#positively Victorian

[quinloki]

Positively Victorian

Fem Reader x Sabo

One-Shot - 2,450 words

CW: Language, sexual themes, light BDSM, sexual roleplay, rough oral sex, safe sane and consensual, 18+ only.

-:- Table of Consent -:-

Dating Sabo had been a lesson in whiplash. The bright smile and beautiful blue-eyed man had won your heart with clumsy courting, rumpled flowers, and a sense of fashion that was unique and exceptionally well-suited to him. Sometimes he would walk and talk like an aristocrat, and when you found out he did in fact come from money, you weren't surprised. Sometimes he would move with fury and almost animalistic instinct, and when you met his brothers, well, again you weren't surprised.

He could speak in poetry, and with enough alcohol he could also be convinced to belch his ABCs.

The more you got to know him, the more you loved him. The more you wanted him, and the more you wanted to sink deeper into him, and over the last couple of years you had gone from acquaintances, to friends, to lovers.

Now, here you were, sinking deeper into one another.

The tight dress with its hand-stitched flowers smelled lightly of lilac and dried fennel. It felt like cotton and shifted like silk, and the lacy details were thankfully against the dress and not your skin. It had taken nearly an hour to get into the monstrosity, and Sabo had needed a break afterward to clean up from the sweat he'd broken into after man-handling you into layer upon layer of under garments, corset, and skirts.

Though, half-way through getting some of the undergarments in place, you had both opted to skip them. So, you sat at the table, wet between your thighs for lack of anything else down there, and hoping you wouldn't accidentally ruin the dress from your own horniness while quietly sharing a meal with Sabo.

You had been learning etiquette specifically for this little session, the two of you exploring your need to be dominated, and Sabo's desire to turn his aristocratic knowledge into something positive for himself, but the few days of lecture prior to this hadn't been quite enough. Which, admittedly, had been kind of the point.

Finishing the first part of the meal, Sabo regards you with an even smile. He carefully trades the plates out, setting the new course before you before seating himself. Leaning back you can feel his eyes on you and the heat rising in your face.

After a moment of him not moving you look over and meet the unexpectedly devious smirk of his with a nervous smile. "Is there... an issue?" You ask uncertainly.

Sabo's hands are folded in his lap and the smile he gives you is cheerful. "You waited until I began to eat the last time, before you chose what cutlery to use." He points out, and you can feel your stomach drop a bit. "I'm simply waiting for you to pick up the correct items on your own, love."

Ah.

Looking down at the options before you, you take a moment to consider which ones are correct. You tried to remember the lessons for this, but there were ten pieces of cutlery in front of you, and you had barely paid any mind to how to set a place setting, never mind how to utilize one.

Sabo stood up and came over to you while you took time to ponder. Standing behind you his gloved hands slip over your bare shoulders, squeezing gently as he leans down a little. The action nearly shatters your brain, and certainly dashes away the memory of your lessons.

"Struggling a bit, are we?" His voice is low, polite, gentle, and deadly all at the same time. You can feel your skin prickle from it.

"Not at all," you reply, doing your best to sound confident. "I was simply taking a moment to admire the chef's hard work, is all." You assure him, with a smile and a turn of your shoulders, before reaching down and picking up what you hoped were the right items.

Sabo's fingers tense against your shoulders after you've made your choice and his voice holds you in place more than his hands.

"Oh dear, you've picked the wrong fork." He says, his hands sliding down your arms, his taller frame allowing him to cover your hands with his own as he leans against your back. "Whatever shall we do about your manners?"

"For-forgiveness is divine," you manage the words evenly, but you can already feel yourself falling into him.

"Are we forgiving your incorrect choice?" He muses, breath hot against your ear. "Or the insult of not having taken your teacher's lessons to heart?" His tongue is hot against the curve of your ear, but you can't shiver or cry out. To do so would be another breach of etiquette.

"... The choice." You say, your voice is steady but quiet, well aware of the fuel you have provided him. "We are forgiving the incorrect c-choice." Your words falter as he removes the cutlery from your hands and sets it on the table, his lips and teeth grazing the skin of your neck as he moves to do so.

"Then, as your teacher, I will take your punishment to heart, my love." He promises you, gently but firmly helping you stand.

"We... haven't finished eating, isn't it rude to leave now?" You're not escaping the inevitable, but it would be nice to have a meal beforehand.

"I rather think it'd be best for you to not have a full stomach for this." He assures you, as a new delicious shiver runs down your spine.

He moves you almost like he means to dance, fluidly waltzing lazily through the dining room, spinning you around like one of the dances he's taught you. The lack of music gives the whole experience a manic edge, but you let him lead you as best as you're able. After a few lazy movements, he pulls you in close, kissing you sweetly at first, and then deeply and roughly as your back is pressed against the wall.

Sabo had treated you like glass when you had first started going out, and it had taken some time for him to be assured that you weren't so fragile. You're mindful of the snakebite piercings as you return the passionate kiss, his hands holding your wrists against the wall as his tongue pushes deep into your mouth, stealing all manner of sense and air from you. The dizzying sensation causes you heart to race and you're panting heavily when he finally allows you to draw breath.

"You seem out of breath, my love," he muses, a manic edge in his voice as he pushes you down onto your knees. "It's good then, that your punishment requires you to kneel before me."

You reach to help Sabo undo his pants when he takes a step back from you. "Ah-ah-ah, hands in your lap. Just because you're on your knees for punishment, doesn't mean you get to sit like some commoner. Sit properly."

"Yes sir." You say as you straighten your back and place your hands in your lap.

"Good." The praise is simple, but you're happy to hear it. Sabo frees his cock from the confines of pants, gripping it with one gloved hand as he steps onto the excess of your skirts, pinning you to the floor as he draws closer. "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue."

You do as commanded, and look up at Sabo as he's looking down at you. He smiles approvingly as he begins to rub the tip along your tongue. The salty taste of precum mixes with your saliva as he wets his stiff flesh against your tongue before pushing in deeper.

"Keep looking at me as I ravage that pretty little mouth of yours." He commands. One hand is braced against the wall as his hips push his dick into your mouth. You flex your tongue against his shaft and catch the soft appreciative gasp.

You start to press your lips against him, ready and willing to provide all the pleasure you can, when a strong grip on your hair pulls your head back a little. There's a soft chuckle from him that nearly steals your breath.

"No, love. This isn't you pleasuring me, this is me punishing you." He smiles darkly as he pushes his cock deep down your throat. "Do try to maintain your etiquette during this."

You have to grip the fabric of your skirts to stop from reaching up and holding onto him as he begins to fuck your mouth as he pleases. You suck in shaky gulps of air when the opportunity presents itself, and do your best to be quiet. You try not to groan or gag audibly, though the rough pace of his cock down your throat has watered your eyes and run your makeup.

"That's a good girl, look at you, trying so hard." His voice is shaky, but the praise makes you want to try harder. "When your – hgnh! – throat twitches it's hard to, haah, keep my composure."

Your face was a mess as Sabo fucks your mouth. You can feel drool slipping along your chin and dripping onto your chest. Tears cut lines down your face and snot from gagging was making it harder to breathe. Just as you felt you were going to have to end things in order to avoid passing out he releases you, pulling himself out of your mouth and using his gloved hand to urge his cum onto your face, chest, and dress.

You move enough to clean your face so you can see and breath again, but you don't wipe away the semen he's covered you in. When you're done you put your hands back in your lap as Sabo takes a moment to catch his breath, and put his pants back in order.

He kneels down, legs on either side of yours, and slides a finger up the front of your neck, curling it a little as he tilts your chin up slightly. "You look so beautiful when I make a mess of you," he muses, leaning forward and licking some of the mess from your cheek. "I should think I'd like to do so more often." His gaze holds yours for a moment before he leans in and kisses you.

You touch his face gently, letting your fingers twist among the loose curls of his golden blonde hair. As he leans back you smile and kiss the tip of his nose. "As often as you like. The corset aside, this getup isn't too terribly uncomfortable."

"Mm, how easy was it to breathe?" He asks, looking over the mess of the rumpled dress with a few errant stains drying on it.

"Not bad. It just feels weird to be so inflexible."

Sabo smiles. "Perhaps next time I should endeavor to tighten it more thoroughly. We don't want anyone thinking you're attempting to 'bandy about naked', after all." The way he says the words makes it seem like he's quoting someone, and you imagine it's his mother, given the tone he takes.

You smirk, draping your arms over his shoulders. "Why, good gentleman Sabo, did you leave my corset loose to take advantage of me on this fine day?" You ask, in mock horror, practically giggling even as you make an exaggerated motion of nearly fainting.

"Oh, most assuredly miss," he replies as he begins to lay you flat on the floor. "But even better would be for you to lay back and allow me to acquaint myself with your skirts."

"With my skirts?" You start to ask as Sabo hands you his hat before lifting your skirts and disappearing under them. "Sabo what're you- Hhnngnhaahhh... hnnf...fuck." Before you can even catch up to his intentions his mouth is buried between your thighs.

His tongue and lips lap against and suck your sensitive clit and his fingers slip into your dripping cunt with ease. You had been soaking wet since the meal had begun, and you were gasping into Sabo's hat as he went to work, devouring you like a man starved for his favorite meal.

"S-Sabo! M-Mercy!" You cry as the pleasure coils in you faster than any time before. You're going to cum before you can even begin to beg for it. You don't know if he heard you from under the layers of skirts, but an extra finger pushes into you as he sucks on your clit with renewed vigor and the rush of pleasure tenses your body like you've been electrified.

Your hips buck as your back arches and your toes are curling so hard you can feel the muscles in your thighs clench, forcing Sabo to push your legs open as he helps you ride out the hard orgasm by abusing your tender clit. By the time you're coming down from the high your whole body is shaking and twitching from the violent rush of pleasure.

Sabo comes back up from under your skirts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied smile on his face as he lazily crawls on the floor until he's by your side, pulling you into his chest as he kisses the top of your head. "That was a beautiful little song," he hums, petting your hair and giving you a chance to catch your breath.

"You... say that... often." You pant, your head still swimming with pleasure.

"Mm, that's because you make the most beautiful sounds, little song bird." He assures you leaning down and kissing you quickly so you can continue to catch your breath. "And as beautiful as you sound, you are twice as lovely."

You put his hat over your face as you feel yourself go red. "... that's just cruel." You pout.

"Eh? Ehhh?! I – I meant it-!" You move the hat aside and pull him down into a kiss interrupting him as the concerned look on his face turns to one of surprise.

"Embarrassing me is cruel, Sabo." You clarify, giving him a kind smile. "I don't know what to do when you call me beautiful."

He smiles, and it's just as beautiful as you're sure he sees you. "Then, shall I tell you every day until you figure out what to do?"

"... It could take me a long time," you point out as he leans down and kisses you softly.

"Days?" He questions with another gentle kiss.

"More."

"Weeks?" he prompts, kissing you again.

"Far longer, dear Sabo."

"Be it months, or years, I shall stay by your side until you sort it out." He promises, kissing you yet again.

"And beyond that?"

"By then there'll be many more things for us to sort out, and so I shall stay beside you and puzzle this love for years."

partish 2ish?

[goodiecornbread]

Danuary, day 6

Ankles.

[neverletbrocookagain]

.....

(read the tags)

[immediatebreakfast]

Yeah this is one of the entries that makes it very clear that Jack needs to get out of the asylum, and maybe step down out of the profession after seeing how the second he went back in, the whole cycle of medical malpractice restarted. Not calling Renfield by his actual name, them simply recording everything with no indication of ever stepping up to stop the old man from spiraling more except to ask questions.

Reading how Seward kept recording what might be a very heavy depressive episode as he tries to slightly care about Renfield's well being while still pendling the "What if I just run away" idea over his head (which will never be realized) was truly an eye opener of how, despite being qualified, Jack should not be running that asylum.

It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul water, and to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart to endure it all.

With the soul of a poet, and the red light of the sun within the foul clouds, Seward realized that he is trapped in the asylum, and that he will never escape despite holding all of the keys. Jack's insistent, and persistent mindset of finally having that moment of glory in the medical field will slowly tear him down, and whatever his response may be, it will come at the the expense of his patient's personhood.

Even with all of the beautiful imagery of finding a sunset in the middle of the heavily polluted atmosphere of london, this whole entry felt... Numb.

[sageiscutesy]

Why did I just find out about ANTIQUE DRUG DISHES like what do you mean people were just like sitting in their Victorian houses with fine china in their kitchen and just look to the left and OH YEAH THATS JUST MY FAVORITE COCAINE DISH 🎀

[blorb-el]

fellas is it gay to orient the universe around your best friend. is it gay to take his suffering into yourself because you can’t bear to lose him. is it gay to save him even though you know he wouldn’t want that because for once in your god damn life you’re choosing to be selfish. is it gay to need him that much. is it gay to see how the stars reshape themselves into his form. is it gay to point out how he’s infinitely more than his worst enemy... is it gay for your love and respect for him to be what saves the fucking universe.................

[gothic-grimoire]

Clear Seeing

I feel like I was really alive this year.

This summer specifically, I have had clear seeing. I use the word seeing very loosely to describe perception because it is an intuitive "seeing."

This notion of clear seeing is, in my opinion, partially connected to our intuitive senses or extrasensory-perception. Some folks call them the "clairs" because they are described by the "clair" prefix followed by the word for the specific clarified sense ability (like clairvoyance - clear seeing, clairaudience - clear hearing, and so on). 

We are meant to attribute these words to abilities beyond normal human senses, but the way I make sense of this phenomena is: when our intuition (which we are all equipped with) is ready (assisted by the surrounding environment), we can feel into an understanding greater than where we started.

These things that are clarified are larger than us alone, and we'd otherwise have no reliable insight into these things other than a safe guess. Intuition asks us to trust what we some how just know.

The other part of this is just having a growing brain and maturing sensibilities. I started my self reflection journey when I was around 16 and now I am 23. I have definitely picked some things up along the way and generally feel much more balanced in my approach albeit there are of course both good days and bad. But more often than not I am understanding things for what they are, and I find I am offering myself more of what I deserve. Then I feel this free space inside me to fill with awe and wonder and new things. 

Great Grimoire (and its sister blog where you are reading this: Gothic Grimoire) could have been a faceless thing, a nameless thing, a thing that never even happened…an echo in my mind. But because of the clear seeing, it isn’t.

Self compassion, tending to the trivial everyday things that hurt or challenge us, and creative expression are key attributes here. Great Grimoire/Gothic Grimoire is where I trace the shape of what I am feeling and learning all through time. 

You have to exist, and part of this deal means you decide how your creative extensions of you exist. In this digital grimoire I am sharing them openly. I’m not sure what I’ll reel back in but I know my intent of continued clear seeing is supporting me. 

There are years that feel lost to me, that I was underwater for, and only small pieces of me touched the surface. This short documentary I made in 2021 is one of those small pieces that I am proud of. It’s from a younger version of my self, a part that I can no longer recall so much what it’s like to experience, but in my own words from back then I describe the doc:

In this video I touch on the ups and downs of honouring your body & mental health via the receptacle of creative expression. That is there is wholeness already there, awaiting your attention and trust to take the step and create freely to heal. A home is a space to allow the most authentic of your nature to exist freely; wildly. What you create is desired and what you create/what is created through you desires you.

As a twenty year old I was learning this, and time has continued for me to attempt to put this into practice. 

Daniel Johnston is a bit of a creative emblem for me. I remember listening to his songs for years and they reached inside me somewhere other music paled if compared. I see it like this, our emblems are expressions of our love made manifest by way of our projections. As an artist, he makes me smile; he makes it so I am full of wonder. Where do those words come from? The notes on the piano that are their counterparts? I don't care about the details where his voice goes flat or his fingers miss a key. I do care about the freedom he feels while he is performing. I cherish what he has made as someone inexperienced but creatively inclined. His work is often described as unrefined and I get that, but what I understand more is just creating because you have something inside you that you love to feel—that you have to feel.

The fear of scrutiny lingers but the fact remains, the world you occupy is drenched with freedom. We can build a home inside that is free from the whirlwind of inner scrutiny. Where we have addressed the illusionary* depths that meet us when our walls around what we are willing or able to express expand.

It's not an easy task to overcome these voices but it’s doable. What gets out, and how you may be liberated by this, is well worth any discomfort faced while your inner walls are under demolition.

I generated the smaller images here with an AI art tool in Canva and arranged it myself as the cover art for a record I sang and composed based on my favourite Daniel Johnston songs. 

I called it Angels Sing For You Daniel Johnston. I can feel how he lives on in his music (he passed away a few years ago). When I sing it myself, I notice my imperfections (believe me), but I call it angels because it’s like a jumble of forces are coming together to honour a voice that sparks something in people scattered around the world. 

I feel that this ode to his work (and generally for my sung projects) is minimalistic and sleepy. Good for napping to and other kinds of relaxing. But I'm not here to make sure you engage with my work a certain way. You always may do what you wish. This is what I wish to do. Can't we just do something that we love? 

Forgive me for getting a bit out there but this is how I see things: it stings because your art feels personal, and it is, but ultimately you are not personal. You believe you are, you feel you are and that is real, but so is the field of energy we came from and the field of energy we will return to…in my opinion we are always that field of energy. This doesn’t mean you aren’t all those other things but it includes the definition of you as a one-thing, a no-thing. All of this that we feel, and believe, and cast into the world is our bread and butter for creating and tending to a well of compassion within ourselves. And the fact that we really aren’t limited to this person, in terms of what we are as a whole, is our reason to let it all flow through us.

*Note on the use of the word illusion:

Illusions are what the world is made of when we boil it down, but they feel purposeful don’t they? You may have different words to describe the tricks of the eye that make up our experience of reality, and I admit I use the word a bit poetically, but illusions make it so we perceive the things around us as distinct when they are just an arrangement of one continuous field of energy. Your illusions make such good teachers because we buy into them, and get invested, but at times we learn from remembering they are just that and nothing more.

[i-love-sufjan-stevens]

Victorian Queers + Couples

[mayasaura]

Do you think 'last dance' has a negative exception for griddlehark? Sometimes it seems like a goodbye to me

Not in the least. Since the moment I read it, I've had a very positive feeling from that line. If Harrow were waiting for their last dance I might feel differently, but she said she's saving the last dance. Which means I cannot interpret it any way but along the lines of the 1960 hit single "Save the Last Dance For Me" by The Drifters.

But don't forget who's taking you home And in whose arms you're gonna be So darling, save the last dance for me

You save the last dance for the person you expect to go home with.

[weaponizedducks]

much as i love merlin and arthur they were NOT the blueprint. they were very nearly the blueprint, but the actual og's were from a book written in 1862 by Victor Hugo. that's right. it's enjolras and grantaire. the timeline goes exr-merthur-firstprince

[yardsards]

just read this part of the adventurer's bible and

do you think toshiro was originally attracted to falin (whilst still being irritated by many of her same traits in laios) because he thought his father would find her interesting???

[quinloki]

Positively Victorian Again

Sabo x afab reader

Cw: oral, fingering, glove kink, implied power dynamics, noble Sabo tones, ~ unedited, apologies for any major errors.

Notes: Not really a part two to Positively Victorian, but kind of a part two xD idk I need to just make this vibe a full on story at some point.

It’s a reward for both of us. His words rang in your head as you saw the state of the seat you were to take.

Plush and beautiful, rich hand carved wood, everything you could expect down to the small details of a seat meant for a noble to use during a long opera.

Except for the small fact that most of the seat was missing. Barely enough for your ass honestly. There was almost no back to it, but it was obvious both from the design and your outfit that your skirts were meant to go around it.

Aside from the required items to keep the shape and style of your layered, expensive dress, you has nothing else on beneath it. At Sabo’s request, of course, but when he had invited you to the opera, you had expected him only to tease you during the hours long production.

With words.

Moving the skirts with practiced ease you settled onto the strangely comfortable seat. You had to place your legs on the sides of the chair, in order to put yourself in a comfortable position, and you were acutely aware of how bare you were beneath it all.

“This box,” Sabo begins, sitting down beside you, and keeping his voice low. “Is a bit of a tragedy. The acoustics are almost as good as those from the stage. Normal conversation carries down to the seats below quite easily.”

He leans closer, speaking quietly into your ear. “It would be imprudent for me to nap on your skirts, my sweet dove, so when i find rest beneath them, do keep your… complaints quiet.”

You can feel your heart race at the implications, and take a minutes to calm yourself before replying.

“Naps during a show are imprudent on their own.” You tease. “Aren’t you meant to teach me manners, young lord?”

Sabo smiles, bright and charming. “Consider it a test.” He says, taking off his hat and stepping around behind you. “Control of one’s expressions and emotions are paramount.”

“Wait, where are you go- Sabo the play hasn’t even started.” You nearly hiss the words, a little bit of panic as he’s already lifting your skirts to sneak his way under them.

“Do keep your eyes forward,” he admonishes softly, leaning forward and kissing your neck softly and swiftly. “The second act tends to drag a little, and curious eyes will certainly wander during that time.”

“It’s three hours.” You nearly whine, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I’ll count how many times you cum, so just focus on the play.” He promises, disappearing under the seat and your skirts easily.

With a resigned sigh you shift your attention to the stage. You aren’t surprised to feel warm, gloved hands, against your legs. Of all the tricks he would pull to cause you to make noise, surprise wasn’t one of them.

His hands moved against your ankles, calves and thighs like he was mapping them out and committing their every curve to memory. It was pleasurable and relaxing and even as it had you needy for more, it allowed you to focus on the play.

If only a little.

Gloved thumbs slipped over bare labia, waxed smooth from a “punishment” a few days prior. Sabo had warned you about the price for stepping on his shoes while the two of you practiced dancing. The lesson had been useful, but it had also brought your relationship to a new level.

“I think I’ve moved my feet out of the way enough,” he’d said with a reluctant smile. “So do be careful going forward.”

You’d grinned. “I wondered why, no matter how I tried, I still hadn’t stepped on your foot… young lord.”

Sabo had paused the dance to regard you a moment, and you’d taken that chance to purposefully step on his shoe, grinding the toe of your shoe into his, defiant grin on your face.

He’d resumed dancing afterward, voice low and eyes sharp. “If my sweet dove desires punishment, she need only ask.”

You felt the shiver roll through you as he spread your labia apart, breath hot against your soaked folds. His fingers shift, gloved digits moving between your thighs, fingers hungrily pressing and sliding over the hot, slicked, tender intricacies of your vulva.

Your fingers tense, gripping your skirts as you try to keep your focus on the stage. You can feel him keeping you open, exposed, and you’re certain he’s simply staring.

A single finger against your clit pulls a soft shuddering breath from you, and your legs tense as it swirls in a lazy circle. For long minutes he teases you this way, and you can almost move the sensation to the back of your mind to focus on the stage.

Though not much interesting is happening now. A tepid conversation.

As the tension of the conversation builds, the tempo of Sabo’s finger rises, pressing heavier and rubbing you faster. With a little bit of dread you realize this bastard has the play memorized.

When the conversation on stage reaches its grand reveal, his fingers push into your pussy, rushing a soft gasp out of you in time with the surprised gasp of the theater crowd.

And so the play goes. Sabo teases you as the tension in the play builds, pleasing you roughly here and there as there are reveals and other peaks within the story. He edges you as the characters experience frustrations, and buries his face into your cunt suddenly, sucking and licking your clit as his fingers pump inside you.

The powerful orgasm hits you as the lead soprano’s note fills the theater. Your stifled moan is swallowed by the powerful sound - not that Sabo grants you any mercy afterward. He’s never satisfied with just one, pulling the first rush into a second.

Leaving you to sob with the audience as a sad scene in the third act leaves everyone in tears. Yours are from overstimulation, legs trembling as the third orgasm seems to earn you some small reprieve, Sabo’s tongue licking you clean gently, instead of rushing you to another crescendo.

Two more slowly built up orgasms leave you breathless and exhausted as the play starts to wrap up. Sabo come out from under your skirts, tidying himself a little, and putting his hat back on as he sits down beside you.

His gloves are obviously stained and wet, but he makes no move to take them off as he grips the arm rests of his seat. He gives you a kind, knowing smile, as the curtains fall and helps you stand so you can give the same ovation as the other opera goers.

“Good job, sweet dove.” He says, taking his hat off no using it to shield the both of you from the rest of the theater as he gives you a kiss. “Perhaps we could have an encore on the ride back home, hm?”

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Maybe the truth at the heart of Shadowstruck is the importance of family. Because the most compelling stories in this universe are about what happens when you tell parents that some of their children have no right to their love, care, and protection. It destroys what should be the strongest and most natural bonds of love, and that simple horrible thing leads to all the complicated problems in their oppressive society.

[fredoesque]

the way franklin has silna's father's body disposed of in ep 3 is a really fascinating indication of how the english see the inuit to me.

because yeah, obviously it's incredibly disrespectful in ignoring the man's own burial traditions and even from an entirely english pov as a way to "bury" someone. but on top of that i find it very telling that they felt it was their place to bury him at all--if they truly didn't think he was worth the trouble, why not just give his body to silna?

they must have felt on some level they had a claim to his body and, perhaps in their seeing themselves as a last outpost of civilization, a duty to make sure it was taken care of. even though they clearly didn't care one bit about the man they were actually burying.

this moment is one of a few in the show where the english seem to assume, entirely without question, that they have authority over the arctic and the people in it. that just by virtue of being english they are naturally and immediately the highest (worldly) power present. which obviously betrays a deeply imperialistic worldview.

and in showing that insidious assumption of authority in interaction with more baldly racist disrespect and disregard towards a netsilik person, i feel this moments highlights the twofold superiority the english feel over the inuit: both as having an exclusive claim to power and as having an exclusive claim to personhood

[immediatebreakfast]

Poor Mina, even if she isn't trying to not sound scared because of Jonathan's "100% real not fake" letter, she is still able to convey her rising terror. Remember that from a narrative perspective this is the first letter that Jonathan "sent" after months of pure silence.

Hell, by the date of the letter he should already be home by now!

So Mina describes her emotions as:

"I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy." - Mina Murray, july 26.

The word uneasy implies that Mina just slightly worried about Jonathan sending a strange letter that doesn't sound like him at all while he is still not contacting her, but the "I do not understand it" feels like a punch to the gut, and betrays Mina's façade of having clear, set emotions about the situation.

Mina is so scared that something horrible could have happened to Jonathan, and the only thing that is left is a shorthand letter that looks like it was written by a stranger.

[cookie-fort]

Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus

“Even a meaningless life gains meaning by living it consciously.”

So, I live every day searching for meaning. That itself has become the meaning of my life.