woman, I’d like her to be Spanish.” She clears her throat, the lump of tears disappearing as she retrieves her GCSE-level Español, giving it a shot. If not to be serious than to at least piss you off. “Hola. ¿Cómo estás? ¿Quieres dormir conmigo?”

“What? And then you’re going to shove your tongue down her throat?” Gio looks at you with a smirk. “That is not how you kiss a woman.” 

“Hey, you can’t keep them all to yourself!” 

You laugh, though your manager’s attention has been caught and she is already showing her disapproval. “It would be better that I did if that’s how you think it works.” 

“None of you are kissing women.” 

“That’s not fair,” Anya protests, upset that she didn’t even get to join in the conversation before it got shut down as swiftly as a rowdy houseparty in an American teen-movie. 

“I agree. That’s not fair on Y/n, who actually needs to kiss a woman so her knickers aren’t in a twist all the time.” 

“I’ll twist your knickers in a minute,” you threaten, fist raised to Gio in good humour.

“See what I mean? She needs to let off some steam.” 

“Well, do it discreetly if you must. Do your shows, go out with the players, and bring whoever into your bed as long as they have tight lips and no vendetta against you. Gio, we’re going to have to say something about him ch–”

You gulp, not wanting your friend to cry again. “Wow, the view is really nice,” you interrupt, catching Anya’s appreciative nod in the corner of your eye as you splay your palm on the glass of the aircraft’s window, marvelling at Barcelona’s plazas and cobbled streets. Imagine this being your home, you think to yourself. 

…

Jenni is squawking when Alexia makes her way into the circle of players during their drinks break. Alexia knows her friend is excited to go to the men’s game later on today, but she hadn’t realised it is to this extent until she gets grabbed by the forward and shaken as though she is a snowglobe. 

“I got the golden ticket,” Jenni shouts in her ear, making their teammates around them laugh. “Me, you, and Mario are going to the match tonight!” 

“I already knew that?” They don’t really get free tickets, but they can be heavily discounted. Tonight isn’t a super big deal, though Alexia may stand corrected. “Was I not supposed to know that?” 

“Of course she doesn’t know,” Mariona says, squirting some of her water at the midfielder. She recoils from the droplets, but they land on her training top anyway, and Alexia is already pissed off with the entire world. “Alexia, do you seriously live under a football-shaped rock?” 

Alexia takes a moment to brush off the teasing, picturing the bursting trophy cabinet that is almost within her grasp. “Yes, and it is very homely.” 

“Madre mía, you are one of a kind,” Jenni says with a sigh, movements less aggressive as she drapes an arm around Alexia’s shoulders. “Guess who’s singing at half-time tonight. You’re going to drool so much that the people below us will think it’s raining.” 

At this, Alexia knows exactly who Jenni is talking about, and she blushes though it could easily be mistaken for redness from exercising. 

“I just think she’s pretty,” comes Alexia’s slightly defensive reply. They walk to the middle of the training pitch, rejoining the team as Xavi explains a confusing drill. Neither really listen. 

“Is this your first celebrity crush?” Mariona jibes, overhearing the conversation and finding it necessary to join in. Any excuse to poke fun at the baby of the team. 

Jenni ruffles Alexia’s hair, ruining her neat ponytail. “Alexia’s in love with a straight girl,” she sings. 

It’s then that the whole team chooses to get involved, ears perking up at the mention of Alexia’s lovelife – a more or less forbidden topic. Their captain, Marta Unzué, even chimes in with a ‘we’ve all been there’. Like a stroppy teenager, Alexia folds her arms over her chest and turns to focus entirely on football, something that she knows she loves and loves her back. They leave her alone for the rest of the training session. 

She even manages to forget about what comes after the first forty-five minutes of the match, sitting comfortably in a stadium that is her version of heaven. 

You, on the other hand, cannot distance yourself from the nerves of performing in no less than ten minutes. 

The players were nice when you accompanied Anya to speak to them, and they spent a good while fumbling their way through English to invite you all to join them tonight at Pacha. You took photos with Messi and Neymar to show your father. 

The outfit, if you can call it that, is tight and could possibly show your entire bum to eight-five thousand Culers tonight if you’re not careful. Silver eyeshadow glistens in the mirror when you peer at your reflection, inspecting the bejewelled bralette and tiny shorts you are wearing. 

Anya and Gio, who both look dazzling in their own silver combinations, tell you that it is time to get your microphones sorted. When you stand in the tunnel, ready to go out, you see that they have laid out a sheet on top of the grass so your heels don’t ruin it. Part of you wishes that you were in a football strip and boots. The music starts before you can get too reminiscent. 

You sing with the same adrenaline you always get, and the crowd becomes a blur in your mind as you lose yourself to the melody. The bass hits your heart just like the lyrics do – especially since this song was written by Anya about her last boyfriend – and you hold back tears as the choreography leads your limbs in an energetic dance that must be entertaining to watch. 

When it finishes, and your chest is rising and falling quickly as you try to catch your breath, Alexia thinks you almost catch her gaping at you. Your eyes seem to be scanning the stands. Maybe you see her. 

Maybe that is why you, in your big, black hoodie and paparazzi-proof baseball cap are sitting in the stands of Estadi Johan Cruyff the very next day. 

Alexia does not point you out to her teammates. You make it clear to all who recognise you that you are trying to be incognito, and either the fans at the stadium have no knowledge of popular culture, or they are granting you your privacy.

She is now the entertainer, shining under the spotlight of the bright sun, a ball at her feet like that is where all balls were made to be. And you watch carefully – she can feel it – but you do not stay long enough for her to even think about approaching you. 

…

2016. Somewhere in the sky between LA and New York. 

This time round, the tour has confirmed your hatred for all plane journeys, hotels, and sold-out concerts. 

You’re dead on the inside, numb to the glitter and sparkles of your life, and your eyes are always halfway to being sealed shut in the deepest slumber humanly possible. 

There are a few things that ease the disdain you have for your career, but none of those compare to the channel you have found that streams Barcelona Femení’s football matches. Your excuse, made to no one other than yourself, is that Manchester United has no women’s team. Of course you’d watch them instead, if you could. 

“This is peak lesbianism,” Gio comments, her fifth time saying the exact same thing, prodding a napping Anya to alert her to your boredom-killer on the flight. You’re glad these planes have wi-fi. “We’re in America, which has all the women’s football in the world, and you still choose to watch your crappy little stream on your cracked iPad.” 

“If you hadn’t decided to jump out at me, the screen would be just fine,” you grumble, transfixed on the way Alexia Putellas dribbles with the ball, turning and passing to Jennifer Hermoso who slots the ball right into the bottom-right corner of the net. The pitch looks damaged, and you really have researched how you can help out the sport, but it is hard to dispute anything the girls say about your crush on an unknown squad member when everyone knows you could get your football fix from the Premier League. 

You’re yet to tell anyone that you have just bought this season’s Barcelona shirt. You’re not sure if you’d be invited on the family ski trip if your father were to find out. 

“Sorry, sorry,” replies Gio, hands raised in the air, a gesture of surrender. In hindsight, your response was clipped. “Didn’t mean to distract you from such an important task. When will you tell us who it is that you fancy? We’ve been waiting for you to come to us, but, fuck me, you’ve got tight lips.” 

“And, before you say it – we’re not nosy. We just care. And we find it cute.” 

“And…” 

“What?” you practically grunt, biting your tongue as a hefty challenge sends Alexia Putellas face-first onto the patchy grass. It makes your heart jump. 

“Well, it’s not like she won’t want you, so make your move.” 

“Just like you made your move on Justin Bieber?” She winces. “We did warn you, babe.” 

“It’s alright,” Anya comforts with a small smile, though you are well aware of how funny she also found the situation. Being in LA, as a celebrity, is always an interesting experience. In Gio’s defence, she did not know about a certain model standing right behind her, and you are fairly sure she had run off to do lines with someone or other earlier. “But, yeah, seriously. Y/n, do you want us to guess?” 

“Go on. Guess.” You smirk, because they’ll never–

Anya’s hand flaps as she puts her privately-educated memory to good use. “What’s-her-face?” she squeals, hand slapping down on her thigh as the name eludes her, the flapping resuming once she remembers. “Alexia Putellas!” 

You rip your eyes from your cracked screen, widened in horror. “How did you know?” you ask, voice a whisper as you swallow your shock. 

“You talk about her all the time. ‘Ooh, she’s the future’ this, ‘watch her grow’ that. Just talk to her. She’ll fancy you back.” 

“She’s not a celebrity. Normal people don’t slide into people’s DMs like we do, and I have no clue whether or not she can speak English,” you reason, having said the same thing to yourself every time your finger hovers on that feature of Instagram. “And I don’t like her? You saw me kissing–”

“God, drop it. You know she kisses anyone with a mouth, and you also know that you’re lying your arse off. Whoever this footballer is, just talk to her. If anything, it’ll be good for you to spend time with someone who isn’t going to drag you right into their own closet.” 

“Closets in LA can be very big,” you say with a sigh, having already received a lecture about the damage-control your publicist always seems to be doing. You don’t really think it’s ‘damage’ if a photo of you enjoying yourself with someone, but your publicity team deems any picture of you with a woman one to be locked away in some encrypted file and never released in the papers. 

…

You: Hola! Congratulations on the win. :)

You cringe so hard, but you send it anyway, your friends leaning over either shoulder as they egg you on, wishing your closet gobbled you whole and spat you out somewhere further away than Narnia.

Alexia, in Barcelona, groans at the sound of her phone buzzing, wondering who on Earth is texting her this late. 

And she drops the device on her face when she sees what the notification is. 

Because it really does not make sense, and she is not used to the idea that women’s footballers could one day fraternise with celebrities like you without feeling out of place. (And she’s had a crush on you for about two years and you’re texting her at midnight to congratulate her.)

You, on the other hand, are gripping onto your phone with trembling hands, holding on for dear life. Anya, who claims her C in A-level Spanish was unjust and incorrect, is brainstorming your next message, adamant that you’ll seem cooler if you display some knowledge of her mother tongue. You don’t tell her that, of course, Alexia’s first language would have been Catalan, because you don’t want it to be obvious that you have done a little bit (a lot) of research. 

Gio tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear for you – a comforting gesture. “Hey,” she says kindly, “what’s the worst that could happen?” 

She tries. 

She fails. 

You have compiled a list within a millisecond. “I don’t know,” you start, but, oh, you do. “She could screenshot the conversation and leak it to Twitter? Or she’s not a lesbian and she is disgusted that I am? She could have a girlfriend? She could think my account’s been hacked and report me and everything’ll be deleted? Or all of the above?!” 

The chat is still open on your phone, but you can’t see past your tidal wave of anxiety. 

“I think you’re just nervous.” Understatement of the century. 

Before you can make a snide remark saying exactly that but to Anya’s face, your message is no longer the only one present. 

“She replied!” you shout, volume a concoction of fear and excitement and a thousand emotions in between. 

Alexia: Gracias por ver :)

“Thanks for watching,” Anya translates. 

You exhale. “Okay. Done. No more.” You ignore both of their facepalms with the sort of blissful ignorance you’re sure only delusional people possess, but it is better to have a healthy heart rate than to understand the lyrics to whatever ballad the two of them have in the works. 

…

“Kiss her.” 

“What?” 

“Just kidding,” Jenni giggles, winking at Alexia and stealing her glass of something-not-too-strong. 

The team has been invited to a party with the men’s team, all because their favourite girl group is back in town and are treating the club like a pit-stop on their way to Madrid for the European-leg of their tour. The album has been in the top ten worldwide ever since it was released.

Alexia looks good tonight, as said by Jenni who thought her wardrobe consisted solely of football strips and Barcelona merchandise, and she revels in her little secret. Your little secret. She hasn’t told anyone that you messaged her two months ago, even if the conversation ended with her response. 

Which is why Jenni is set on teasing Alexia about her non-existent chance with you, especially when you have spent your entire night on the other side of the reception room, deep in conversation with Neymar Jr., who is not shameful about his appreciation for the plunging neckline of your tight dress. He has a girlfriend, but Alexia has seen enough tabloid headlines to know that most famous people don’t care. 

Your glass is always full, though that is your own doing. Something about the way a pair of hazel eyes have been watching you from the minute you walked in makes the air around you feel heavier than it should, and alcohol helps to dull your fluster. 

Anya and Gio have circled back a few times, adding to their persuasion each lap. When you see Gio heading your way, a small smile playing on her lips as someone or other trails behind, you excuse yourself from your conversation with your personal hero (who, sadly, would be able to describe your boobs but not your face if he were asked) and clasp your fingers around her forearm, pulling the two of you even further from a certain women’s footballer on the other side of the room.

“She’s staring,” says Gio in a low voice, leaning in to speak into your ear. “She’s staring at you like she wants to eat you.” 

“I’d let her,” you reply, lips loosened from the champagne you’ve been drinking. “She is beautiful.” 

“She is still staring.” 

You decide to be bold. You stare back, and Alexia is trapped, frozen to the spot. “She is so beautiful.” 

“Now you’re both staring.” 

“I’m going to talk to her.” 

“You should,” she encourages, slurring. The blur might come from your distraction, your drunkenness, or her own intoxication. You don’t care. 

Absently, you nod. “Yeah.” 

She presses her fingertips between your shoulder blades, cold hands making you shiver. “Go. You got this.” 

“Yeah.” 

She pushes you away from her, in Alexia’s direction. Your feet carry you on what feels like an inevitable path. 

And you… walk right past her, out of the door, and into the warm air of the evening to have a smoke instead. 

Behind you, Gio lets out a silent scream, turning right around and giving up on your happiness because what more can she do? And Alexia, who is confused about what just happened and bored of this event anyway, is glad to be given an excuse to leave. 

Except, you are blocking her exit, cigarette pressed to your lips as you inhale the smoke like it is a lifeline. She frowns, lips a tight line of disappointment, really. “¿Tú fumas?” she asks, though she knows both the answer and of your incompetence when it comes to her language. 

You let your eyes meet hers, and Alexia shivers, though she tells herself it is only because it’s November. “Hola,” you reply. 

For some reason, Alexia is drawn in. She steps closer to you, and you don’t have anywhere to go, backed against the wall you are leaning on. You’re drunk, and the cigarette has burned down to a stub of orange and black. She’s also drunk – less so than you – and she has nothing to lose right now. She is no one, in her mind, and you are far from prudish. 

She decides, once she is barely ten centimetres away from you, that your dress is provocative, but it only adds to your existing beauty. You push your chest out, standing up straighter. 

The dance is very still, and very silent, but you can imagine what it feels like to kiss her and you know that she is thinking the same thing. 

“You can, if you want to,” you whisper, hoping she understands. 

Luckily, she does. 

Alexia fumbles her way through the first tentative second, shocked that this is what she is doing, but she finds her footing and relaxes into the taste of champagne and cigarette smoke, the heat of your body sparking a fire within her. You pull her closer, pressing her body into yours, and you are now consumed by desperation. The kiss grows messier, and Alexia’s hands begin to roam, mind lost in a haze of desire. She is explorative but she is gentle, and you gasp into her mouth as her tongue pushes past your lips and a hand settles on the curve of your bum, the other cupping your jaw. 

Briefly, she wonders how many girls you have done this with. You seem experienced. The thought, while a little disturbing, sort of spurs her on, feeding into her competitive nature. This will be unforgettable for her regardless of the outcome because it’s an interesting story to tell, but what about you? Are you even aware of what you’re doing? Are you straight? No, you can’t be. You messaged her, so you started this. She is only… finishing it? 

You sense her distraction, pulling back with a blink and a deep intake of fresh air. She tries to move back, afraid of what comes next, but you don’t let her go, clutching onto the hardened muscles of her arms to hold her in place, ready to kiss her again.

The moment is spoilt by a voice – an English voice – and the theft of your attention. Your eyes, previously hooded and dark, widen as they flit towards the door behind her, terribly upset that your friends have developed the worst timing known to man. Gio shouts again, telling you that it’s time to go. You have to get to Madrid, and the pilot would be incredibly annoyed to hear that the flight was delayed because you were too caught up in snogging a girl you may or may not fancy. 

“We really need to go!” Anya repeats, growing impatient with you as you debate giving up your entire music career. “Like, it is insane how badly you need to get your arse over here to say your goodbyes and then jump in the taxi to the airport with us.” 

“Can it just–”

“No!” they both shout in unison. 

You sigh, looking at Alexia, the proximity prodding at a feeling low in your stomach. She doesn’t squirm under the intensity of your gaze, instead sporting a lazy, blissfully ignorant grin. And you’re about to break her little heart. 

“I have to go,” you say softly, forehead resting on her shoulder as you mumble your words out. You have a duty to your job, or, as Virgil puts it: labor omnia vincit. Work conquers all.

“You have to…?” she tries. 

“Go.” 

“Tiene que irse,” Anya translates, reminding you of her presence (and her much better comprehension of Spanish). “Ahora.” 

“Ah.” Alexia’s hand cups the back of your neck as you raise your head, and she kisses you, though the kiss is short. 

You pat your body down with a sudden haste, wandering past your alcohol-clouded thoughts to remember the location of your ticket, reaching down to grab your clutch from where you’d dropped it on the floor while having a smoke. It pops open as Alexia watches your movements, and you retrieve a pen and a scrunched up ticket (you have no idea why that’s in there, but you are grateful that it is). 

“Here.” You hand her the ticket, pressing it into the palm of her hand and then sealing your goodbye with a quick peck to her lips. 

Then, you are gone, running off at an impressive speed in those heels, chasing your friends into the building. 

She pauses herself in time for a moment, drawing back her grasp on reality as her thoughts still and she breathes in your lingering perfume. And then she blinks – blinks her way back into midnight in Barcelona. 

She opens her palm to see what your gift was, unfolding the piece of paper with an overwhelming curiosity that almost rips it at the edges. 

A boarding pass from London Stansted to Barcelona-El Prat Airport, decorated in fresh, black ink.

Scrawled on top of the flight details is something much more valuable than the entrance into First Class the paper allows. 

Eleven digits. 

Twenty-two-year-old Alexia Putellas, the catalyst for change in women’s football as the world knows it, suddenly sees her future set right out in front of her. Because there you are.

[hwasoup]

Tale As Old As Time

Playlist to read along with !!

songs used for inspo: The First Branch, Belle, Nice and Airy How Does a Moment Last Forever (music box), No Matter What,

art credit goes to Marbipa

this au is very heavily inspired from the 1991 movie, 2017 movie, and the musical, some things will seem similar and at times different, some parts of dialogue will be familiar, however it's for the sake of the plot. to summarize, this is basically a retelling of the story. I hope you guys enjoy!!

also let me know if you want to be on the taglist!!

<< prev. | ch.2 >>

Warnings: brief mention of character death, slight misogyny

word count: 1.9K

summary: life as the inventor's daughter

Chapter 1 : The Village

In a small province, east of the castle, there was a small village called Arachna,

This village is quite unique on its own as there are many people of different personalities, Men go to work and get an education and the women stay at home to learn how to be housewives and tend for children. Reading was considered wrong for women to read…Men didn’t want them to develop ideas or think for themselves and only solely focus on the children… However…At the edge of the village, at a small house lived an old inventor, he knew how to fix clocks, create music boxes, and most importantly invent. He would slave the day away just tinkering and figuring out new ideas on how to make life more comfortable and convenient, he proposed his ideas constantly to the villagers to help them make their lives a bit easier, but alas…the villagers called him a loon and demented for frivolous ideas. He would go home dejected, but his greatest pride and most precious invention would be at home; Y/N…

He had raised y/n all on his own after his wife passed away when y/n was 5. To his precious daughter, He promised himself that he wouldn’t shun her from her curiosity and instead showed her all there is to know. Y/N learned how to read, write, speak, analyze, and even sing a little, all due to her father’s promise that he made to her dying mother and to his daughter. Eventually, Y/N grew to be a lovely and beautiful woman. She’s kind, compassionate, loving, and even imaginative. She even has a huge affinity for reading and especially having a bit of a collection of books at home. 

You may wonder, what is Y/N’s life like at her village

well it goes a bit like this…

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A rooster crows in the distance, as the sun rises, signifying the day to begin..

Y/N has woken up and looked at her book beside her bedside table and smiles “well now...time to return this to the bookstore” she says softly to herself. She opens her curtains and opens the window, smelling the morning dew from the fresh air. Y/N gets dressed in her favorite blue dress, tying her hair in a low ponytail with a ribbon and walks downstairs to cook some breakfast for herself before leaving. She puts her book in a little basket and walks out and heads for the village. “Any moment now…before I hear-” she gets interrupted by the waking village “BUENOS DIAS MI GENTE” 

Y/N rolls her eyes as she sees the empty streets quickly fill up with people with errands and work to do. She smells fresh wheat from the bakery, and she smiles as she thinks how the baker always sells his bread right on time. “Ah, Buenos Dias Y/N” the baker says. “Oh Buenos Dias, señor”, The Baker looks at her and smiles and asks, “where are you off to?” Y/N smiling and excited to tell him says “Oh I’m going to the bookstore! I just finished reading this amazing story about an ogre, a donkey, and a cursed princess-” she gets interrupted “oh that’s nice. OYE MARIA, LOS BOLILLOS” he ends up yelling to his wife in the bakery. Y/N shrugs and moves along her day.

The villagers see her and start whispering amongst themselves, they gossiped about how she would always read, always having her nose stuck in a book.However, they could all mutually agree that despite her odd personality, she’s truly a sight for sore eyes, a truly beautiful woman who sadly knows how to think. 

Y/N arrives at the bookstore and opens the door, the bell on top of the door chiming, announcing her arrival. “Buenos Días señor ! vine a devolver el libro que me prestaron” she says handing the book back to the salesclerk with much care. The salesclerk laughs “ Already? Y/N my dear, it's only been since yesterday.” Y/N who was already on the ladder searching for another book looked down at him sheepishly “yea, well I couldn’t exactly put it down…” Her hand lands on a familiar blue book, she pulls it out of the bookshelf and hands it to the salesclerk “I’ll borrow this one !” The salesclerk looks at the title of the book and shakes his head, amused by her antics “you’ve read this book almost 2 times already, are you sure you want this book again ?” he says, while helping Y/N down the ladder. “Well I can’t help it, faraway places, tense sword fights, magic spells, and a prince in disguise” 

The salesclerk chuckles and hands her the book “well if you like it so much it’s yours...” Y/N holds the book in her hands in excitement “I-I… are you sure?” she asks hesitantly. “I insist, please take it” he tells her. “Well then thank you, thank you so much!” Y/N leaves the bookstore happily, immediately opening to the first page.

While Y/N is in the distance walking with her new book, next to a tavern there is a strong, tall, blone, handsome brute of a man, checking himself out in the mirror, making sure that his looks are impeccable. “BEN! I caught your uhh…whatever this bird is, oh and some girls told me to tell you you’re an amazing hunter” says a shorter looking pudgy man to him.

“Why thank you Eddie for reminding me how perfect I am,” Ben says. Eddie nods as he pretends to agree with his own statement. “I bet that not even a beast or girl can handle you,” he says, feeding the man’s ego. Ben looks down at Eddie and grins “oh and that’s true as well, but my next hunt is that one over there” he says pointing at Y/N. Eddie looks at him a bit appalled and says, “the inventor’s daughter?” Ben then inhales and goes on a tangent “Why yes, Eddie…she’s the one I’m going to marry, the most beautiful girl in town. As soon as I met her, I knew that I have to make her my wife, a handsome man like me and a gorgeous woman like her are meant to be together” Eddie agrees with him reluctantly as he sees Venom speed walk to catch up with her.

Ben goes through a bustling market in order to reach Y/N who is easing her way through the crowd despite reading a book. “Please let me through” he said exasperated, not wanting to let Y/N out of his sight. Eventually he does finally reach her by climbing the roof of a house and landing right on his feet like the man he is. “Hello, Y/N” he says as his eyes scan her from head to toe. “Hola, Ben” she says in response while still focusing on her book. ben then smirks and quickly takes the book away from her hands to get her attention. 

“Ben, por favor give back my book” she says politely. Ben ignores her by butting in her way and flipping the pages in the book “How do you read this… there’s no pictures…” 

“Well if you read books then you would know that some people have something called an imagination” 

Ben looks at her and throws the book somewhere as he tries to charm her “well Y/N, I believe it's finally time for you to stop reading books and pay attention to more…attractive things, like me” he says. “The whole town talks about it. It’s not proper for women to read...besides women thinking means they develop ideas and start assuming things” he says with a bit of a grimace on his face. 

“Ay, Ben you’re so antediluvian.”

Y/N then reaches down to pick up her book and wipes the dirt off with a handkerchief. She turns around to keep on going back home but is stopped by Ben yet again as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, mentioning how she should join him at the tavern so that they could talk and bond. “Oh, but I can't. I have to go help my father, goodbye now” she says, as she walks away as fast as her feet can take her away from the brainless man.

A few minutes later after speed walking, Y/N sees smoke coming out of the basement and rushes there quickly. “PAPA!” She opens the basement door to let out the smoke and searches for her father “ay papa, que paso? estas bien?” she asks as she helps him get up from the floor “Ay Hijita, I'm fine... I just can’t get this piece of metal to start working” Y/N chuckles and kisses her father’s forehead “papa you always say that when you’re frustrated… Besides, if you get this to work… you can finally go to the contest and win that prize you’ve always wanted.”

Her father thinks for a while and nods “ you’re right…i shouldn’t give up, i’ll get a patent on this and i’ll finally be Mauricio, the greatest inventor ever seen!” Y/N smiles and hugs her father before leaving to let him finish his invention. “Oh right, papa did you…” she looks at him with a knowing look “yes I did mijita, it's upstairs at the kitchen table.” Y/N nods and dashes up inside the house and speeds to the kitchen. She stops when she looks at the table and smiles fondly. It was her mother’s old music box…now fixed after so many years…

Y/N sits by the table and winds up the music box and hums along to the melody being played remembering the lullaby her father used to sing to her before going to sleep as a child. She then looks up and sees her father smiling at her, enjoying the melody as well. “Papa…do you think i'm..odd ?” she says softly to him. Her father raises an eyebrow and sits beside her “y a donde sacaste eso??”

“People talk papa…” she says looking to the side. “Solecito…they talk about me too, we’re not odd at all…” He brings his hand to her shoulder to console her “you’re my daughter…and you’re mother’s daughter as well, They’re the common people and you…you’re unique Hija. No matter what you do I’m always on your side ok?” Y/N smiles and chuckles “are you sure that’s just not you being biased?” Her father laughs and shrugs “Maybe…maybe not…don’t ever change who you are, ok?” Y/N smiles and nods “ok papa” A few days later, Y/N’s father was finished with his invention and had prepared the wagon, placing some food, medicine, horse fodder, and his invention all neatly placed inside the wagon. As he adds the saddle onto Felipe’s back, placing the reins properly on the horse’s side. He then looks at Y/N and smiles “Hijita…what do you wish for me to bring back for you? Shall it be jewelry, or dresses, or new perfumes?” Y/N thinks for a minute and says, “A rose, like the one mama had embroidered on her dress” He chuckles “But, you ask for that every year. Y/N smiles as she looks at her father “and yet every year you’ll bring it...” “Fine then, you’ll have my word, adios por ahora y/n” he says as he gently caresses his daughter’s cheek. “Adios Papa...” Y/N would watch her father ride up the hill into the distance. 

“Stay Safe...”

taglist: @cupcakeinat0r , @miguelhugger2099, @mcmiracles, @xxsugarbonesxx,@codenameredkrystalmatrix,@deputy-videogamer,@lxverrings,@miguelzslvtz,@itsameclinicaldepression 

[amber-lucca44]

Couldn't sleep and was bored, and kinda hate Drake so um

Drake's biggest fuckups I've caught on this beef

He loves trying to diss Kendrick for his height. Yk like a toddler would.

He tries to say Kendrick's Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers was a bad album. If we're talking critical reviews, it had a Metacritic rating of 85/100, compared to Drake's highest ever rating of 79/100 for Nothing Was The Same. In fact, Kendrick's lowest Metacritic score so far has been 80/100 for Section.80, again over Drake's highest.

...and if we're talking sales or streams, well first, no one ever challenged Drake's sales compared to Kendrick. I think we all know Drake is pretty much unmatched when it comes to that. Second, if sales were a factor to determine quality of music, then holy shit "Despacito" must be an all time magnum opus like nothing anyone ever heard before lol.

Trying to call Kendrick a sellout for doing songs with Maroon 5 and Taylor Swift? Drake calling someone else a sellout? 🤡🤡🤡

The line where he said Kendrick isn't on the big three because SZA, Travis Scott and 21 Savage "got him wiped down". Okay, first, I'm pretty sure this guy thinks big three means just "the three best selling" and uhhh no not quite. And second, and most obvious, SZA? SZA isn't even a rapper, why are you trying to bring her into this? 🙄

The AI to imitate 2Pac's and Snoop's voices. A few points here. First of all, the fucking disrespect to 2Pac, what the fuck. Glad Pac's family threatened him to remove it. Second, Snoop Dogg is alive. You just used his AI voice cause you know damn well he wouldn't be caught dead doing a verse on a Kendrick diss for you. And as a third point, it's just funny you felt like you had to use AI to make a diss track. Ghostwriters weren't enough for this one ig lol.

"Taylor Made Freestyle" was all just him begging on his hands and knees for Kendrick to reply something and give him some attention. Drake took almost a month replying to Kendrick's verse on "Like That". And he's begging for a response to "Push Ups" like a week after it was leaked (and the same day it was even officially released in the first place)

He tried to say the things Kendrick would diss him with. He was mostly right but oh boy did Kendrick do so much more.

Is he a Swiftie too? Cause he wouldn't let her go for "Taylor Made". In his mind, he swears Kendrick wasn't dropping a diss cause he didn't want to interrupt Taylor Swift's album's success, which is just a funny and dumb conclusion to make.

Spends the end of that track just talking, trying to praise Taylor for "managing Kendrick's schedule". 🤡

Drake beginning "Family Matters" with an n word and then going "yeah I said it I know that you mad" really came off sounding like when 12 year olds play online and say the word to seem tough. 😂

"Always rapping like you trying to get the slaves freed". Dang so making songs that actually have substance and meaning means you wanna free slaves, okay.

About these next lines...

Kendrick said he hated the girls you fuck referring to your dumbass being a pedo and hated you trying to hook up with underage girls. Not at any point did he say anything about their color tf.

"I've been with black and white and everything that's in between" okay so all underage girls okay got it. Again that was never the point. 😐

"You the black messiah wifin' up a mixed queen" Drake seriously missed the whole entire fucking point. Kendrick never said he didn't like you for hooking up with white women, what the fuck. And again the messiah thing is just funny.

He mentioned Whitney on "Push Ups", and some gave him the benefit of the doubt thinking he might have just done some wordplay about Whitney Houston being called the same as Kendrick's wife, wasn't clear enough. But these lyrics here are what made it abundantly clear he did want to try to mess with his family. I'm sorry but at this point that's not a rap beef, you intentionally tried to make it personal. Maybe you knew you never had a chance so you thought going there would make it possible to win? As if you didn't have a horrible fucking record already.

"Why you never hold your son and tell him 'say cheese'?" Maybe he doesn't want to expose him too much to the public while he raises him, decent human beings would understand that.

"We could've left the kids out of this, don't blame me" Kendrick said you don't know shit about raising a child based on information that was already abundantly public (see "The Story Of Addidon") and also based on the fact that you, despite having that child, love playing tough on IG and dropping disses using AI begging Kendrick to reply. Trying to get Kendrick's children involved is totally on you, buddy. Kendrick wasn't the one dealing with being exposed with having a child no one knew about and you wouldn't acknowledge.

He loves baselessly claiming that one of Kendrick's children isn't his. Again, baselessly, so literally just gossip lol.

And speaking of baseless stuff, he's really keeps running on his claim that Kendrick has beaten his wife. THERE IS NO EVIDENCE OF THIS. Like at all. In his mind, he probably thinks that since his easily provable bullshit was exposed, he'll try to invent some bs on Kendrick too to make it seem like they're both horrible people. The only piece of shit we know of in this beef is you, Drake.

Not at Kendrick but in a diss aimed at The Weeknd, Drake had to pull out his homophobic card. Disgusting. Fuck, it's so easy to dislike this guy. 🙄

Saying that Kendrick's music only "hitting hard" when Baby Keem writes on it. Is it cause he has writing credits on "N95"? He does ad libs on the song so I'm pretty sure that's why he's listed. Are the ad libs that fire? Lol

"Kendrick just opened his mouth, somebody go hand him a Grammy right now" awww he jealous bout Kendrick's Grammy's lol 🥺

He brought up Kendrick's transgender uncle, and was transphobic to try to diss Kendrick. Just plain ignorant and disgusting as hell. But of course he did. 😑🙄

Tried to blame Kendrick for 2Pac's family threatening legal action for his "Taylor Made Freestyle". Bro what you did was plain disrespectful and it was just bound to happen.

Did he really try to brag about the video leaked of him masturbating? 🤡🤡🤡

And this nonsense right here, was it cause he visited Ghana or something? He's trying to pin Kendrick as a racist? Huh?

...and follows this up with an ignorant, racist, weird ass comment dissing Michael Jackson too for no reason whatsoever. 🤡

Talking to the mirror here lol

Naming his diss track "The Heart part 6" was almost clever. Except for the fact that yk the song is fucking trash.

The first line on this song calls Kendrick "the Pulitzer Prize winner". Yeah pointing out an accolade as amazing as that one at the beginning of a diss towards him will definitely do it. 😀

Having a comment by Dave Free as the cover for the single. Is this his evidence for a kid being his? 😂

Saying you "plotted to give Kendrick information" doesn't even help you much when it's all easily believable based on your background lol.

Denying the child Kendrick is exposing him to have, again, doesn't help your case at all after Adonis.

Goes back to saying Kendrick beat his wife and one of his children is not his, again with no evidence or hint whatsoever, only to go and say he's all about "facts". 🤡

Okay so, be careful everyone, don't leave heart emojis to any child or baby post ever, cause Drake is going to think you're the father.

Why is he even bringing up Kendrick's confessions on "Mother I Sober"? How is bringing up a traumatic potential sexual abuse incident a good way to dodge your own sexual abuse allegations? And that's not even exactly what Kendrick said on the fucking song! It's just disgusting.

And then tries to ridicule Kendrick for being a victim of this. What the fuck is wrong with this mf.

Okay and this one is just cringe. He tried to spin Kendrick's jab on "Not Like Us". B sharp isn't even a thing btw. 😂😂🤡

"I'd never look twice at no teenager" there is literally video of you kissing a teenager on stage, for starters. So you just look at them once before you creep on them how does that work

"Only fucking with Whitney" ah yes the old "I'll fuck your bitch" trope very clever and original Drake

Drake believing some bullshit he saw around about Kendrick using bots to boost his view count is just hilarious. He really thinks Kenny sat down and took some time to actually do that. 😂😂

He thinks people will cancel Kendrick over his baseless battery accusations. 🤡

He ends it with another minute rant like the one he did on "Taylor Made", and starts by saying the beef was "some good exercise". Ngl it is the first time I hear Drake rap at all in a while. So yeah gotta thank Kendrick for getting Drake to actually TRY to do some good music at all. (It's not even good but yk better than whatever trash he was doing before the beef)

"Just let me know when we getting to the facts, everything in my shit is facts" *doubles down on baseless claims of battery and one of Kendrick's children not being his*

[rydiathesummoner]

Ranking the FFXVI dominants according to how good they would be at singing

#8: Jill.

Sorry Jill, but singing is not in the cards. Her early life in the north was wartime, and her side losing. Probably not a lot of singing lessons. Given how Anabella called her savage and viewed her as marriage stock it's unlikely she ever learned how to sing. No biggie though, she would rather shovel chocobo shit than perform in front of people anyway. Sometimes when it's just her and Clive, she will hum off-key. Clive thinks her humming is the most beautiful sound in Valisthea and doesn't even notice she's off-key because if Jill is happy enough to hum, then that's the best thing ever and beautiful and perfect.

#7: Hugo

Singing is for sissies. Pansies. Only weak men participate in the arts. Why learn to sing when you can have the glory of combat, gold and women?? That said, he was able to hold that "FUUUUUUUUUUCK" pretty well so he might be able to hold notes just as well.

#6: Joshua

He probably had music lessons as a kid so he knows the theory and can carry a tune. However, he spent his voice-changing puberty years in a coma. It probably took him ages just to get used to his body doing all kinds of wild new shit for him to re-learn how to sing. He might sing along in a crowd for holidays and ceremonies, but he's mostly lip-synching. It also doesn't help he has an alien in his chest and a tendency to cough up blood. Good luck projecting your voice with that.

#5: Cid

Yeah he's a bit off-key, and?? He's a former military commander, not a theater star. He doesn't give a shit if he's singing well or not, he's going to get drunk, sing his heart out with his buddies and if you don't like it, well the door's over there. He gets the lyrics right, mostly! What he lacks in skill he makes up for in style and getting the (bar) crowd involved. Not to mention his speaking voice is great, right? Just... kind of add a tune and it's still gonna be better than average.

#4: Benedikta

Despite her impoverished background, her singing is pretty nice. She really excels in sultry and jazzy/blues types of songs. Obviously she uses this surprising skill to entice men and not because she enjoys it or anything. To her it's just another tool in her kit, and like any tool she keeps it sharpened with plenty of practice while slinging her weapons around. Everyone in the weapons range loves to listen to her singing but they don't dare say anything.

#3: Barnabas

He has a rich and beautiful baritone. He could have been a star if he hadn't elected to be a murderous slave king to a deceitful god. He doesn't sing anyway though. Singing is useless. Unless it would summon Mythos. Wait, will it attract Mythos for the Lord and Master? Could singing potentially buff Mythos to prepare him to be even stronger for his Master? He's heard tales of such people from other stories. Better sing while battling Mythos. Just in case.

#2: Dion

His singing voice is stellar. His singing is like a clear night's sky. But you'll never hear it. He doesn't sing in front of others. That's... awkward. He's a weapon, not an entertainer. What would his troops think if he started belting out the show tunes he secretly loves? That's not how a Proper Bahamut™ acts! They would either never take him seriously again or make inappropriate song requests constantly and he's not sure which one is worse. He'll sing for Terence though. He gets flustered when Terence encourages it but does it anyway and secretly enjoys singing for him. Terence knows he secretly enjoys it. That's why he asks. Well, that and his voice really is amazing.

#1: Clive

Of course the theater kid is number 1. He was the star of all his Rosarian school musicals. He's been singing his whole life! As a kid some of his favorite memories are belting out old songs with Uncle Byron and his dad. They used to fantasize about becoming a singing quartet once Joshua was older if they didn't have the whole royalty and eikon thing going on. When he was enslaved by the Imperial army he didn't sing much, except on rare occasions with his fellow Bastards after a long mission and some smuggled alcohol. The bastards are confused why Wyvern has such a beautiful singing voice but whatever he kills good too. Once he's freed and has accepted himself he feel the urge to get back into singing again, but by now he's feeling a bit awkward about it. Like how does one approach the topic? "Hey guys, I'm a great singer check it out!" No, that's too weird for Outlaw Cid, he can't force it. He wishes to himself that there would be a singing contest or at least a drunken sing-along at the Fat Chocobo so he can finally show off his talent, or that Jill would somehow spread the idea around so somebody could ask, but so far he's been disappointed. Someday the Hideaway will hear it. Someday.

[tawus]

African/African-American/Black

Do The Right Thing (1989) On the hottest day of the year on a street in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, everyone's hate and bigotry smolders and builds until it explodes into violence.

Goodbye Solo (2008) This film is touching and humorous. It is the story of an unlikely friendship between a struggling but happy cab driver from Senegal, and a tormented southern man with secrets.

Lincoln (2012) As the Civil War continues to rage, President struggles with continued fighting on the battlefield during the civil war but he also fights with many inside his own cabinet with his decision to emancipate the slaves.

Malcom X (1992) Biographical epic of the controversial and influential Black Nationalist leader, from his early life and career as a small-time gangster to his ministry as a member of the Nation of Islam.

Straight Outta Compton (2015) The group NWA emerges from the mean streets of Compton in Los Angeles, California, in the mid-1980s and revolutionizes Hip Hop culture with their music and tales about life in the hood.

The Color of Friendship (2000) Mahree Bok is a white South African teenager and a product of the Apartheid system raised to view dark-skinned people as second-class citizens. Piper Dellums is the daughter of an African-American U.S. Congressman living in Washington D.C. When Mahree is chosen to spend her time as an exchange student at the Dellums's house, she is shocked on her arrival to discover that the Dellums are black, and the Dellums are just as surprised when they realize that Mahree is a white South African.

The Color Purple (1985) Based on Alice Walker's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, The Color Purple is a richly-textured, powerful film set in America's rural south. It is a brilliant drama about a black woman's struggles to take control of her life in a small Southern town in the early 20th century.

The Help (2011) This academy award winning movie takes place during the civil rights movements of the 1960’s, when an aspiring writer decides to write a book about the African-American maids' point of view on the white families they work for and the hardships they experience on a daily basis.

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Cambodian/Chinese/Vietnamese

Eat Drink Man Woman (1994) A senior chef lives with his three grown daughters; the middle one finds her future plans affected by unexpected events and the life changes of the other household members.

Holly (2006) In Cambodia, Holly, a 12-year-old Vietnamese girl, encounters Patrick, an American stolen artifacts dealer. The story follows their strong connection and her unrelenting efforts to escape her fate.

Last Train Home (2009) A couple embarks on a journey home for Chinese new year along with 130 million other migrant workers, to reunite with their children and struggle for a future. Their unseen story plays out as China soars towards being a world superpower.

Lost in Paradise (2011) Khoi, naive twenty-year-old travels to Ho Chi Minh City from the countryside to begin a new life. It's his first time in the big city and he's looking for a place to live.

Raise the Red Lantern (1991) A young woman becomes the fourth wife of a wealthy lord and must learn to live with the strict rules and tensions within the household.

Sentenced Home (2007) This documentary follows three Cambodian-American men, brought to the U.S. as children by their refugee families. They were raised in the grim public housing of Seattle, among gangs and other realities of that life. Bad choices as teens altered their lives forever, when immigration laws after 9/11 provided no second changes for such children. Though they were raised in the U.S., speak to one another in English, even think in English, each is sentenced to return to Cambodia - separated from family here, possibly forever.

The Joy Luck Club (1993) The story of four Chinese women who immigrated to the U.S. and their first-generation daughters. When one of the women dies, her daughter plays Mahjong with the older women and begins to really learn what her mother endured in China and of her sisters who were left behind. Daughter from Danang (2002) Separated at the end of the Vietnam war, an "Americanized" woman and her Vietnamese mother are reunited after 22 years.

The Last Emperor (1987) The story of the final Emperor of China.

The Quiet American (2002) An older British reporter vies with a young U.S. doctor for the affections of a beautiful Vietnamese woman.

The Vertical Ray of the Sun (2000) The plot centres around three sisters, two of whom are happily married (or so it appears).

Three Seasons (1999) An American in Ho Chi Minh City looks for a daughter he fathered during the war. He meets Woody, a child who's a street vendor, and when Woody's case of wares disappears, he thinks the soldier took it. Woody hunts for him.

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South Asian/Indian

Bhaji on the Beach (1998) Hashida, an 18-year old Asian woman, lives with her family in Birmingham. Her father wants her to become a doctor and next month her medical school is going to start. Secretly, she has a black boyfriend – which is an absolute faux pas in some Asian cultures – and has now discovered that she is pregnant. She joins a small South Asian women's group on a trip to Blackpool, a trip that holds life-changing experiences for all.

Bend It Like Beckham (2002) Teen-aged Londoner Jesminder Bhamra chases her dream of being a professional soccer player while dealing with the objections of her traditional Sikh family.

Gandhi (1982) A biography of Mohandas K. Gandhi, the lawyer who became the famed leader of the Indian revolts against the British rule through his philosophy of non-violent protest.

Slum Dog Millionaire (2008) A teen in Mumbai, India who grew up in the slums, becomes a contestant on the Indian version of "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" When he is suspected of cheating, he is arrested. During his police interrogation, events from his life history are shown which explain why he knows the answers.

The Namesake (2006) A tale of a first-generation son of traditional, Indian immigrant parents. As he tries to make a place for himself, not always able to straddle two worlds gracefully, he is surprised by what he learns about his family and himself.

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Disease/Mental Illness/Disability

My Left Foot: The Story of Christy Brown (1989) Christy Brown, born with cerebral palsy, learns to paint and write with his only controllable limb - his left foot.

The Theory of Everything (2014) A look at the relationship between the famous physicist Stephen Hawking and his wife.

Ray (2004) The story of the life and career of the legendary rhythm and blues musician Ray Charles, from his humble beginnings in the South, where he went blind at age seven, to his meteoric rise to stardom during the 1950s and 1960s.

Silver Linings Playbook (2012) After a stint in a mental institution, former teacher Pat Solitano moves back in with his parents and tries to reconcile with his ex-wife. Things get more challenging when Pat meets Tiffany, a mysterious girl with problems of her own.

Still Alice (2014) A linguistics professor and her family find their bonds tested when she is diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease.

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LGBTQ+

A Single Man (2009) The story of an English professor, who one year after the sudden death of his boyfriend, is unable to cope with his typical days in 1960s Los Angeles. It is a powerful story of his grief and pain for the loss of someone he truly deeply loved.

Boys Don’t Cry(1999) This film is about the true life story of Brandon Teena, a young woman who is going through a sexual identity crisis. She cuts her hair and dresses like a man to see if she can pass as one. She lived life in a male identity until it was discovered he was born biologically female.

Brokeback Mountain (2005) This film tells the story of a forbidden and secretive relationship between two same-sex cowboys and their lives over the years.

Milk (2008) This film tells the story of American gay activist, Harvey Milk, and his struggles as he fights for gay rights and becomes California's first openly gay elected official.

Philadelphia (1993) In this movie, a lawyer, working for a conservative law firm, is diagnosed with AIDS. His employer fires him because of his condition. He tries to find someone to take his case but all refuse except one willing small time lawyer who advocates for a wrongful dismissal suit in spite of his own fears and homophobia.

The Danish Girl (2015) A fictitious love story loosely inspired by the lives of Danish artists Lili Elbe and Gerda Wegener. Lili and Gerda's marriage and work evolve as they navigate Lili's groundbreaking journey as a transgender pioneer.

Transamerica (2005) A pre-operative male-to-female transgender takes an unexpected journey when she learns that she fathered a son, now a teenage runaway hustling on the streets of New York.

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Hispanic/Latino(a)/Mexican

A Day Without a Mexican (2004) One-third of the population of California is Latinos, Hispanics, Mexicans. How would it change life for the state's other residents if this portion of the populous suddenly vanished? The film is a "mockumentary" designed to show the valuable contributions made every day by Latinos.

Babel (2006) Tragedy strikes a married couple on vacation in the Moroccan desert, touching off an interlocking story involving four different families.

El Norte (1983) The Guatemalan army discovers Mayan Indian peasants who have begun to organize, hoping to rise above their label of "brazos fuertes" or "strong arms" (manual laborers). The army massacres their families and destroys their village to give the new recruits no choice but to follow and obey. However, two teenage siblings survive and are determined to escape to the U.S. or El Norte. They make their way to L.A. - uneducated, illegal immigrants, alone.

Mi Familia (My Family) (1995) This epic film traces over three generations an immigrant family's trials, tribulations, tragedies, and triumphs. Jose and Maria, the first generation, come to Los Angeles, meet, marry, face deportation all in the 1930s. They establish their family in East L.A., and their children Chucho, Paco, Memo, Irene, Toni, and Jimmy deal with youth culture and the L.A. police in the 1950s. As the second generation become adults in the 1960s, the focus shifts to Jimmy, his marriage to Isabel (a Salvadorian refugee), their son, and Jimmy's journey to becoming a responsible parent.

Sin Nombre (2009) A Honduran young girl and a Mexican gangster are united in a journey across the American border.

Under the Same Moon (2007) Heartwarming story about a mother who leaves Mexico to make a home for herself and her son (Adrian Alonso). When the boy's grandmother dies, leaving him alone, he sets off on his own to find his mother.

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Immigrants/Undocumented

Crossing Arizona (2006) With Americans on all sides of the issue up in arms and Congress in a policy battle over how to move forward, Crossing Arizona tells the story of how we got to where we are today. Heightened security in California and Texas has pushed illegal border-crossers into the Arizona desert in unprecedented numbers (estimated 4,500 a day). Most are Mexican men in search of work, but increasingly the border-crossers are women and children wanting to join their husbands and fathers. This influx of migrants crossing through Arizona and the attendant rising death toll has elicited complicated feelings about human rights, culture, class, labor, and national security.

Dancer in the Dark (2000) An east European girl goes to America with her young son, expecting it to be like a Hollywood film.

El Norte (1983) The Guatemalan army discovers Mayan Indian peasants who have begun to organize, hoping to rise above their label of "brazos fuertes" or "strong arms" (manual laborers). The army massacres their families and destroys their village to give the new recruits no choice but to follow and obey. However, two teenage siblings survive and are determined to escape to the U.S. or El Norte. They make their way to L.A. - uneducated, illegal immigrants, alone.

In America (2002) A family of Irish immigrants adjusts to life on the mean streets of Hell's Kitchen while also grieving the death of a child.

The Terminal (2004) When an Eastern European immigrant comes to American to fulfill a promise to his father he finds himself stranded inside JFK airport, making it his temporary residence when he cannot enter the USA nor return home.

The Visitor (2007) A lonely economics professor in Connecticut life is changed forever - and for the better - when he finds a couple of illegals, who happen to be living in his New York apartment.

Green Card (1990) A French man wanting to stay in the US enters into a “short-term” marriage to an American woman so he can get his green card. Complications result when he gets caught lying.

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Indigenous

Avatar (2009) A paraplegic marine dispatched to the moon Pandora on a unique mission becomes torn between following his orders and protecting the world he feels is his home.

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (2007) A chronicle of how American Indians were displaced as the U.S. expanded west. Based on the book by Dee Brown.

Once Were Warriors (1994) A family descended from Maori warriors is bedeviled by a violent father and the societal problems of being treated as outcasts.

Rabbit-Proof Fence (2002) In 1931 Australia, government policy includes taking half-caste children from their Aboriginal mothers and sending them a thousand miles away "to save them from themselves." Molly, Daisy, and Grace (two sisters and a cousin who are 14, 10, and 8) arrive at their “school” and promptly escape, under Molly's lead. For days they walk north, following a fence that keeps rabbits from settlements, eluding a native tracker and the regional constabulary. Their pursuers take orders from the government's "chief protector of Aborigines," A.O. Neville, blinded by Anglo-Christian certainty, evolutionary worldview and conventional wisdom.

Smoke Signals (1998) Young Indian man Thomas is a nerd in his reservation, wearing oversize glasses and telling everyone stories no-one wants to hear. His parents died in a fire in 1976, and Thomas was saved by Arnold. Arnold soon left his family (and his tough son Victor), and Victor hasn't seen his father for 10 years. When Victor hears Arnold has died, Thomas offers him funding for the trip to get Arnold's remains, but only if Thomas will also go with him. Thomas and Victor hit the road.

The Spirit of Crazy Horse (1990) One hundred years after the massacre at Wounded Knee, Milo Yellow Hair recounts the story of his people-from the lost battles for their land against the invading whites-to the bitter internal divisions and radicalization of the 1970's-to the present-day revival of Sioux cultural pride, which has become a unifying force as the Sioux try to define themselves and their future.

Whale Rider (2002) On the east coast of New Zealand, the Whangara people believe their History dates back a thousand years to a single ancestor, Paikea, who escaped death when his canoe capsized by riding to shore on the back of a whale. Whangara chiefs have been considered Paikea's direct descendants. Pai, an 11-year-old girl in a patriarchal New Zealand culture, believes she is destined to be the new chief. But her grandfather Koro is bound by tradition to pick a male leader. Pai must fight a thousand years of tradition to fulfill her destiny.

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Middle Eastern

Baran (2001) In a building site in present-day Tehran, Lateef, a 17-year-old Turkish worker is irresistibly drawn to Rahmat, a young Afghan worker. The revelation of Rahmat's secret changes both their lives.

Incendies (2010) Twins journey to the Middle East to discover their family history, and fulfill their mother's last wishes.

Schindler's List (1993) In German-occupied Poland during World War II, Oskar Schindler gradually becomes concerned for his Jewish workforce after witnessing their persecution by the Nazi Germans.

The Band’s Visit (2007) A band comprised of members of the Egyptian police force head to Israel to play at the inaugural ceremony of an Arab arts center, only to find themselves lost in the wrong town.

Turtles Can Fly (2004) Near the Iraqi-Turkish border on the eve of an American invasion, refugee children like 13-year-old Kak (Ebrahim), gauge and await their fate.

Wadjda (2012) An enterprising Saudi girl signs on for her school's Koran recitation competition as a way to raise the remaining funds she needs in order to buy the green bicycle that has captured her interest.

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Pacific Islander/Polynesian

Balangiga: The Howling Wilderness (2017) 1901, Balangiga. Eight-year-old Kulas flees town with his grandfather and their carabao to escape General Smith's Kill and Burn order. He finds a toddler amid a sea of corpses and together, the two boys struggle to survive the American occupation.

Moana (2016) In Ancient Polynesia, when a terrible curse incurred by the Demigod Maui reaches an impetuous Chieftain's daughter's island, she answers the Ocean's call to seek out the Demigod to set things right.

Once Were Warriors (1994) A family descended from Maori warriors is bedeviled by a violent father and the societal problems of being treated as outcasts.

Princess Kaiulani (2009) The story of a Hawaiian princess' attempts to maintain the independence of the island against the threat of American colonization.

Whale Rider (2002) On the east coast of New Zealand, the Whangara people believe their History dates back a thousand years to a single ancestor, Paikea, who escaped death when his canoe capsized by riding to shore on the back of a whale. Whangara chiefs have been considered Paikea's direct descendants. Pai, an 11-year-old girl in a patriarchal New Zealand culture, believes she is destined to be the new chief. But her grandfather Koro is bound by tradition to pick a male leader. Pai must fight a thousand years of tradition to fulfill her destiny.

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Women

Āfsāīd = Offside (2006) Struggle of Women in a country that excludes them from entering the stadiums.

The Help (2011) This academy award winning movie takes place during the civil rights movements of the 1960’s when an aspiring writer decides to write a book about the African-American maids' point of view on the white families they work for and the hardships they experience on a daily basis.

Suffragette (2015) The foot soldiers of the early feminist movement, women who were forced underground to pursue a dangerous game of cat and mouse with an increasingly brutal State.

Water (2005) The film examines the plight of a group of widows forced into poverty at a temple in the holy city of Varanasi. It focuses on a relationship between one of the widows, who wants to escape the social restrictions imposed on widows, and a man who is from the highest caste and a follower of Mahatma Gandhi.

Whale Rider (2002) On the east coast of New Zealand, the Whangara people believe their History dates back a thousand years to a single ancestor, Paikea, who escaped death when his canoe capsized by riding to shore on the back of a whale. Whangara chiefs have been considered Paikea's direct descendants. Pai, an 11-year-old girl in a patriarchal New Zealand culture, believes she is destined to be the new chief. But her grandfather Koro is bound by tradition to pick a male leader. Pai must fight a thousand years of tradition to fulfill her destiny.

Ooh amazing, thank you for this! ❤️

I've watched Slumdog Millionaire, Brokeback Mountain, and Schindler's List. And read a Penguin Classics abridged version of Rabbit-Proof Fence as part of my English learning back in my teenage years. Some of the others I'm familiar with tho have yet to watch; and others are completely new to me

[aceofcupsbiggestfan]

Panathenaia

~ 23-30 Hekatombaion~

Meaning 'All-Athenian', Panathenaia celebrated Athena as the patroness of Athens. It was the premier festival of the year, sparking large celebration. Two versions of this festival took place, Panathenaia ta mirka (Lesser Panathenaia) and Panathenaia ta megala (Greater Panathenaia). Greater Panathenaia took place every four years compared to its annual counterpart. The only difference in festivals was that of scale and performance, with Greater Panathenaia marking the greater festival.

Part of the name sake of the month, Panathenaia based with a hecatomb throughout. Processions took place outside of Acropolis, a means to show the new peplos for Athena's statue. This weaving of the new fabric was held at Plynteria. The traditional blue and yellow would be taken to Athena in a ship. Everybody took part.

Kanephoroi (young women with baskets on their heads containing grain), Diphrophoroi (young girls carrying chairs), Thallophoroi (Old men bearing branches and young men in purple robe, and non-citizens proceeded to Athena's temple. Non-citizens often held cakes and honeycomb while freed slaves and non-Greeks carried oak branches. Daughters of Metics carried water jugs. Representatives of City-States throughout Attica brought armor and cows as offerings. The victors of the games were included in the procession.

The procession walked throughout many Attican cities most notably, Eleusinium, Acropolis and Propylaea where they ended. Sacrifices were completed with prayers. Sacrifices included several epithets of Athena including Athena Hygiaea, Athena Polias and Athena Nike. Each epithet was given something different.

Part of the festival highlighted the Panathenaian Games, similar to its Olympiad counterpart. The games held torch races to determine sacrificial fire, all-night service and meat meals for anyone, all at the city's pocket.

While the early games were for Athenians only, in 566 BCE the games were open to all Greeks. This was part of Panathenaia ta megala. In the annual festival Athenian-Only games persisted, the Greater festival offered the opportunity for others to join.

Later, musical competitions and recitations of Homer were added. The Iliad and Odyssey were popular choices as well as short-length poetry. Foot-racing, pentathlon, wrestling, gymnastics, boxing and pankration were observed in three male "age" categories: older men, younger men and boys. Chariot races were also added along with javelin-throwing from horseback and races for foals and full-grown horses.

Winners of the games were prized olive oil from Athena's sacred olive tree along with money depending of rank of winning.

Traditional Offerings:

Beef

Olives and Olive oil

Water or khernips

Oak branches/leaves

Hymns to Athena

Traditional Acts:

Games, such as running, horse racing and torch racing

Hymns and Offerings to Athena

Reciting or reading poetry, such as Homer

Wearing purple, yellow or blue

feasting with community

Khaire Athena! Happy Panathenaia! 🦉🏅🍃

[narukaminigga]

AYE NIGGA(S) LISTEN UP

back in days of old, rap and hip hop was seen as a foolish endeavor; a moronic art form made by black people. whites did not gaf about it. thankfully while that’s changed… tumblr one of the only social medias i use to keep in contact with the outside world. i’ve seen the dumbest, stupidest posts because tumblr is a white hell. there are basically next to no black bloggers. they’re either dead or they abandoned the site or they were banned during that whole russian bot shit and whatever remains of black tumblr is a decrepit grave that i wish i experienced—but thanks to the hostilities of the white userbase and the staff’s oppressive nature towards blacks first and foremost, most of us are gone. i have been on this site for approximately a year or two and i have only accrued a few black people on this site. every other thing i see is traditionally antiblackness laced in progressive language, clear unbridled ignorance of black phrases, substitutions of “nigga” for the euphemism “f slur” and especially because of kendrick lamar’s beef with drake extending across the entire internet and worldwide; tumblr the “hating” website gets ahold of it. for the first time, people experience the lyricisms of kendrick and the banality of drake on full display…

and then instead, tumblr users (predominantly white) complain about the innate violence of rap, comparing fucking kendrick to LEMON DEMON (nigga who listens to LEMON DEMON????), saying some stupid shit about how rap boring as fuck, etc. etc., and it’s exhausting its so exhausting because so many people on this site refuse to acknowledge rap as a real music form and instead gas up their metal bands basically ran by neo nazi whiteboys and still are terrified of blackness. and even when they dip their toes into the art, they back away. i know everyone rn is flaming each other over this but this website is notorious for it’s systemic bigotry against blacks. we are not property and vehicles for ideological rhetoric. we are not hapless. we aren’t slaves. we are people. listen to our music nigga. you don’t like it? move on. don’t say nothing. don’t go on posts like some people have been doing and going: “oooohhhh rap lame as fuck!”. learn culture bro. and i dont want nobody to feel any white guilt but so many of you on tumblr are just so fucking bigoted for no reason towards black people (even those hardcore marxists on here). i just dont wanna see another post about a white person tweaking out over rap. go listen to black artists and support black people. support black men. support black women. support black transmascs and black transfems. support black intersex people. support all black queers. support ALL black people.

[wraithdance]

Hi, I’m the “woe is me” anon. I’m going to refer to myself as that because it’s super annoying to me that I came off that way and I am actively cringing.

Anyway, thank you so much for writing back to me with your thoughts and opinions. I really appreciate your perspective.

With the music thing, I 1000% understand where you’re coming from. There are a lot of renditions (idk if that’s the correct word so I apologize if that’s the case) of songs that were sung by African men and women when they were slaves. I do listen to that music sometimes because I just think it’s really powerful and meaningful, but I do it respectfully because of the history & of course out of respect for the artists.

When I said I have a hard time interacting with those communities, I didn’t mean it like “they don’t like me so I don’t like them.” I meant that I have seen so many people post in their bios that straight, white people aren’t welcome, so I tend to just stay away when I see any writing or art that’s from a poc or someone who is in the lgbtq community, even if I don’t see the artist specifically say that. I’ve just started to kind of assume they wouldn’t appreciate my interactions, which is not fair of me to assume and I acknowledge that.

With the blocking thing, of course I respect it when I get blocked. I’m a big advocate of using that feature myself, but because I’m old and getting blocked used to be a “fuck you,” I still have a moment of :( when it happens, especially when I realize it was avoidable if I would have read their bio and seen that they didn’t want me there in the first place. It makes me feel awful because I crossed a boundary by not looking at their profile before liking their post. Again, that is not on them, that is on me and I would never ever want to make anyone uncomfortable intentionally.

I had the privilege of growing up in a pretty diverse area, so race wasn’t something I really paid attention to until I got older, which I think is the case for a lot of white people which is a whole other issue that needs to be addressed.

So when I started seeing things like “no straight white people are welcome,” it shook me a bit because I had never seen that before. I’m absolutely not saying they shouldn’t do that. If that’s what makes them comfortable, by all means, and I respect it, but I do hold the opinion that it causes division and is hurtful, which I think that might be the point for some people, and that’s okay too.

I really rambled, good lord. And I really fucking hope I’m not coming off as some ignorant white asshole, because I actively try to educate myself on these things.

Hi so respectfully I’m going to answer this last ask on the subject then I won’t respond anymore. I do think you want to learn but I want to set a hard boundary now and going forward.

I don’t enjoy facilitating talks on anti racism because it’s exhausting and I don’t like having to step so far outside of myself to try and teach a concept in depth that I only learned because I have to survive in a world not for me. It’s just very emotionally draining for me personally. Compiling stuff like the directory is one thing because I’m centering other marginalized people and it’s for my own use as well.

There’s excellent educators out there and amazing books that can help you gain clarity/understanding on what the disconnect is. I am just a bitch that likes being silly online and I’m not emotionally equipped or being paid like they are to handle topics like this. I hope you can understand my stance 💖

Further thoughts below.

On your own, I’d really like you to figure out what about negro spirituals is something you enjoy listening to. Because I didn’t blink when you said you liked rap but seeing that part of this ask threw me absolutely off. I’m southern and black American so negro spirituals have a very specific and weighty meaning to me. *I* don’t even listen to them like that because I feel such utter sadness and pain remembering the passed down stories my grandparents/family told me about being from the south and those that were enslaved. It feels so very dystopian to hear someone listens to it casually and I’m not sure if I’m misinterpreting that part and if I am, I’m sorry.

I’m glad you realized you were making assumptions, the only thing you can do going forward is take care to not write others off before they’ve even said anything.

The rest of your ask is a contradiction tbh and I’m going to rip the bandaid off because like I said previously there are people who would be a lot less careful about responding to this kind of thing. It’s not divisive for the marginalized to want to protect their selves and their spaces. Point blank period.

I would entertain the ‘we need to all get along’ logic if we were far more advanced as a society on topics of race and discrimination, but we aren’t. By centering how you feel about not being allowed to interact and how hurt you are you’re redirecting the conversation from the WHY.

Why do these random people you come across on the internet feel so strongly about white/straight people that they don’t want to risk dealing with a white/straight person online?

If you didn’t come up with at least 3 relevant events against the lgbt/poc community after you read that then there’s a problem. You’ve said it yourself the last thing you want to do is come off as woe is me but the prioritization of how you feel first is going to trip you up from learning/understanding hard concepts like this that you didn’t grow up learning.

Like I said I don’t want to facilitate these conversations, I’ve done so for years in a career setting and I don’t have it in me anymore. What I can do, is give you some resources to look up if you feel inclined, just come back and say ‘hey I’d really like those links/books’ and I’ll give them to you without another word.

Otherwise if that’s not something you want to do then you’re good. Thank you for asking in the first place, I think that’s a good first step.

[redxluna]

Hello! Watching MC and then reading about the actual harem (that it was in the Old Palace, not Topkapi), how did the sultan then choose a concubine? Would he deliberately travel to the Old Palace to select one or did someone else always picked for him? And if concubines even after birthing a child would still stay in the harem, wouldn't that have been quite lonely? How did Sultanate of Women even happen if they weren't close to the political center of Topkapi?

How did the sultan then choose a concubine? Would he deliberately travel to the Old Palace to select one or did someone else always picked for him?

A little of both!

Sometimes women were purchased from the slave markets to be raised within the households of high-ranking statesmen or even Imperial princesses. These women were then "gifted" into the harem where their careers would almost be fast tracked since, unlike others, they'd be considered already educated (fun fact, a theory about Hürrem is that she was, in fact, presented as an "accession gift" by Ibrahim or else trained by a princess and then gifted to the Valide Sultan).

However, the harem wasn't just a place for potential concubines—the female members of a sultan's family were there too. And, on the customary visits to his mother, potential "prospects" could be placed in his path.

“During a sultan’s visit, his mother or a resident sister would organize refreshment and entertainment. These receptions offered him opportunity to survey attractive young women who served fruit-flavored sherbets or offered a music-and-dance interlude. For her part, an aspiring concubine was ready and eager to display grace and accomplishment. The bolder among them perhaps engaged in guarded flirtation. Did Roxelana beguile Suleyman with the laugh or the smile for which she presumably earned her Ottoman name, Hurrem?” – Leslie Peirce. Empress of the East: How a European Slave Girl Became Queen of the Ottoman Empire

So, really, if a concubine were determined to advance and happened to be purchased into the harem directly from the slave markets then the best way to go about it was to attract the attention of a higher up (either a servant who could recommend her to the Valide or even the Valide herself).

And if concubines even after birthing a child would still stay in the harem, wouldn't that have been quite lonely?

Admittedly, if a concubine did become favored by the sultan there was a separate place within Topkapı that she could occupy. Of course, until the Sultanate of Women this would've been a short-term residence since a sultan didn't really keep a regular partner until Hürrem.

Before, under the policy of "one son to one mother" a concubine could only return to the sultan's bed if she birthed a daughter. If she gave birth to a prince, her sexual role would be considered over (which could be either a blessing or a sorrow depending on that woman's feelings).

It's easy to see how being within the harem could be lonely (historians have touched on that a bit too, honestly) but I think that's why these women gathered trusted allies around them. (For example, the real Gülfem was a close friend of Hürrem's and she also had a trusted eunuch within her service.)

The sultan could still visit, but Suleiman was, truth be told, away from the capital on campaign quite often, which, no doubt, is why there are so many letters passed between himself and Hürrem in those times.

How did Sultanate of Women even happen if they weren't close to the political center of Topkapi?

Ah, it happened because that political center got breached!

"Roxelana had apparently gained her freedom at some point before becoming Suleyman's spouse. Then, following her marriage to the sultan, she gradually took up residence in the New Palace [Topkapı Palace], the first royal woman to ever do so. Manumission, marriage, the opening of harem quarters in the previously all-male palace—each development was a radical move, each shattered Ottoman precedent. A whole new position was coming into the Ottoman empire that could only be called the office of queen." – Leslie Peirce. Empress of the East: How a European Slave Girl Became Queen of the Ottoman Empire

After Hürrem would come Nurbanu, who, often along with her son, would occupy Topkapı as well (particularly since, in Selim II's reign, Mihrimah was head of the harem in the Old Palace).

Basically, Hürrem broke the mold enough to allow for the Sultanate of Women to occur.

[exvangelicalrage]

It's Not Technically Gaslighting

Recently, in my travels, I came across this church sign: 

Back in my younger years, I would've seen this, nodded sagely, and said, "Yes. Putting jesus first, others second, and myself last is sure to bring joy. What a clever and profound statement." 

Not anymore. Now when I see a sign like this, at best, I roll my eyes. At worst, I go off on a tirade and end up turning around my car to take a picture of the sign so I can rant about it later online lol. 

So yeah, here we are.

This message communicates a belief that is so, so essential to modern christianity—which is that you should always put others first. Always. And it is especially emphasized for women, whose entire role in life is supposed to be that of service. 

Give, give, give, and never, ever take, they say. You don't want to be a burden, you want to be a blessing. jesus gave everything to save you, so you too should give everything in service to his "great plan." And they use jesus's words to emphasize the point as well: 

"Anyone who wants to be first must be the very last, and the servant of all." mark something or other. "Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of christ." galatians. "Now that I, your lord and teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet." john. "...whoever wants to be first must be your slave—just as the son of man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many." matthew.

It goes on and on and on. And it's not just the gospels and paul (I fucking hate paul) who harp on it, but practically the entire old testament as well.

But there's a basic logical fallacy inherent in this idea of being the lowest of the low, of being the last of the last, which is this: if everyone is successfully "the last," then doesn't that technically make everyone first? And if everyone is trying to be a slave or a servant or at the bottom of the pile, who exactly is at the top? Maybe the people who want to be at the top? Aren’t the people who don't give a shit about being at the bottom going to slide into leadership roles? The people who are least qualified to be role models? The people who are the worst candidates for leadership? 

This creates societal pockets rife with abuse. This system is the perfect opportunity for predators to hunt. And there are so many prey. Everyone who is actually a humble person, who is actually trying to live a good life, everyone who wants to embody the servitude of christ—guess what? Simply because they are trying to be good and live life right, they are going to have to put up with a lot of shit from predators who want power and control. And those predators who benefit from their servitude? They’re going to milk it for all its worth.

That's how you end up with brian houstons and bill gothards.

When I was 17, I was part of the youth group band at my church. It was a mini-mega-church, as I like to call it. We had on average 800+ attendees every weekend, and the church functioned with a sort of corporate hierarchy, with a head pastor and sub pastors, and had the fancy lights and loud music and charismatic sermons you'd expect at a mega church. 

Sunday night was youth group, which operated like a full-fledged church service. Kids would come into the sanctuary and us, the band, would play popular christian music. We had a pianist (me), a drummer (my little brother), guitarists, a bassist, and singers. Sometimes we even had brass or woodwinds. They even had a light designer who would do impromptu light shows. And a haze machine. 

It was basically a weekly live music concert for teens that lasted anywhere from twenty to forty minutes. Then the youth pastor would get up and preach a youth-directed sermon. Usually the message was something along the lines of, "be christian in school!" "don't mouth off to your parents!" "don't masturbate!" 

My little brother also played in the adult band, because he was the best drummer in the county, despite only being 15. My family would arrive at church at 7 AM on Sunday mornings, sit through a rehearsal and three church services, and then go home for an hour or two, before returning by 3 PM for youth group rehearsal. We would rehearse until 5 PM, and then had to be performing the "welcome music" (just the musicians, not the singers) at 5:30. Then we played until 6:30, got a "break" for the sermon (during which we were required to sit in the audience), and then played again until 7:30 or 8 PM. At that point, we were responsible for tearing down our equipment, loading out, and shutting down the sanctuary.

They didn't provide food for us. Or drinks. If we wanted something, we had to buy it from the church kitchens. My mom was so upset by this, she started making a meal every sunday for all the kids who were in the band (there were usually 7 of us). 

There weren't volunteers to help us set up and take down our equipment. We didn't get money for maintaining our instruments or for gas, for driving back and forth from the church. We weren't allowed to take breaks.

I remember once during my senior year, I was exhausted. I hadn't gone home that day; I'd been at the church since 7 AM, and it was my fourth performance that week, between high school band/jazz band/church stuff. I just wanted to be alone for a few minutes. So during the sermon, I told my friends I was going to sit in the lawn outside the church and pray. 

I had been outside for less than five minutes when an adult volunteer came out and told me I wasn't allowed to be out there. I explained I was exhausted. That I was in the band. That I'd been there since 7 AM. That I just needed a few minutes to breathe. 

She told me it was against the rules, and that as a member of the band, it was my responsibility to sit in the audience and set a good example for the other teens. She made me go back inside.

I didn't know how to be angry back then, but I was just a little bit rebellious. I told her I had to grab my stuff from backstage. I found a dark corner and hid. One of my friends' dads, another adult volunteer, found me, gave me a little smile, and left me alone.

We were the first people to show up, and the last people to leave. We did manual labor. Emotional labor. We were on display as examples of "good christian youth." We were expected to be perfect, without blame.

We were servants.

There to obey. To do the bidding of the church. Not to obey god, but to obey the leaders who decided what god's bidding was. After all, we were only teens. How could we possibly claim to understand god's will?

And those humans, who claimed to know the will of god, exploited children for their own gain. They exploited us.

I know how to be angry now. But I can't deny there is a complex amalgamation of feelings whenever I think about this time of my life. Some anger, yes—rage, even. Sorrow too. And confusion, cognitive dissonance.

Because while yes, they exploited me, I also can’t deny that I liked being there. I liked playing the piano and performing. I liked spending time with my friends. I liked feeling like I was doing good work, like I was serving god, like I was needed and important.

But, it turned out, I wasn't important. I was a cog in an exploitative machine. 

As soon as I graduated, they brought in a younger pianist who was much more skilled than I. Most of my friends, I never heard from again. I never again heard from the youth pastor who I served so willingly. Nor the music pastor. Nor my sunday school teacher. Nor the adult volunteers whom I worked alongside every week. Even my friendships with the teens I played alongside lasted less than a year after I left.

They made me feel important, necessary, and needed. So that I would keep serving. So that I would continue to provide unpaid labor ranging from performing to cleaning to setting a good example for kids my own age. 

They exploited me.

That ever-present message of service and submission—it's not exactly gaslighting. They weren't trying to sow confusion, necessarily. They weren’t outright lying. But they were trying to get me to believe without question. To serve without question. To obey without question.

And it worked. For a time, at least.

As much as it hurt me, I'm lucky they abandoned me. If they hadn't, I might still be there. Sacrificing my health and well-being and happiness in the service of lies.

Here, I fixed the sign:

[lea-sbian]

*skitters over* Hi :3 Opinions. Give. Hand 'em over (pls)

Lmao of course, I’ve got plenty in stock, what flavor you lookin for?

If this is about the prince of Egypt post then:

Overall a great movie with incredible music, animation, and characters. And although it’s a retelling of a bible story, I think it’s also a really interesting way to approach as a work of fiction, like you would an old Epic like the Iliad. One where god isn’t all good and all powerful, but a character with his own biases and flaws.

An example of what I mean is how god isn’t all good is how he punishes the people of Egypt, (making crops fail, spreading disease, and killing the firstborn of every family, many of whom could be innocent or too young to understand the evils of slavery). You could make an argument of the ends justifying the means but then we’ve hit a place where we could argue about ethics, which is a morally grey area instead of ‘all good.’

And an example of how he isn’t all powerful is how he can’t even seem to change the mind of the one guy who’s mind he needs to change. How can god not just make himself known to rameses himself?

You could say “free will” and all but here’s the thing:

In some interpretations of the original story, there’s also a line akin to “The Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart” which implies some level of control over the mind that god has (also this line is referenced in the movie during the song ‘the Plauges’). And even if we interpret it as Pharaoh hardening his own heart, how does god now know that most of the things he’s done to punish him have only made his resolve to keep the slaves worse? Only when Ramses’ only son dies does he allow the slaves to go free, so why didn’t god just do that from the beginning?

And despite all of this, why doesn’t god just strike down the one guy keeping people from being free? Why make all of Egypt suffer for it?

You also could look back even to the other movie dreamworks made adapting a bible story: ‘Joseph king of dreams,’ where at the end of the film, Joseph invites his Jewish family into Egypt before the events of ‘Prince of Egypt’ which kind of implies that Joseph unknowingly helped facilitate the ability for Egypt to make them slaves, which is something that God could definitely of warned him about like he does with the famine. (Unless god didn’t know how the Jewish people would be enslaved by the Egyptians, which would mean he’s not ‘all knowing’ either. In fact Joseph himself was a slave? Idk how he didn’t see that coming honestly)

But even without alll that, there’s the scene in ‘prince of Egypt’ where god confronts Moses about going back to Egypt to free his people, in which Moses essentially asks “why me?” And then god proceeds to raise his voice and basically says “because I said so.” I’m definitely oversimplifying the scene here but that’s kind of how it reads to me now, a parent demanding something be done and when questioned, doesn’t give a real answer, but just “I made you so you gotta do what I say.”

It actually reminds me a lot about how the church I grew up with taught me to just trust in the church and god even if my questions went unanswered. Why can’t women have the priesthood? Why can’t I marry a woman?

There were some vague answers to these questions, but most of the time it boiled down to just “that’s what god said” which didn’t make a lick of sense to me.

I dunno man, if you have a different take I’d love to hear it, but this is kind of how I process Christian media now, seeing how in a lot of ways, God is just a parent who’s parenting style sucks sometimes. He did a good thing freeing his people in the end, but he fumbled as fuck getting there imo.

[chloessleepystories]

Sisters part 7

Kenzie lounged on the studio couch, one leg thrown over the back of the couch, her fingers strumming at her clit as she sang along to the song in her headphones.

Super Silly

Fragile Minded

Sexpot

Giggly Fuckslut

Even though you’d BE ashamed

To be a mindless cumslut

Singing this song long enough

Will turn you to a dumb slut

Super Silly

Fragile Minded

Sexpot

Giggly Fuckslut

Cum silly silly silly

Cum till you’re high

Cum silly silly silly

Cum till you’re high

She wondered for a moment what it would feel like to be high. But then thought, I doubt I could get any higher than this!

The woman in the song was speaking:

“You know, you can say it backwards, which is

Mindfucked Giggly Cockslut Pothead

Fragile Silly Rupus,

but that’s going a bit too far, don’t you think?”

To which a man with a funny accent said: “Indubitably.”

Then they were singing again! Kenzie bounced her head, getting ready for her favorite part.

So when the cat has got your tongue

There’s no need for dismay

Just giggle, smile, and bare your boobs

They won’t care what you say.

But better sing this carefully or it could change your brain ...

Kenzie said it right along with the silly girl in her headphones, who sounded so much like Kenzie (at least how Kenzie sounded these days, with a head full of bubbles!).

“For example!!” giggle

“Yes?”

“One night I sang it for my sister ...

And now I’m her ditzy drooling stupidhead horny sex slave!!!”

giggle

There was a pause, where you could almost picture the others looking at her with amused condescension, looking at each other, shrugging ... Then:

Yooooou’re ...

Her Super Silly Fragile Minded Sexpot Giggly Fuckslut

Super Silly Fragile Minded Sexpot Giggly Fuckslut

*whispered* Super Silly Fragile Minded Sexpot Giggly Fuckslut

Super

Silly

Fragile

Minded

Sexpot

Giggly

Fuuuucksluuuut!!!

Chloe’s shadow fell over Kenzie, and Kenzie pulled her earbuds out with a pop. It was important to listen to her music, but it was even more important to listen to her sister.

“I’m done with the next playlist, slut,” she said affectionately. “Let’s head back to the house. We’ve got some fine tuning to do, and I’m hoping this is going to do it.”

Whatever Chloe wants ... Chloe gets ...

Lydia had barely registered that it was her sister at the door before Helen was giving her a full-body hug.

“Hiii!! I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and missing you, so I thought I’d come over and say hiii!!”

Her voice, Lydia couldn’t help thinking, sounded very different from usual, and not just because she was talking very fast into her ear while hugging her hard. She sounded breathy, and high-pitched.

“Helen? You OK?”

“I’m great!! I’m in such a strangely crazy good mood today ... and I wanted to share it!” And she giggled – there was no other word for it.

“OK, can you ... can you let go?”

Helen had been clutching her so tightly, and was so ... she’d been almost rubbing herself against her sister. “You sure you’re all right?”

Helen ran her hands up and down Lydia’s back. “You just feel so good, I can’t stop touching you,” she said, and giggled again.

Lydia took two steps back so she could finally shut the door, then held her sister’s shoulders and pushed her back to arm’s length.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you.”

Helen’s eyes were wide. And ... misty? Clouded? A little vacant?

“What happened. Did Dave call again? Is he still dragging his feet about the divorce? Wait, what are you wearing??”

“Wait! Stop!! Too many questions!! My thinker doesn’t work that fast.”

Helen – mature, responsible, divorcing mother of two adult women, Helen – hop-skipped into the living room, and flopped down on the couch, her legs splayed like a teenager.

“OK, so I was housecleaning? and I found some of my old clothes? and I wanted to see what fits!! And lookit this!!”

Lydia was looking. She could hardly help it. The capris that were a little tight were not bad, but the thin clingy top showed too much cleavage, and didn’t come anywhere near reaching her waist ... and from the bouncing as she landed on the couch, Helen was apparently not wearing a bra either. She’d just noticed that Helen had put her hair in pigtails, too.

“But no no I haven’t heard from him. I haven’t heard much of anything today, except for some fantastic music! It really put me in a good mood, and helped me get a LOOOT of cleaning done!!”

Really?” Lydia smirked. “Wow, I could use some of that ...”

Helen jumped up. Where did she get that energy? “Well it’s funny you say that cuz I wanted to share this music with you!!”

She produced two iPods from a back pocket – with just a bit of a struggle. They looked just the same except for the number marked on the masking tape.

“Thing One and Thing Two, huh?” said Lydia, an eyebrow raised.

“The kids have been listening to this a bunch, and it’s really good. So I found two of them in Kenzie’s room. And they’ve got different music on them but some is the same and it’s all real good and ... OK so what I did is! I got clever and dumped everything from number 2 onto number 1, and ... and then, uh ... well, you know what I mean. So they’re the same now!!”

“Are you sure you’re OK, Helen?”

It was like she was high. Like the kids had been smoking weed and their mother had gotten a contact high just from being in the house with them or something – because she was not normally the kind of person to do drugs. Or, to be this scatter brained and silly. Or to dress like a horny teenager, for that matter!

“I’m great! I haven’t been in this good a mood in like forever! I mean, I know I sound all silly and I DON’T remember giggling this much in like ever but ... I don’t care! I needed a good day, and I’m gonna enjoy it! You know?”

Lydia nodded. She had a point. Helen had been having a rough time lately.

“I understand, hon,” she said, as Helen fiddled with ear buds and cued up a song. “As long as you’re not getting yourself into something you shouldn’t ... then there’s nothing wrong with being in a good mood.”

Helen put one bud in her own ear, nodded in satisfaction, and moved to put the other earbud toward Lydia. “I just want to see you happy,” Lydia said, not really paying attention to what her sister was doing.

Helen slipped the other earbud into Lydia’s ear. The music poured into her with a suddenness that made Lydia forget what she had been saying.

So fun to be

Giggly

Giggly

Giggly

“That’s good!!” Helen trilled. “Because I want to make YOU happy ...” She whispered with a new intensity into Lydia’s free ear: “It’s really important to me to make my sister happy.”

She popped the other bud in, and Lydia just swayed for a moment, her eyes a little glassy, then she said, “Uh huh, right,” distantly.

“OK, enjoy!” said Helen, waving to her. “Do some housework! And call me in a few hours! I want to hear how you like it!!”

Lydia sagged as the door shut, and smiled softly. Her sister was so sweet, she thought. And she giggled.

You love to be

Bubbly

Bubbly

Bubbly

And listen to

Chloe

Chloe

Chloe

Chloe unlocked the door and called, “Mom?” She listened for a moment, then tried again. Nothing.

“Good, looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves for a bit. Get in here, slut, and quick.”

Kenzie scampered in, a long coat barely covering her inappropriate clothing. Her sister smacked her butt as she came through, then shut the door. “Let’s head back to your room. I want to plug you in.”

Moments later, Kenzie found that being “plugged in” meant not just listening to iPod #4, but that her tongue was plugged into Chloe’s cunt. She lay back on her pillows, soaking in her new tunes, while her sister rode her face, sliding her juicy lips slowly up and down Kenzie’s tongue.

“Good girl ... Now, what I’m hoping is that we can give you back a little bit of your brains – I may have overdone the dumb and suggestible! – so that you get a little bit of critical thinking back. I don’t want you following every suggestion. For one thing, that’s dangerous. For another ... mmmm ... I want to be the only one to have that much power over you ...”

Chloe stripped off her top and began pinching a nipple as she held onto the headboard with her other hand. “Right now there’s a lot of ‘you love to serve your sister’ and ‘you exist to please Chloe’ and those are fine, but the general ‘be dumb and giggly for everyone with a dick’ side effects need to be ... uunnghh ... adjusted ...”

She tried to think what toys she had in her own room – she was sure her goody-goody sister wouldn’t have anything to play with in here.

“First off, Kenzie ... you only want to be spit-roasted when I say you want to ...”

Sister ... Sister ...

You are such a good devoted sister ...

[rufousnmacska]

Here is part two - Dorian’s pov - of this anon-requested manorian head canon. Thanks to @itach-i for beta reading and fangirling 🥰

Hope you like it!

***

Orynth was months ago, and yet to Dorian it sometimes felt like years. The sickening feel of the collar on his skin, the voice of his father commanding him to kill a guard, the voice of his father saving him from the wyrd keys. The dreams left him dizzy with confusion, left him wondering if he could repair the Havilliard name and the damage his father had wrought. On the dreamless nights, he woke feeling rested but hollow. A new sense of emptiness as if something was missing.

It wasn’t until he walked in on a quiet moment between Chaol and Yrene one day that he realized what that empty feeling might be. His friends were hugging, their baby son cuddled between them. And oddly, it made him think of her.

He’d thought of Manon often since they’d parted in Terrasen. More often than he’d admitted to anyone, including himself. Of course he worried about her after the loss of her coven. But Dorian had kept those thoughts fleeting and mostly businesslike - how a treaty might impact the witches, when the wyverns would be old enough to train.

The fact that her face, her scent, her eyes were the only things he imagined when pleasuring himself… that meant nothing. He was simply too overwhelmed with work and in need of release.

But seeing his friends, he knew. He missed her. Desperately. Whatever they had was not over. Not even close.

When his mother approached him one day about his upcoming birthday, Dorian snapped. She left his office in tears and it took two days for her to forgive him. He blamed his horrible behavior on a headache, unable to tell her the truth.

His last birthday he’d been a slave to a valg prince. A torturer and murderer. He tried to kill one of his best friends. Or so he’d been told. The knowledge made him sick and fed the self doubt that seemed to be growing by the day.

No, he did not think a birthday ball would raise the morale of the castle and city. No, the presence of many, beautiful, eligible ladies would not cheer him up.

But she had not listened. Planning was underway and he replied by burying himself in his work. Ignoring the seed of hope that maybe the Witch Queen would receive an invitation.

The night before the festivities, Dorian lay in his bed unable to sleep. Dark thoughts and half memories raced through his head whenever he closed his eyes. No matter how hard he tried, no matter the tonic Yrene had made, sleep was impossible. The only time his tense muscles relaxed was when his thoughts turned to her.

Once, he almost drifted off. Imagining…

Manon walked into the ballroom, her silken hair in a braided crown, a red cape trailing behind. He left the person he was talking to and made his way through the crowd toward her. Their eyes were locked. The music had stopped. And yet, the more people he pushed aside, the farther away she became. Her smile never faltered and her golden gaze stayed on him. But the crowd was pulling him away. The crowd, the people, his people were pulling him back, tearing at his crown, his ornate clothing, shouting that he was not their king, shouting that they deserved a better king, one who hadn’t abandoned them, one who wouldn’t torture them, one that-

Dorian shook violently awake, a scream in his throat and both hands clutching his neck.

When the music began, Dorian swallowed his shame and painted a smile on his face. No doubt the line of women wanting to dance with him was long. And full of all the same greedy-eyed courtiers, who, like his mother, noticed no difference in him from last year to this.

He held back the grimace that came with the thought, and once again wished for her. Her presence that calmed him, made him feel real, and true.

He’d been a fool these past months, trying to convince himself that they were some sort of ephemeral thing. Like a butterfly that lives for a season and vanishes. He wanted the butterfly. Not to cage, but to have it fly to him, and him to fly to her.

Dorian shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? Comparing Manon to a butterfly? He was a fool.

The dance ended and he bowed to the Lady from a holding he’d forgotten. And just then, something prickled over his skin. He turned, looked up, and there she was.

Manon, in a red dress unlike anything his poor imagination could conjure.

She glided down the stairway, every step graceful. Just like his dream, their gaze never broke. He almost stopped walking, expecting this to turn into the nightmare of last night. But the smile she wore now was different. Not as broad or bright. This smile was soft, almost shy. Beyond description. It made his heart thrum.

They both stopped when they were eye to eye and he liked this position. It felt right. His equal, his queen.

“Hello witchling.” That he could speak surprised him.

Manon took a breath and said, “Hello princeling.”

Before she faded away, he pulled her into his arms and into a dance. He moved them away from the crowd and everyone disappeared from his awareness. Everyone but her.

“This is the best birthday present I could have asked for,” he whispered in her ear.

Manon wrinkled her nose slightly. “Your birthday?”

That she was here without knowing made it feel like fate. She shivered at his touch and he struggled to stay focused. “I’m going to pretend you knew.”

A moment of dancing passed and Manon noticed the new crest adorning his jacket. When he directed her to the mosaic on the wall, she froze. He’d had it designed to honor their sacrifice, not knowing if or when Manon would ever see it. Hoping. He’d hoped she would. And now she had tears forming in her eyes.

“It’s nothing,” Dorian said. “Just a token of our appreciation for what they gave.”

“It’s not nothing,” she replied, swallowing the tears before they fell.

Now it was his turn to freeze. Manon rested her warm hand on his cheek. It was soft, unsteady. But real. The image of a butterfly landing in his hand flitted through his mind. He blinked it away and turned to kiss her palm.

Dorian took Manon’s hand and led her from the ballroom. Within minutes of back halls and hidden passageways they were in his room.

Alone.

Together. Finally.

As they embraced, he drew a finger under her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping. Judging by the darkness of her normally pale skin, she hadn’t slept well in some time.

“I don’t want to sleep yet,” she said, knowing what he was about to suggest.

He could hear the music rising up through the balcony. “And I don’t want to take off this dress yet.” It was the truth. She was stunning.

So they danced in each other’s arms until Manon turned her face up to his and he kissed her.

They were awake together all night and fell asleep at dawn. He spent the day curled around her, not caring that they never left the bed.

She was here and that’s all that mattered.

[vincess-princess]

as we were falling

ch. 10

a/n: im still in my writer's block but sometimes i muster enough energy to get some words out of me. updating this fic because it has the shortest chapters and those are easier to write word count: 1826 warnings: some manhandling but nothing serious

The morning of the auction day Tommy’s knees shook so bad he could hardly get out of bed and had to lean on Nikki to get to the canteen. Nutrient paste slid heavily into his stomach and lodged there, hard as a rock.

“Hey, you’ve gotta relax a bit,” Nikki told him, though he himself didn’t sport his usual carelessness. “This most likely ain’t gonna be your last auction. If you get a shitty master, just annoy him enough to sell you off to someone better.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Tommy said.

“How do you know? Maybe it does,” Nikki argued, but not too confidently; he also barely touched his nutrient paste. Tommy wanted to tell Nikki he didn’t need to act nonchalant in front of him, but it would just drive Nikki deeper into his pretense, so he said nothing.

Other slaves didn’t look very happy either. Heavy silence hung in the barracks. Nikki, too, sat on his mattress hugging his knees, his face empty. Tommy didn’t dare to disturb him.

Waiting without knowing how much time was left was so hard that Tommy almost felt relief when the guard arrived.

“Auction is coming. Get in line.”

They descended onto the first floor and went down a corridor different from the one they arrived through. That was the back door, Tommy figured; the front door was reserved for the customers, of course.

The auction sections were separated by age and gender: children, women 15-30, men 15-30, women 30-60, men 30-60, other. Who could they be putting in the small “other” room Tommy had no idea. People over 60? But who would need such old slaves? Maybe only if they had some valuable skill or knowledge…

Tommy preferred not even to think of the “children” section – it made his guts turn.

He and Nikki were predictably ushered into the “men 15-30” section. It was a hall so huge Tommy could barely see the farthest wall; the floor was marble, elegant columns supported the ceiling with an enormous elaborate chandelier, though there was no need for it now: tall windows from floor to ceiling let in a lot of light. The room was so grandiose it took Tommy’s breath away; the closest thing to it he’d ever seen were palace ballrooms in historic dramas. Soft music flowed from somewhere from the ceiling.

And stands. A lot of stands, a whole labyrinth of them; slaves were to stand in special circles on the floor, and next to every circle was a display. It probably showed the slave’s characteristics and price. Each stand had ten circles and a chair – probably for a guard.

The guards were so few, Tommy thought wistfully, and the slaves were so plenty they could overwhelm them easily even with their bats and shockers. Break out the doors, run out on the street… and then what? There were police out there, with cars, guns, drones, military droids. The slaves would all be hunted and put down like rabid animals. No, that wouldn’t work.

By nature of their consecutive numbers Tommy and Nikki got to stand next to each other, which lifted Tommy’s spirits a bit: at least they could exchange scorning glances about guards and customers and talk to each other when no one was looking. They couldn’t do it openly – it was prohibited to talk unless a buyer asks you something. They were also forbidden to leave their spots or sit down.

Upon taking their places the slaves had to scan their microchips to have their information displayed. For others it were only the results of the medical and skills exams and the price, but Nikki and Tommy had an additional line.

Exhibits defiant behavior, it read. Tommy’s stomach dropped. Until the last minute he hoped to hide the stripe on his wrist until after his purchase. Now no normal customer would buy him.

He looked at Nikki, seeking consolation, but he was also staring at his own display gloomily, rubbing the stripes on his wrist with his thumb.

A little later salespeople went along the stands, checking slaves’ presentability. One of them approached Tommy, grabbed his jaw and turned his head to the side, looking him over critically. Tommy barely held back the urge to slap his hand off his face. That would sure earn him a zap of a shocker.

The salesman reached for Tommy’s hair and pulled down his hair tie unceremoniously. Tommy winced: getting his hair yanked like that hurt. His hair fell down onto his shoulders, messy and knotted: it’s been a while since he brushed it.

The salesman was prepared – he pulled out a small hairbrush. A couple minutes and several brushed out knots later it was done. Tommy’s scalp was burning, but now his hair rested prettily on his shoulders. The salesman looked pleased.

He then proceeded to Nikki, and, of course, it went nearly not as smooth.

“Hands off,” Nikki hissed when the salesman reached for his hair. Then he grabbed the hairbrush and wrestled it from the stunned man. “I can do it myself.”

He didn’t get to: the guard nearby tased him, forcing him onto his knees. The salesman looked down at him in disgust.

“There’s always the one that acts out,” he complained to the guard.

“Well,” the guard grinned, “we’re always prepared.” He waived his taser in front of the salesman’s face. “That one’s got tased so many times already his insides should be grilled at this point.”

“Yes, I see.” The salesman pointed at Nikki’s wrist. “Well, soon we’ll get rid of him, hopefully. Get up, you filth,” he prodded Nikki with his foot. “I don’t have the entire day to waste on you here.”

“Get him up,” the guard ordered to Tommy. Tommy rushed to help his friend. Nikki could barely stand and leaned on Tommy so heavily his own legs almost gave up under him.

The salesman then forcefully brushed Nikki’s hair, ignoring his pained hissing, and left, gloating.

“You okay?” Tommy asked quietly.

“I’m gonna shove that brush up his ass,” Nikki croaked. “I’m gonna-“

“No talking!” The guard prodded Nikki in the back with his bat. “Get back at your spot,” he told Tommy. Tommy had to release Nikki, who had to lean on the display instead, and return into his circle.

When Nikki got better and could no longer lean on the display, he demonstratively tucked his hair behind his ears. It didn’t change much, but he surely needed that small act of resistance.

The auction started soon after. The corridors slowly filled with customers. Coreworlders seemed fixated on modifying their bodies, cosmetically or to enhance performance. Some had scanning lens or glasses; Tommy lost count of cybernetic arms and legs; a few even had radio installed in their heads and were unceremoniously listening to music or the news on them. Even their midworld planet had better manners, Tommy thought with disdain.

People walked past, their glances often lingering on Tommy. He preferred to look the other way, but could still feel them burn his skin. Nikki, in his fashion, countered those glances with intent stares, as if trying to win a staring contest. Not everyone liked that.

“Whatcha looking at, slave?” one man with robotic arms told Tommy. His hands had six fingers each. It was probably more convenient, but for some reason grossed Tommy out.

“You,” came a straightforward answer.

“And what’s that you find so interesting?”

“Your hands are fucked up,” Nikki said. While Tommy completely agreed, he wouldn’t have said it: the guard already rose from his chair with his taser bared.

“Have some fucking respect!” he growled and tased Nikki again – a little, Nikki even managed to keep standing, but the grimace on his face said it all.

“That’ll teach ‘im!” The customer grinned in delight. Then he, thankfully, proceeded further, not sparing them any more attention.

“The guard was right. My insides gotta be finely grilled at this point,” Nikki whispered hoarsely, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Third time is a charm,” Tommy smiled gloomily.

“Silence!” the guard yelled. The smile wilted on Tommy’s lips.

Some time passed, Tommy wasn’t sure how much. He could see the time on his display, but he avoided looking at it. Maybe if he doesn’t look there, a good customer also wouldn’t.

A middle-aged lady passed by merely sparing him a glance, then stopped dead in her tracks, turned around and approached their stand. She was maybe 45, more or less, rather plump, but she had nice dimples on her cheeks and kind eyes, and she was looking right at Tommy. His heart skipped a bit.

“Oh, what a pretty little thing you are,” she said, looking him over. She could barely reach his chin, but the tone of her voice immediately established her superior position. Not a dominant one, though. She wasn’t seeking to overpower him. “So skinny - did they not feed you here at all?”

“They did… ma’am.” The word kicked and scratched and punched his throat until the strict look of the guard made Tommy let it out. It left an unpleasant aftertaste on his tongue. But the lady looked pleased.

“He just didn’t eat,” Nikki intervened, but the guard clicked the taser warningly, making Nikki unwillingly fall silent.

“Why, though? Is the food bad?” The lady’s thin brows curved into half-ovals.

“Nutritionally – no. The taste, though…” Tommy trailed off. The lady got it.

“Oh, you’re a picky one!” She laughed. “Well, that’s not a problem for me. I love cooking. I own a small café, actually. And I need a young boy to help me out. How’s your cooking?”

Tommy hurried to put his 39% into a better light. “I’ve had some experience. But I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“Let me see your other skills… Oh, you’re a drummer? You could play in bands if I ever decide to have live music! Lockpicking… hm… dancing, too… that’s an interesting skillset for sure…”

Then her eyes reached the last line, and her face darkened. No, no, no-

“Oh. I don’t have time to teach defiant kids manners. It won’t work out, I’m afraid.”

Tommy looked at her leaving in silent desperation. Nikki, despite the tangible threat of getting another zap, squeezed his forearm in support.

“She’d suffocate you under her weight anyway,” he murmured. Tommy cringed at the image in his mind. His grief subsided slightly.

People kept passing by. Though it had only been an hour from the start of the auction, Tommy began to worry. What happens to the slaves that don’t get sold on their first auction? Surely some are always left. Do they go on the next? Would the price be reduced? For some reason Tommy didn’t want to know.

He turned to Nikki, but he was staring intently into the crowd.

“What are you-“

“They’re staring at us.”

“Who?”

“They.” A nod slightly to the left, and then Tommy saw them.