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tazwren · 4 years ago

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My two cents on the devolution of fandom spaces...

As a former mod of a fandom space and a woman of colour, I do not feel safe.

Seeing what has been done to so many in this fandom, by a particular group of white American women, in the name of moral policing is both abhorrent and demoralising. As it also is to repeatedly see the same narrative being shoved at everyone as the gospel truth.

A narrative that very conveniently either becomes about fic or has nothing to do with fic, depending on how people want to swing things. A narrative that will accuse a person of Jewish heritage of anti-Semitism, a person of colour of racism, a practising Muslim of being an Islamaphobe. A narrative that will define for you and me and all of us comprising this myriad of multitudes in the world what generational or personal trauma includes and what induces the same.

Those of you who know me, know what I’ve been dealing with the past few days & why I haven’t spoken up before now. Before I logged out a couple days ago, I saw what looked like more of the usual nonsense by the same group of people I’ve kept my distance from once their true colours were revealed. What I didn’t expect is that they would think themselves so above the norms of human decency and accountability that they would go after not one but two women of colour this time around in their rabidity. And many others who spoke up, as it turns out.

It hurts to see what these women, that I know of, have had to endure and to see the passivity of the community, save for a few voices, in sitting back and letting the circus rampage through town. It hurt when I was at the receiving end of it and it hurts now.

Why? Because it shows me a microcosm of the world that I don’t really relate to, that makes no sense to me with the values I was brought up with, and which reduces basic human decency to a commodity to be trampled upon and for you to be seen as weak for having. Because people who willingly laud you for your art / writing / wit, meet you with effusive claims of love and affection and friendship, who have no qualms in taking your help when it suits them, will throw you under the bus and let the wolves ravage you when it doesn't.

Before I get into that, let me talk a little bit about what has transpired over the past few days to a week, and what has been systemically taking place over perhaps the past year in this fandom.

One thing is that everyone who makes a statement about anything suddenly has people in their mentions demanding they show what gives them the right to hold that particular opinion. A critical thing people forget about fandom is that it is a place where people hide their identity for a variety of reasons, all valid, and this approach to fiction and conversations where everyone has to reveal every part of their past and identity as a means of establishing their "credentials" in order to present their views comes in direct contradiction with how fandoms operate. It violates people's rights to privacy.

The other is that there has been an increase in the voices that purportedly stand up to “speak for” the marginalised, the abused, those discriminated against and those who belong to minorities who “need to be protected / kept safe”. An admirable sentiment, to be sure. If it weren’t for the fact that none of these groups of people needed saving, speaking for or the protection of this particular group of voices.

Voices who only want to define and use these people as "model victims" to hurt other white women and establish their supremacy over both them and other POC. Voices that will present their "truth" as they see fit and sans context or present you with screenshots of snippets of conversations held in supposedly secure spaces that they have no qualms in violating in the interest of the "greater good" and claim offense / silencing if the misdemeanour is pointed out or action is taken against them, Voices that will conveniently categorize you as a "token POC" or "white adjacent" when you do not support or align with their narrative. Voices that belong to a predominantly white American group of women, whose real agenda, as is evidenced by their modus operandi, has nothing to do with real altruism or a drive for justice or indeed to right wrongs.

No, their agenda is purely power.

To hold sway over groups of followers, to shepherd them as though they are sheep who cannot think for themselves, and to set themselves up as white saviours who call out those who step out of line, or are deemed to be problematic and toxic and unsafe. To be the owners of the only "safe spaces" in fandom and to drive other groups and spaces to be boycotted or worse.

Now, I've long wondered, who indeed are these women to decide that for anyone? In a world comprising multiple cultures, religions, groups, subgroups, genders and which contains multitudes, who are these women and what gives them the right to foist their puritanical standards on everyone, very conveniently disguised as concern for the moral well being of everyone and the consumption, of all things, of fiction?

Certainly, there are many things in this world that people regard with justifiably equal dislike / horror / sadness. At the same time, there is much that is not shared, that is particular to a culture and to a person’s background. There is a multitude of perspectives that make the whole. And the white women of the United States of America have not cornered the market on what those are, or indeed even own any curatorship or censorship of the same. They cannot, because each person’s culture and background and joy and trauma is their own, as are their ways of dealing with it all.

That being said, let’s talk about their pack behaviour and the devolution I’ve witnessed on social media as basic human decency is bartered for clout.

I’m all for standing up for someone who doesn’t have a voice or a platform, or maybe afraid of repercussions to voice dissent. I’m all for being there for our fellow human beings as they face struggles of often unconscionable and unfathomable proportions. I’m all for holding people accountable for their negative behaviours as they impact the larger community.

What I am unequivocally NOT for is treating such situations as an opportunity to preach, to virtue-signal, to shame and to put on blast the alleged wrong-doers. I say alleged because that’s what most accusations are on these platforms—allegations to do with things that disturb our sense of balance or make us wrinkle our noses or that we deem bad, and therefore make the accused deserving of the full force of the community’s misbehaviour and censure.

I ask you if you were found guilty of a crime in real life—you know, the one away from your phones and keyboards—would you not have an opportunity to retain a lawyer, to plead your case in a court of law, to acquit yourself? Or, if found guilty, would you not have the opportunity for correction and rehabilitation? Yes, you say? (If you say no, then that explains the spate of state-perpetuated injustices across the USA, but that is a different matter).

Why then are people treated so abhorrently in this court of public opinion? What gives you, me, any one of us the right to judge people so vilely and with a metaphorical gun to their heads? What gives anyone the right to say you better agree with everything I say, retract everything you said and grovel for it or we will eviscerate you in public, shame you, force you to change or delete the content that offends us and still ostracise you and in some cases even threaten you with bodily harm or death, or doxx you?

Why is there no grace in how people are approached or dealt with? Whatever happened to allowing people to learn from their mistakes, where applicable, or hearing them out and giving them a chance to explain their side of something we may not fully understand?

Why is there no accountability for such behaviour on the part of the accusers?

What makes the rest of you sit back and allow this to happen? What makes you think this is in any shape or form okay to watch? Today, it is a virtual stranger at the receiving end, one you can distance yourself from quite conveniently saying Oh, she just mods a group I am in, or I only read their fics a couple times or I only followed them for their art or jokes or whatever flavour of excuse you choose. Tomorrow, it will be one of your own - or it may very well be you. And you'd better hope there's someone left to speak up for you.

The irony is you will have allowed it to happen by letting the wolf in the fold. By letting these white women manipulate you, and the community you claim to be a part of, so unapologetically, so maliciously and so unashamedly that before you can do anything about it the cancer has taken hold.

If this was happening in the world outside of social media, they would have to follow due process, to present real evidence based on facts (not based on emotions, rumours or perceptions) and would have to allow the person they are accusing to present a counter-argument, to defend themselves or be defended. Failure to do so is a miscarriage of justice and, depending on whether this is a professional or legal proceeding, they would either seriously risk their jobs or have the case thrown out of court. If not face action themselves for attempting to derail the process of justice.

Why then are they permitted to range so freely through the landscape of fandom, snarling and biting at who they please, or who displeases them?

I have no shame in saying I was at the receiving end of their behaviour for defending a friend they put on blast and I will tell you right here and now, I am a woman of colour who feels unsafe and attacked by these so-called self-appointed white saviours of your social media experience, these so-called upholders of the common morality—whatever that means—who will fight for you the evils of problematic and toxic writers who dare to have an opinion not aligned with theirs and who do not bow to their clout. Not that they care, so long as they can ignore this fact since it doesn’t fit their narrative. So long as they can ignore what has just been done to so many people in the name of cleansing the fandom.

If any one of these women were truly interested in alleviating the troubles and pains of the discriminated, the marginalized, the trauma-affected, I invite them to please come roll their sleeves up and help in the multitudes of troubles that wrack this world, not just in the backyards of their minds. My country is amidst a struggle for the basics of human life in this horrific pandemic and, prior to that, for basic constitutional rights for religious minorities. Do not patronize me and lecture me on trauma and racism and discrimination. Do not marginalise me in your attempt to pontificate and set your pearl-clutching puritanical selves above the rest, or assuage your white guilt.

A largely American audience or fanbase in this fandom is purely a function of access and interest—other cultures have vast followings for things you couldn't begin to fathom—and it doesn't mean you are entitled in any shape or form to be spokespeople for the rest of the world. We have no interest in being colonized again by white oppressors.

If you disagree with what I have said, I congratulate you on being a part of their coterie and wish you much joy in being the sheep in their fold. Kindly unfollow or block me on the way off of this post.

#fandom #fandom culture #bullying #gaslighting #gatekeeping #minorities #people of colour #real talk #toxic people #problematic behaviour #problematic authors #problematic fiction #fanfic #reylo #reylo fanfic book club #reylo fic recs #trauma #safety #accountability

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arcticdementor · 4 years ago

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The devout and observant Christian is undoubtedly aware of the precarious state of the faith in our modern world and is becoming increasingly open to out-of-the-box solutions. One such possible solution is to take a cue from our bearded Amish neighbors and form rule-based religious communities—but maybe without the horse and buggy.

A brief peak at the current state of American Christianity should disabuse anybody of the notion that this is unnecessarily drastic.

America’s traditional Mainline Protestant denominations are bleeding out so quickly they will likely be gone within 20 years. That is not my prediction, but their own. The ELCA (the main Lutheran branch) projects they’ll only have 16,000 worshippers by 2041; the PCUSA (the main Presbyterian branch) lost almost 40% of their members in the last decade, causing one analyst to note, “At its current rate of shrinkage the PC(USA) will not exist in about 20 years;” and data for the Episcopal Church shows the same 20-year timeline until the denomination runs out of people in the pews.

More conservative denominations used to chuckle at these headlines and say, “If only they preached the Gospel instead of liberal activism, they’d be growing like us.” But they don’t say that anymore. The Southern Baptist Convention, the largest of the Evangelical churches, has lost 14% of their members since 2006; the Methodists are losing members while in the middle of a brutal split; and for Catholics, according to Bishop Robert Barron while speaking at the 2019 bishops’ annual conference, “Half the kids that we baptized and confirmed in the last 30 years are now ex-Catholics or unaffiliated.”

There is one major exception, though: the Amish—a mustard seed that is growing into a large tree in front of our eyes. The Amish arrived in the United States shortly after their founder, Jakob Ammann, split with the Mennonites in 1693 for being too lax on enforcing their communal rules, as laid out in the Dordrecht Confession of Faith. For the next 200 years, the Amish were just a few eccentric families in Pennsylvania that spoke an archaic Swiss German. By 1920, these few families had grown to 5,000 people and since then have doubled about every 15 to 20 years, including between 2000 and 2020 when they doubled to 351,000.

Unless something changes drastically within their culture, this doubling is projected to continue. One demographer, Lyman Stone, showed that at their current rate of growth, they will easily make up a majority of the United States in 200 years. This means the current moment may mark the halfway point between them arriving as a small band of friends and their inheriting the most powerful nation on the planet. They may seem like a backwards remnant of the past, but in reality, they will almost certainly play a major role in the future. This will become more evident after they soon dwarf more well-known churches like the Episcopalians and Lutherans.

…

So, when virtually all other Christian groups are seeing plummeting, or at best stagnant, numbers, why are the Amish seeing growth like this? The answers people typically give are that they have a very high birth rate and an over 90% retention rate. But that’s like saying someone is wealthy because they made a lot of money and then saved most of it. It begs the question—how? How do they have such large families—with 6 or 7 children per woman—while the country at large has a below-replacement rate of 1.6 children? And how are they able to keep all those children within their communities?

I believe it all comes down to one thing—the Code—or as the Amish call it, the Ordnung.

The Amish Ordnung is different in each community, but if it strays too far, other communities will no longer associate with that community; so there are limits. While outside observers will just see strict rules about hats and beards and technology use, the Amish see the glue that holds them together as a people.

It’s very important to realize that each rule is chosen as a group and with the goal of strengthening individual virtue (especially humility), family and community ties, and their faith.

As an example, most Amish communities don’t allow phones in their homes, but it’s not because they think phones are inherently evil and ban them completely. They often have shared phone booths at the end of the street to use when necessary and at their places of work. They just don’t have phones in the home because they believe it will take away from the purposes of a home—things like family bonding, chores, and recreation. Nobody who has sat in a room of family and friends all silently swiping at their phones can tell me their concern isn’t warranted.

…

The success of this model was discussed by Eric Kaufmann, a political-demography scholar at the University of London, in his provocative 2010 book, Shall the Religious Inherit the Earth?: Demography and Politics in the Twenty-first Century. Kaufmann noted the growth of groups like the Amish and the Haredi Jews (often called the Ultra-Orthodox) and attributed it to their birth rates and strong communities. Haredi Jews, for example, who also live by strict community codes, were only a few percentage points of the Israeli schools in 1960 but are now about a third of students, and he predicts they will very soon eclipse secular Jews. Haredi growth in Brooklyn, New York, is seeing similar growth, with high birth rates and retention.

…

Laurence R. Iannaccone’s 1994 study “Why Strict Churches Are Strong,” which has been frequently cited and confirmed since, gives more detail on the success of certain community codes.

Iannaconne found that groups can be strict on items as long as they provide a “close substitute.” Think, for example, of banning social media but then providing a lot of new in-person social opportunities to make up for that sacrifice.

“Strictness works,” he says, but the rules can’t be so strict they make people miserable and drive them away, or as Iannaconne says, “Arbitrary strictness will fail just as surely as excessive strictness.” The rules do have to be strong enough, though, to keep “free-riders” from claiming the benefits of the community without participating. He called these rules “costly signals,” like the sacrifices the Amish make by limiting their clothing styles and technology use. A person would be very unlikely to go through all of those costly steps for community benefits they could get more easily elsewhere. By eliminating free-riders—whose “mere presence dilutes a group’s resources, reducing the average level of participation, enthusiasm, energy, and the like”—they see the reverse, very high levels of participation, enthusiasm, and energy.

It’s not just Amish and Haredi Jews that have seen success with following a community code beyond the laws of the state—think of the monastics who survived in far-flung places relying on The Rule of St. Benedict; knights that followed the Codes of Chivalry; bands of cowboys on the American frontier who stuck close to the Code of the West, which gave detailed guidance on passing strangers on the trail, when to tip your hat, and with which hand you should hold your whiskey; and the tribes along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border who have followed the Pashtunwali code since pre-Islamic times.

…

Modern Christians interested in starting a rule-based community would need to create some real benefits that are harder to come by in society at large. I’d suggest the basic benefits of a traditional community (help with childcare and schooling, coherent customs on dating and marriage, providing purpose and companionship to the elderly, cultural celebrations and gatherings, friendship, and assistance during hardship) would be plenty.

Then, they could agree together on some basic rules that are costly enough to separate the serious from the free-riders while not being arbitrary or unnecessarily strict. Targeting the rules toward areas that are particular downfalls for modern Americans (promiscuity, pornography, social media, screen-addiction, substance abuse) would be a good start. Agreeing to forego these in this time and culture would almost certainly be a costly enough signal.

Also, many of the rules should take into account issues like abuse of power, cults of personality, convenient personal revelations from God, sexual abuse, and a host of other issues inherent to tight-knit communities (and larger ones for that matter). The ability for a trusted leader to turn out to be an evil psychopath should never be underestimated, so rules should take that likelihood as a given and guard against it. The Amish, for example, draw straws to choose their leaders to avoid jockeying for power.

One last consideration is to what extent “walling yourself off from the modern world,” as Kaufmann said, is appropriate. Kaufmann said that was the best strategy for growth, but growth is not the only thing to weigh. There are also things like loving your neighbors, having an influence on the greater culture, and not stifling curiosity and creativity. Some walls are necessary, like between a teen boy and pornographic websites or between a child and an activist teacher, but a balance between walls and open spaces should be carefully pursued as a group. For example, language is used as a wall for the Amish (who speak Pennsylvania Dutch) and the Haredi Jews (who largely speak Yiddish), but that would likely be a step too far for most communities, as would their highly-detailed clothing restrictions.

…

Out-of-the-box? Sure. But with the exponential growth of the Amish and similar rule-based communities (and our own failure to find a workable model for modern Christian life) it may be a paradigm to consider. Even without our participation, it will certainly be how a fair amount of future Christians will live.

#david larson #crisis magazine #amish #maybe the amish are right #haredim

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sarcastic-pasta-games · 4 years ago

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To those who have expressed love and support in these last two days, I am deeply thankful for your kind words and I have taken these to heart. I really appreciate the vote of confidence not only that someone who was once as awful as me could change but also that I am trusted enough to change. While I will be stepping back in many ways, the support and kind words I have received led me to change my mind about leaving Glitch in the System for Chapter 2 and instead take extra time to focus on myself while focusing on the game.

I wanted to be fully honest with you because it would have been wrong for me to claim I was stepping down only to change my mind and not tell you the truth.

Something else I want to point out while I am here is that Glitch in the System has, for almost its entire development process, had a theme of redemption. Throughout the process of making it, I noticed people on the team growing as people and witnessed that change in myself as well. I realized that the people we were going into the game barely resemble those we are now. I wanted to create a game that affirmed the change in other people and was a comfort to those who have made mistakes from which they feel they could never recover. And due to the internet’s toxic habit of assuming that we are all static and unchanging as human beings, this message has been needed now more than ever. Jack himself has said some offensive things early in the channel that he would never say now because he has grown, and I’m sure every one of you has espoused an opinion or done things you regret. If we hold onto the belief that we cannot change or that a person’s mistake defines them, we lose our humanity. If we demand restitution rather than forgiving others, we hang onto hatred and poison ourselves.

Some people came to me with decisions they too regretted, including criminal histories. I was shocked to learn of them because I simply did not see that person when I spoke to them. I will not be revealing anyone’s secrets, but it was comforting to know that I am not the only person who has made such terrible mistakes, nor am I the only person who has ever changed from having prejudice or evil beliefs.

Before I do much more in the game, I would like to make a promise, which you may hold me accountable for, to offer forgiveness to those I have held grudges toward in the past. The issues are personal, but I have decided to contact them and offer my apologies for my anger and my forgiveness for the wrongs done to me. This is something I should have done long ago, and though I may not trust many of them until they earn it back, it is the least I can do. You will have to take my word for it because I do not plan to virtue signal by recording the conversations, but I take my promises seriously.

To those I have wronged, I also would be willing to have a mature, private conversation with you to personally own up to my mistakes and apologize. The reason I will not make this public is because there are people with legitimate grievances against me who want revenge for my actions and have no interest in forgiveness. I have enough self respect not to drag myself through the mud in order to placate someone who will refuse forgiveness. While I am guilty of numerous things and do not defend my actions, these matters should have been made private. I would have deserved such a callout when these events happened, but I resolved to turn over a new leaf this year and continue with my growth from last year. If I do not give myself a chance, I do not truly forgive myself. And if the game’s theme is redemption, earning back your trust is a high priority of mine, which I cannot do from the shadows.

To those who remain angry at me, you have every right to be angry. I will never tell you to stop being angry or even necessarily to forgive me right away. But as someone who has harbored anger and unforgiveness, as someone who has been on the other side of situation trying to ruin the reputation of someone based on my legitimate grievances, I ask that you please consider what it is you want from me. If it is revenge, you will not get it. If it is my humiliation, you have achieved it. If it is turning the public against me, I am secure in knowing that those who are willing to give me a second chance and forgive me are the people for whom I am making this game.

But if you do hate me with the ferocity I have seen over the last few days, please evaluate the kind of person you want to be. Do you want to be the kind of person who demands revenge and continues to hate or do you want to change as well? You are valuable and worthy of love. You have the potential for great things, and it would break my heart to see you squander it by staying angry. If I am to offer myself a second chance and if those who have offered me support are willing, I am more than willing to offer the same to you. I do not hate you or hold any ill will toward you. I wish you the best, and thank you for keeping me accountable. I will do everything in my power to make sure the version of me you knew is dead and I hope that you too are able to grow a little more each and every day.

Chapter 2 Part 1 will be released on schedule and I look forward to seeing everyone enjoy it. To those who have offered me their kind words and support, thank you. Your forgiveness is touching and I hope to be as forgiving and affirming as you one day.

-Katie

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doopcafe · 5 years ago

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Star Wars TCW: A Distant Echo (7x02)

Summary: The Banal Batch and Anakin find a borgified Echo.

Comments: Is the clone base on this planet the same as the one in Rebels: Out of Darkness? Did they just copy the model from Rebels, or...?

Anakin is Zoom chatting with his “wife” in the officer’s barracks as Rex stands guard outside. First, there’s a bit of tolerable interaction here between Anakin/Padme, albeit with awkward pacing. Second, it’s clear that Rex knows what Anakin is doing and is specifically on guard for Prequel!Wan who, third, shows up and stupidly bickers with Rex outside as Anakin takes his sweet time finishing the call, knowing full well Rex is there sweating balls over the predicament that Anakin has placed him in. This is all in line with Anakin’s character, so the consistency is at least... predictable.

Prequel!Wan says, “I hope you at least told Padme I said hello,” afterwards, which... I might be an idiot, but clearly Prequel!Wan knows Anakin is holding secret conversations with Padme. I mean, they all have to know at this point, right?

Anyways, back to the “plot,” The Banal Batch and Anakin fly to Skako Minor where they expect to find Echo and someone says, “We are approaching Skako Minor, it looks to be a difficult landing.”

But then they just, like, safely land without complication. Like Techno just sets the ship down.

Ah, then a series of seriously stupid things happen. The group is attacked by these flying creatures, so Anakin drops his lightsaber and Tech(no?), uh, directs the fire of the sniper by saying some numbers. Sniper guy hooks one with a grappling hook from like, a kilometer away, which Rex uses to grab onto the creature that’s flying away with Anakin...

Ah, what was the plan here? Rex starts shooting the creature that’s carrying him, which is the equivalent of setting off explosives in an airplane you’re riding in. If you succeed at killing the creature, then you both fall to your deaths? It’s okay, because Rex has read the script ahead of time and unhooks his rope to drop to a ledge right outside the native’s village where he can call in their location and bring in help for Anakin.

If the goal was to find where Anakin was being taken, why not just like, I dunno, follow in your perfectly intact ship? Through the perfectly clear skies of this planet? Or just home in on Anakin’s signal from his communicator?

Whatever, it turns out this was a pointless scene for drama because they all just show up in this village anyways and immediately rescue Anakin from the aliens, who have conveniently placed a perfectly shaped, round boulder outside their outpost for the purpose of being used against them for such a purpose.

Tech has a universal translator built into his head set which allows him to Google Translate anything the aliens say. Okay. Okay, that makes sense. But then, in the opposite direction, it translates English into the aliens language and... Tech just speaks it to them? What the hell? I’m going to just assume there’s like, a microphone and speaker inside his helmet that’s actually recording and translating his speech, but, I don’t know anymore.

Also, my PhD in engineering *pushes up nerd glasses* tells me that “latency issue with the frequency” is nonsense. Does he mean phase shift? Why doesn’t he just say “phase shift?” If he does mean phase shift, then why can’t he just account for it? Even if it’s dynamic and/or time-varying, I would think technology from another galaxy a long time ago would be able to handle that?

Er, anyways, Rex is confronted about the validity of their mission—while balls deep in that mission—and he defends the mission by declaring that he “knows” Echo is still alive because he recognized Echo’s voice in the transmission from last episode. Ah... they’re clones? They’re all clones? They all have an identical voice?

Anyways, the natives help them get to the Techno Union’s city thing where they break into a room at the base of the giant pillar that holds it up. Anakin orders Crosshair, the sniper, to “check it out.” He does so, and sarcastically says, “yah, it’s a lift,” to which Anakin responds, “well, we already knew that,” in like an annoyed voice. If you already knew it was a lift, (a) why did you order him to check it out, (b) why did you order Crosshair, the sniper, to recon a room?, and (c) why didn’t you, an invincible “Jedi” do it yourself? By the way, you may have noticed that, by virtue of being a sniper, the Crosshair’s primary weapon is a seven-foot-long rifle poorly suited for clearing a room.

Anyways, let me end this “review.” In the lift, Anakin is attempting to explain the importance of stealth, when the doors open, there’s guards, and the Banal Batch storm out, shooting everything. They keep trying to track Echo’s signal, but it gets lost, so they split up, Wat Tambor (?) traps most of them with a bunch of droids, fighting happens (not gonna lie, I skipped over it) and... they find Echo who... LOL... has robot legs...

Honestly, “droids get shot apart by invulnerable clones” is sooooo f—ing boring to watch.

In conclusion, Echo’s alive because “no one’s every really gone.”

My enjoyment: 1/5

#pie211-tcw #tcw #the clone wars #star wars

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oh-boleyn · 5 years ago

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jane / infamy

words: 6216, one shot, language: english

anne / jane / katherine / catherine

as I said on my ao3, this might be my last one shot in a while (I’m really struggling with college right now, like in this moment I should be doing two assigments which... clearly I’m not doing), but still I hope you all enjoy this piece of garbage of story!

TW: canon, Jane being mean? probably more swearing that what is expected from a jane one shot

the commentary between scenes are things I got from internet about Jane Seymour

Remembered for: being the only wife to provide Henry with a son and male heir.

(…)

Jane Seymour was relieved.

The light is brighter, and her dizziness is starting to fade.

No more pain or ache in her lower body, and she feels quite better than in a long time. Her arms are longing to hold her baby, dear Edward, who has just secured her the position of queen.

She opens her eyes, but instead of finding her chambers, she is in a strange looking room, with Anne Boleyn and Catherine of Aragon. Jane wants to cry, knowing immediately what it meant. She is dead, there is no other way to turn it around. She died and was found guilty of her sins, was it her hell? Being with the other two queens? God punishment for seducing a married man?

They all stare at each other, not knowing how to proceed.

(…)

Virtue and common good sense.

(…)

The new house is nothing like what she was used to, and sharing a room with both Catherines wasn’t exactly in her dreams.

She had less problems with accepting Catherine rather than Anne, after all, with the last the relationship had been more than rocky, but Catherine probably wasn’t Jane’s biggest fan either. Even after the older queen’s death, Jane had always tried her best with Mary, attempting to help her image, trying to reconcile with the religion.

Parr wasn’t bad, but she was quite closed. They weren’t acquaintances in their past lives, but that didn’t mean Catherine would introduce herself and invite her to grab a snack or something. It was hard to think about her, how connected both were but how apart too. The most she would talk was about history, or science, or another thing Jane couldn’t bring herself to truly understand and would be left just nodding along.

(…)

When she died, he actually sunk into depression, officially mourning her for two years before marrying again.

(…)

Looking for a job is not an easy task, it’s not like she ever had to do that before. Her kinsman secured her a good place as the lady of the queen, and even when the court became hostile and fell apart, she managed to still have her place.

But now jobs required so much, not just her needlework and knowing how to perform the arts —whatever arts you want that to mean. Modern positions searched for way too many qualities she doesn’t have.

When Catherine offers the idea of doing a show, she says yes out of desperation of not knowing how to do anything else, not even how get the oven to work. Once it goes out of her mouth, she truly wishes the rest of the queens don’t notice how needy she is of the opportunity.

(…)

By that account, she was practically a saint!

(…)

Opening night was stressful to say the least. There are at least a hundred pairs of eyes on her, and her song – her song! While everyone clapped along Aragon’s and Boleyn’s, her part was different, way out of the upbeat modern pop style.

She couldn’t even have a fun, upbeat song.

It’s not like she didn’t want to, Jane tried so hard to add comic relief to her story, trying puns and obnoxious screaming. But her song was slow, more of a ballad instead of the pop-rock songs the show featured. And, to top it, she was the only one who talked about understanding Henry, about loving him, staying by his side.

Of fucking course, she had to be the sweet woman who just happened to love a horrible man.

(…)

Jane was Henry’s true love.

(…)

It is hard to fill her place, her own shoes she left behind when she died.

Jane Seymour, known because she was the one he truly loved. The one he asked to be painted years after she died, instead of just letting her rest in peace. Jane, the dutiful wife, the one who had the son he so desperately wanted.

And the audience loved it, they loved to see the dutiful mother, the one who can’t stop talking about her son. They cheered, they heard everything they always knew.

Because she wasn’t an interesting character in the story, she was just another woman there to obey the orders of the king.

She wishes she was known for something else, but that’s not her life. Of course, playing another character would be fun, being the temptress, the evil stepmother, the fun one, someone people actually cared about. Instead, she was the tedious, boring perfect wife. Reduced to her uterus capacity, and ability to shut her mouth.

(…)

I assure you she is as gentle a lady as ever I knew, and as fair a Queen as any in Christendom.

(…)

“Good morning, Katherine.” Jane says.

The teenager enters the kitchen with heavy steps, still not quite awake from the night of sleep.

“Morning.” She replies, voice small.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“Do you know how to cook?” Katherine retorts, a smug look on her face. “Don’t worry, I will buy something. Maybe cheesecake? Or apple pie?”

“Why not a chocolate cake.” Jane offers, getting the water off of the stove, almost burning herself in the process.

“Do you like chocolate cake?” The younger asks, “I would have pinned you as a vanilla kind of person.”

Jane feels judged. The smile on Katherine’s face just says it all.

“I prefer it, but never mind.” The teenager finishes.

(…)

Here lies Jane, a phoenix / Who died in giving another phoenix birth.

(…)

They move into a new house.

The moment Jane enters her new room, she knows it will take at least two months to get it completely clean. There are spiderwebs, and the white walls look more of a light grey. She makes mental notes to buy bleach, and other cleaning supplies.

At least her bed is clean, but she makes sure it doesn’t touch any wall for the sake of it not getting dirty.

(…)

Jane Seymour was a kind woman too, a better person than Anne.

(…)

“Are we coming to the bar tonight?” Anna asks.

Cleves is nothing less than an interesting character to say the least. They never got to meet in their past lives, but the woman knew her son. She even lived long enough to see him dead.

“I’m not sure,” Jane replies, “I don’t think that Boleyn is going to want me there.”

“But I would want you there.” The fourth queen says easily. “If it’s your decision, that’s alright, but I would like you to come.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

(…)

Her ladies-in-waiting and her maids were held to a strict code of behavior and insisted that they “serve God and be virtuous”.

(…)

The people, and society as a whole has changed.

Feminism is a common term, and women can –almost, to a certain point– hold the same power as men do.

Still, Jane feels more judged than ever. In her past life it was easy, if she did exactly what she was told, nobody would question her. She was bound to serve and obey, and planned to let everyone know about it. Unlike Anne, she was not going to take her chances. She couldn’t say that it brings her happiness, but it gave her peace of mind.

Nobody would contradict the orders of their king.

Nowadays it is different. People talk about freedom, about being able to own yourself, your body, your choices. Nonetheless, they talk about her. Judged her for saying good things about Henry in her speech, for loving him when it was her only choice.

It was her choice to keep her hair long, not like Anna’s. Her choice to wear make-up, to prefer dresses rather than pants. To talk about her son, to own her past. The public sometimes hated her for it, for her decisions, calling them a part of patriarchy leftover from the century in which she used to live.

They hate that she reduces herself to it, to being a mother, to fill what was expected of her, but that is still the only thing they know about her.

(…)

Jane herself was known for her quiet and soothing manner.

(…)

She sometimes sees it; the way Aragon and Boleyn are mothers.

Sometimes it is just a word, a name. Something totally irrelevant that snaps them into it, into caring in a way only mothers do. The way they treat Katherine, or how they look at a little kid on the street. How they talk to the younger fans of the show.

Jane feels like she doesn’t have it. She doesn’t care about babies and kids. Doesn’t have an attachment to them, to the idea of being a mother. If someone handed her a baby she would probably freeze and don’t know how to proceed.

Was it justice? Did she die so Edward wouldn’t have to put through with her as a mother?

Jane thinks she was just not born for that, to have a kid, to care for them. There were women who had maternal instincts, but she didn’t. Instead, when having to tend for Katherine, she grew overwhelmed, not having a clue of what to do next.

(…)

We will never know if Jane sought the king’s favor or was a frightened pawn of her family and the king’s desire.

(…)

“Would you like to go to brunch tomorrow?” Aragon asks one day.

It’s Saturday night, which means she is totally exhausted after a two show day, but still, she nods. Slowly, Aragon and Jane had started to rebuild the good relationship they once had. Both of them holding so much respect for the other.

“Have you seen Kat?” Parr interrupts Jane’s thoughts.

“She was here just a minute ago.” Aragon says, looking around.

“Well, Anne is looking for her and there’s no trace of where she could be.” The survivor explains quickly.

“Let’s look for her.” The first queen concludes, taking action.

They pass fans, excusing themselves, still taking a few pictures just for the sake of fulfilling the stagedoor the queens always did. Once they are out, a cold breeze hits their faces. Walking through the streets seems dangerous, but luckily enough Kat is near, curled up in herself. They signal to Anne and Anna to quickly come with them.

“Kitty, can you hear me?” Anne is fast to get on her knees, getting to be at the same height as Katherine.

“We should take her inside,” Jane states, “it’s not safe here.”

“Outside air can help, Jane.” Boleyn snaps at her. “Kat?”

She wishes she could be mad at her, but at the same time the second queen is just trying to do the best for her cousin. She acts almost instinctive, as if anyone would do that. The way she stays near her, but without invading personal space amazes Jane, even if that decision makes sense. She would’ve tried to pull the younger girl closer, thinking about it makes it seem like not such a good idea, the immediate response to fight or flight after a panic attack wouldn’t help.

“I’m okay.” Her voice is small. “Can we go home?”

Jane nods, and starts walking behind her towards the car. It comes as a surprise the fact that Katherine rides with them, instead of Anne and Anna as she usually does, but they don’t say a thing. She maintains her eyes on the girl, worried about her.

Once they arrive, Katherine is the first to get into the house, leaving the other two queens alone.

“I’m worried about her, should we try to have a talk?” Jane asks, Catherine denies with her head.

“No, we have to just make her trust us,” she says easily, “once she does, if needed she will come to us. Confrontation is mostly not the way to go with teenagers.”

“How do you know that?”

Aragon smiles.

(…)

She was the only one of his wives to be buried next to him.

(…)

If Jane said that she never wanted to be queen, it would be a lie.

The idea always sounded appealing. Who wouldn’t want to be one? Even in a modern context, girls still pretended to be queens, to live in the prettiest castles. Being queen came with power, not nearly as much as men had, but still a fair amount. The chance to change things, to have opinions. Not counting how good it could be to the family, to secure a future.

Jane would be lying if she ever said that becoming a queen was not something she longed for. But she didn’t want Anne to suffer such a horrible death, no matter if it was or wasn’t fair.

(She used to think that another kind of death wouldn’t be as bad, to die for natural causes would just be God’s will, and to have a divorce would be the Man’s will.

Now she thinks every ending is horrible until proven different.)

In this life she kept quiet about it, knowing how she might have interfered in what Henry ultimately did to Anne. She preferred to not talk about her time as queen, how he threatened her with the same fate her predecessor suffered.

She once thinks about boarding the subject with Parr. She saw that the writer went through the same, a warrant order for her head that was never finished, and the painful death after a childbirth. Still, she doesn’t do so, knowing that her and the survivor are not the same.

Catherine Parr was smart, got her way because of her words. Jane Seymour was just the ignorant fool who kept quiet to please the man.

(…)

The ladies in waiting were expected to wear a belt of pearls with at least 120 pearls in them, and if they didn’t, they weren’t allowed to appear before her.

(…)

“Did you bring something for the cold?” Jane interrogates.

“Yeah, my pink sweater, I left it in the dressing room.” Katherine explains.

“Okay, I will look for it, finish taking your makeup off.” She orders.

The third queen stops staring at the queen, instead looking around. Finding the piece of clothing, she reaches out for it, but winces for a moment when the younger talks.

“Jane, just stop it, okay?” Katherine asks.

“It’s cold, put on a coat or something more, you will catch a cold.” She tried to give the teenager her pink sweater, but all she got was rejection.

“Just don’t. Stop acting as if I’m a child.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise, after all, Katherine usually snapped at her.

“You are nineteen.” Jane indicated, anger bubbling up in her voice.

“I am like almost five hundred years old.” There was bitterness in the statement. “Nobody cared about me being eighteen when the king beheaded me. They didn’t even care when I was younger, why now?”

“Because I care about you.” The words come out before she can really think about it.

Did she really? Cared for the younger?

Of course, she didn’t want harm to come to her, but then again also not to any of all the strangers she knew in this life. Nonetheless there is something about Katherine, an innocence, a broken past. Jane wanted to take care of the girl, to help her through whatever she was going through.

“You shouldn’t.”

It comes out almost aggressive, like a threat. The queen who died of natural causes doesn’t know how to feel about it.

(…)

She learned pretty quickly that it was best to stay out of religion and politics, and instead focused her energy on domestic issues.

(…)

Jane doesn’t break like Katherine, but she still does.

The way Katherine breaks suddenly, they can all point at that moment and say that is when she started changing. Harming herself in not obvious ways, drinking more caffeine than what she should, sleeping less, eating the unhealthiest food she can find. They notice, but their own egos and need to not gossip in order to not be the catty bitches fighting against each other like history has painted stop them from acting as a group.

Instead, the way Jane breaks is slowly, anger destroying her. Consuming every inch of her, growing and taking parts of her life.

It starts as a bitter, indignant feeling when she is left to cook or help cleaning up, but it quickly grows. Gets infuriating, maddening when people call her good . She is not, she might have been in another life, but not in this one. She was not innocent, but rather had a fair amount of guilt. It evolves to be hostile when she realizes that nothing will change it.

Jane Seymour, the mother figure who not only failed at being educated and staying alive, but also failed at having maternal instincts. The good queen, who did nothing but harm. The mother of the king, a king who died young and so did she.

She hates herself for it.

(…)

Her ladies-in-waiting and her maids were held to a strict code of behavior and insisted that they “serve God and be virtuous”.

(…)

She tries to self-isolate, to take a step away.

It doesn’t help, instead the anger comes back stronger each time, and she hates it. Jane hates how violent the feeling can be, how abrasive. She controls herself as she had always done, but it doesn’t make it any better, a resentment towards her fellow queens growing.

Seymour was not a jealous woman, not in her past life and not in this one. She didn’t want to be like the other queens knowing that there were so many things wrong in their lives. It was not about it.

It was about making a mistake, and how she never got to commit those. Jane couldn’t regret anything in her life without someone telling her that “she had it easy”, after all, she was the one he “truly loved”. Even when her problems were addressed, it always came before a way to minimize it, or worse, blame her for them.

The queens knew that it was none of their faults, but people still pinned them against each other, choosing favourites, giving each other a role. And she couldn’t say a word, because hers was good.

It didn’t matter what she truly wanted, or what her opinions about it were, because their mind was made up.

Why change something that is not broken? Why get mad over a good thing? What was better, being a bitch or a saint ?

Jane thinks that being the villain of the story would be easier, liberating. Heroes are just too unreal to exist, but pushing the narrative meant forgetting her own flaws, thoughts, problems.

But who cared?

All they ever wanted was a devoted woman.

(…)

Jane curbed her tongue and accepted her place as the dutiful wife.

(…)

"Can you stop being such a stuck-up child and act mature for a fucking moment?" The third queen asks, becoming irritable, "I just fucking asked you to do one thing. One fucking thing. You are not a toddler, stop throwing a fit!"

It turns out, living up to five hundred years of expectations become harder the angrier you get. The worse the feeling of burning grows, the worse it hurts inside. Jane refuses to let it slide, to let it show, but Anne is not making it any easier.

"Go off, Janey," the green queen laughs, "or chill out, it's not that deep."

"Except, it is." She demands. "I asked you to please do one thing, and it's not the first time. I ask you, you do it for a week, and then forget about it. Are you taking me for an idiot?"

"Honestly? No," she replies easily, "I just don't care enough."

They stay watching each other for a moment.

It brings back memories, but their roles are reversed. In another timeline Jane would be childish, not caring enough, or maybe caring so, so much, about the locket and chain around her neck. Anne would watch her with such a fury in her eyes, and the blonde would internally laugh.

She regrets it. Jane hadn’t seen it coming. The dreadful ending.

“But I know you do; I will try to change it.” Anne answers, her voice just above a whisper.

A soft: “Thank you” it’s all Jane can say.

“You’re welcome, darling .” A playful smirk passes through her lips.

“Bloody idiot.”

“I know.”

Boleyn gives her a sincere smile.

Maybe sometimes yelling is useful.

(…)

It is also true that she was not as sharp or witty as Anne Boleyn.

(…)

It doesn’t last long. Before she knows it, the show must keep going.

Jane smiles, sings her song, sings about Edward. Edward, her Edward. Her brother too, was named Edward. He died. Her brother too, was Thomas. Thomas who did so much wrong. Thomas who apparently loved Parr. Thomas who got sentenced to death.

Thomas and Edward. Thomas. Edward.

She doesn’t realize how much panic creeps in until she is alone in her room crying. An unexpected feeling of grief for the family she once had, as much grief as hate and resentment towards them. Horrible atrocious acts made just for the sake of it.

The Internet says that her son, her little baby, luckily died young.

They talk about luck, something good. And even as much as she wants to believe that her kid won’t ever be a threat, she knows his father. Henry was atrocious, ruthless. Growing under his influence was probably not the ideal childhood. If only she hadn’t died.

Her skin aches, and she has to ground herself controlling her breathing.

Was it possible that every man in her old life was terrible?

(…)

She never seemed to cause drama or do anything without her husband’s permission, and she managed to maintain her carefully crafted image of being virtuous, loyal and obedient.

(…)

“Jane, can we talk?” Aragon questions, knocking on the door.

The blonde nods, slowly looking up.

“What’s going on?” The divorcee asks, rather bluntly. “You stopped coming out of your room, and when you do, it’s just to fight. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m good. Great even.” She smiles.

“Do you think I’m a fool?”

Bloody hell.

Jane doesn’t want to hold this conversation, knowing that she has all the cards to lose it. But at the same time, she wishes to reach out, to explain what is going on. To say that she doesn’t know how to be angry, how to defy someone, how to speak up. All she knows is shouting, crying and hiding her real emotions.

She must conceal what she feels, to not let it show. The less she thinks, the less she feels, the less danger it represents. Jane can’t be the next one. If what happened to Aragon was an awful experience, where she couldn’t see her daughter or talk to her for the last years of her entire life, and Anne’s death was way worse, what is left for her? Torture worse than death.

“ Bonita, breathe with me.” Aragon commands, sitting a hand on Jane’s shoulder in an attempt to ground her. “Jane, breath in. Hold. Breath out.”

“Go away, Catherine, please . ” The queen begs.

“No. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want you here, please .”

“I just want to help.” Catherine says, trying to get closer.

“Why don’t you try and help yourself first? I know I’m dumb, but even I can notice what you do, Catherine.” Her voice becomes steady. “Why are you so obsessed with fixing people? Is this because you couldn’t fix Mary from the monster she became?”

The venom in her words acts quickly, Catherine’s face changing in a few moments. First a pained expression, then developing hurt. She stands up from the bed, and Jane rage rises.

“Why can’t you just keep for yourself, Aragon?” She expels the name. “Is that because you don’t know us? Is this a trick? I know you loved him, is this your way to check us as competition? Or just because you want to see which one of us can take the blame for what happened with baby Mary?”

Catherine stays silent. Humble and loyal after all.

“I told you I wanted you gone.” Jane finishes.

“And I told you, you need help. You should seek it before it becomes too late.”

(…)

Jane’s son Edward was at best a useless boy-king, and at worst a divisive religious extremist who disinherited his sisters.

(…)

Maybe no other queen truly understands her.

Or maybe she doesn’t understand the others.

How Anne talks about her beheading makes it sound like a celebration, a great day everyone was looking forward. She talks about how people cheered, even if it sounds mostly like an old tale made by people who hated her. Jane doesn’t try to tell the truth. She hides it in her silence, just like she hid from Henry.

She should. She should make it better for Anne, but a part of her can’t do so. Can’t bring herself to tell the truth. To confront the other queen. She can’t break the need to be perfect, the need to be good, and innocent.

Talking to Boleyn would be an admission of guilt she is not ready to commit.

(…)

Jane Seymour fulfilled her most important duty as queen, but she was never crowned and died just twelve days after the long and arduous birth.

(…)

Catherine is distant, which shouldn’t surprise her.

Asking for help sounds like a trap. She can’t trust anyone. Even if she knows how much it would change things, even if she doesn’t feel like the queens would hate her or judge her, deep inside something tells her they will. And she can’t allow that.

She can’t break the idea of being perfect after fighting so much for it in the past.

(…)

The fact that she had died producing Henry’s only surviving male heir gave her a mythic near-martyr status in his eyes, and he would do creepy things like having her appear in a family portrait eight years after her death (and not even as a zombie or vampire, much to my dismay).

(…)

“Why are you here?” Her therapist asks.

Wasn’t being a reincarnated Tudor queen who died after giving birth to the next king of England enough reason to be?

“I think I’m having problems with being impulsive, and out of control, and managing my emotions.”

“Which emotions would this be?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s good that you are looking for help, Jane.” The woman says.

She takes the files and starts asking more questions, Jane finds herself being more honest than in a long time.

After the session she feels happier, lighter.

(…)

Let’s get down to business and look at just why Jane was in fact not a cute little wifey BUT a calculating master manipulator.

(…)

It doesn’t last long, and that is what hurts the most.

Feeling good for a moment just to then descend into the pain of unbelievable sadness that invades her. Not knowing how to handle it, making her go slowly mad.

It makes her think of her death.

Everything was good, happy, easy. But then it started going bad, failing. Her own body, organs shutting down, fever, agony. A pain in her chest that barely leaves her breathing. Death coming to her. And sometimes she feels it again.

Short, confused breath. A weight so heavy on her chest. Her thoughts all over the place. Death creeping on her. Her psychologist calls it a panic attack, stress coming to her. And she doesn’t know how to react to the idea that it’s just her brain. Drowning in thoughts, so deep that she can’t see the surface.

(…)

That’s two Queens brought back into the folds of power, a feat Jane achieved in just 6 months, thanks to her skill at manipulating Henry without him even realizing.

(…)

Anna doesn’t come to her, just the contrary. Jane tries to help.

Watching the queen crumbling down, makes her feel smaller. Just the contrary to her stage presence. This Anna is not partying, no joking. She is broken. Not a unidimensional character that they pull each night. Cleves has kept a mask for so long, that is just now breaking.

Jane can’t help but wonder if they all do. But it’s different. Jane had always been allowed to be sad, to cry, to be sensible and weak, while Anna never had that privilege. Each role assigned to them had their good and bad parts.

“We might not be great. I know I’m not. But we are here for you. We are all in this.”

“Do you really mean it?” The fourth queen asks.

She doesn’t doubt it. It’s just the way it worked, everyone had their places, what they tried to fulfil. It was harder on some of them. To keep or to destroy what they were. Create a new self being idyllic, impossible.

“Of course, I do.” Jane smiles.

(…)

Jane was not beautiful. She was not outspoken, or alluring, or exotic.

(…)

An article said he was sick for months. That he died slowly, painfully.

Her son had died when still young. And she never held his hand. She wonders if he was scared. If he thought what death might have felt like. Sometimes it keeps her up at night, her sick son who had to lay in a bed. Who she can’t help.

She wasn’t scared of death, as she never quite understood, fever coming to her, letting her slowly go. Making her confused, as she didn’t understand if she died until she came back.

What was better? To go without knowing or to stay knowing that the ultimate end is near?

Jane used to be catholic, used to devote herself to religion. But since she came back it all feels like a lie, an elaborated truth that kept her from making errors. Still, for his supposed last words, she hopes God had mercy on him.

(…)

Nobody wants an unfun queen.

(…)

“Jane, may I sit with you?”

The older nods, making space on the sofa. Katherine practically jumps to the spot but doesn’t relax until Jane opens her arms for the girl to get into the embrace. They stay like that for a few moments, just enjoying each other’s company.

They had managed to somehow have a good relationship. Maybe because Jane never feels as if Katherine judges. Maybe because Katherine never met her in life. Maybe because they know the least about their past. It somehow brings them closer.

“Is everything alright, sweetheart?” The third queen wonders.

She keeps in mind Aragon’s words, if Katherine feels safe enough, she will open up. Slowly the changes had been more noticeable, especially after starting therapy.

Maybe it’s the need to be a mother, maybe it’s just the way Katherine can charm anyone, with shy smiles and childish glee.

“I feel bad.” Katherine admits. “I… I have tried to ignore things and I just feel guilty about it.”

Jane nods, knowing what the feeling is about. Remorse is an even more common feeling in the queens’ household than it is probably in others.

Maybe they are both broken.

“What about?” She wonders.

Maybe it’s just meant to be.

“They beheaded the woman who helped me.” Katherine admits. “They beheaded her too.”

Maybe it’s because they both feel the blood on their hands.

“But it wasn’t your fault. You can’t make yourself responsible for others’ actions.” Jane confirms.

“I never cried. Since I came back, I never cried for her. I just pushed it to the back of my mind, acted as if it did not happen.” Her eyes water. “She died for me. And I am back, and she is not. I still don’t try to bring those memories back.”

“Some emotions need time.” The older one tries to explain. “Grief it’s not lineal, there’s denial, there’s guilt.”

“She didn’t deserve it.”

“You didn’t either. But you can honour her. We have a second chance, something impossible.”

“What are you using your second chance for?” Katherine wonders.

Jane doesn’t have an answer.

(…)

Jane Seymour: (shrug) enh.

(…)

Sometimes talking with fans is easier. They comment about the play with blissful glee, about the shiny costumes and loud music. Some go as far as making copies of her costume, to draw her, to write letters. They still don’t know her fully and they mostly don’t care to find out.

Jane can’t help but wonder if Edward ever felt love like that, blind, from someone who doesn’t know who you are. She can’t help but wonder what her son knew of her, because he never met her. She didn’t get to really meet him either, but she has Anna, who sometimes would drop a funny story of a young king, Katherine who remembers a little boy, and Catherine who talks about how smart he was.

She hopes that he had someone to tell him her story.

(…)

In her entire 18 months as queen, Jane Seymour failed to say one single thing that anybody thought was worth preserving for the future.

(…)

“Catherine, can we talk?” Jane asks.

The first queen nods sternly, sitting in front of her. Even though their relationship had been less tense since she started therapy a while ago, things were still not quite resolved within them.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Catherine starts. “I shouldn’t have pushed, specifically not when I told you not to push Katherine.”

“No, it’s alright.” The blonde smiles. “Katherine shouldn’t be pressured, that’s true. But we are different. I didn’t understand what you were trying to do but now I do. And I’m sorry. I have been realizing things slowly and it’s just a matter of time until I will feel better again.”

“Penny for your thoughts?” The first queen asks.

“It’s the idea of being perfect. To fill in my own shoes. To comply, and obey and serve. You knew me before, and you know me now, but I just feel so much responsibility to be who people think I am. I talk about how I stayed, firm by his side, but in reality, I didn’t. I was scared. I am scared. And it’s such a weird feeling, because it drives me to do the exact opposite thing of what I try to do. My death was just something that happened, but I can’t help and think that I was lucky to have died. Who knows what could’ve been of me otherwise?”

“You don’t have to be perfect.”

“But I do.” Jane replies. “It’s just my place, and I’m a character. I just have to learn where and when I should be myself.”

“Are you sure? No one is expecting anything.”

“They are. And it’s okay. They want it, the love story, the tragic ending. I wish it was like that, but it was not. But I’m going to be fine, because I’m pretty tough. And it doesn’t come from screaming, being the loudest or the most anything. It comes from me, and I don’t have to prove it to anyone else.”

(…)

Or, god forbid, are you a fan of the insufferable Jane Fucking Seymour?

(…)

“I might miss some foods from the past, but I love this.” Anne said happily, devouring some chocolate lentils.

“Stop it! I want some too.” Her almost namesake replied, trying to take some.

“Anna, don’t worry about chocolate and help me pick a movie.” Parr insists. “I saw that this one was good, this account said that they used a new kind of animation to do it. Created a new program and all.”

Jane smiles, laughing lightly at Catherine who can’t keep facts for herself. Each time it becomes better, less superior talking and more nerdy, passionate about useless knowledge.

“Whatever you choose, please let it be short, I’m so tired tonight.” Aragon asks.

“That one is ninety minutes long.” Katherine offers.

The third queen sits, gossiping about the plot

(…)

So, don’t overlook Jane. Sure she’s quiet, but remember it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.

(…)

Second chances were overrated, that much could be said for Jane Seymour.

Sometimes, people don’t change, themselves or their minds. In her two lives, she dealt with it all. With trying and not, with fighting and keeping quiet, with being looked up to and with being irrationally disliked. Society, as a whole, would never be pleased. Setting standards too high, as much as those vary from time to time, from one century to the other, there was always going to be something wrong.

But it didn’t mean she had to just follow it.

Second chances were overrated, wasting hers into demonstrating things to anyone except herself. The general opinion might not change, but Jane does. She learns, grows. She cries, gets sick and has horrible days, she fights, speaks out, she loves, she smiles. It’s hard, to live a life she shouldn’t have, but it means that is her opportunity, not to be revolutionary, not to be a queen nor a mother.

Jane learns to be herself, to explore, to know her limits. And it never ends.

Second chances were overrated, but it doesn’t mean that Jane was going to try and make the best out of hers. Maybe it is boring, or naïve to not try to take an impossible opportunity, but she doesn’t need it. To be true to herself is more than just enough.

#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfiction #six fanfic #jane seymour

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siluscrow · 6 years ago

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Life advice and shit

So it’s 3:30am and I’m waiting on a render to finish up so Imma drop some life advice on Tumblr ‘cause I’m bored as fuck. Well life advice and general life methodology.

Be excellent to each other.

Don’t judge people for shit they can’t control like race, gender, sexual preference, etc., judge people for their actions and words. They have a say in that shit after all.

Don’t hold people accountable for things they themselves have not done. An ancestor may have been a shit person but you shouldn’t have to pay for their crimes when they’re long dead.

Uphold standards evenly. Hold people to the same standards, don’t give people a pass for shitty behavior but then rip into someone for doing the exact same thing. Sometimes double standards are the only standards a person has. Don’t be that person.

If you HAVE to make arguments about/against demographics (based on sex, gender, etc.), switch said demographics up and take a look at it again. If it then seems racist, sexist, homophobic or what have you, you may wanna re-evaluate some things.

Also, don’t make arguments about/against demographics, make them about people. All [Demographic] people aren’t problematic, but that motherfucker there that’s shouting slurs sure as fuck is.

“Well the good [demographic] knows when I say ‘all [demographic] people are trash’ that I’m not talking about them.” No. Get better fucking wording you sack of shit. You’re assuming that people will pick that up and not read it like you’re throwing entire groups of people under the bus ‘cause you can’t be bothered to not blame entire demographics for the actions of a few people that just happen to be in said demographic.

If you start shit, don’t get pissy when someone tries to challenge you on said shit. This extends to both arguments/debates and physical violence. Don’t throw hands unless you’re ready to catch hands.

Personal attacks only serve to point out that your argument can’t stand on its own and you have to resort to tearing down the person as opposed to the point they are trying to make. Get a better fucking argument.

“I don’t have the time or patience to explain this to you” is a fucking lazy cop out, as is “just google it”. You’re making an argument? Fucking put in the leg work on it.

Don’t fuckin’ drag people that are just trying to learn or do better.

Do no harm but take no shit. Or, I would say, don’t hurt people, but be ready to break a motherfucker if you have to.

Don’t engage in cancel culture. Yes even against them. Them too. People seem to dig up shit from years ago and try to hold it over people’s heads like it matters now. I’m damn sure that you, dear reader, have done or said shit in the past that could be used to cancel you now. But you learned. You got better. You grew as a person and you’re not like that any more (I would hope). So yeah, fuck cancelling people, shit’s dumb and unhelpful.

The easiest way to get people to not give a shit about something is to preach at them and guilt them. Bring things to people’s attention, spread the word, etc., but don’t shame people for not knowing or caring about what you’re talking about. People got their own shit to deal with and some people just cannot or do not have more on their plate than they can deal with.

Stay hydrated. That means water ya ding dongs.

Make sure to get some Vitamin C in ya. Scurvy is a thing. Guy I had a class with a few years back got it and lost a tooth. So eat an orange or drink some citrus juice now and again or something.

Be sure to eat something. I know it’s hard for some people, but get some food in your belly if you’re having a bad time.

Be sure to get some good rest. Not even sleep (though that is important), just like...decompression time. Being constantly wound up isn’t good for you.

On a VERY specific note, Dramamine for anxiety/stress nausea, like holy shit guys.

If you’re gonna break up with a significant other, for the love of fuck don’t do it via text. Have the goddamn common curtesy to at least call them and tell them yourself. And actually tell them WHY you’re breaking up with them.

Relationship-wise, don’t fuckin’ play games and don’t be with anyone that plays games. You don’t need that kinda drama in your life.

For the love of fuck, communicate with your SO, and be receptive when your SO is trying to communicate with you. So much drama can be avoided if you actually TALK with your SO about what’s going on.

Hanlon’s Razor: “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.”

Let people enjoy things. If it’s not blatantly illegal at least, ya know?

Cut the holier than thou attitude and virtue signaling. Makes you seem like a bigger asshole than you probably are.

Try to hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. This applies both to people and situations.

Try to worry about yourself before you worry about others. If you’re struggling to put food on the table it’ll do you no good to kick funds to other people in need. YOU are people in need. Get yourself sorted out and then extend a hand to those you can.

....I think that’s all I got for now. I may return to this later jf I get bored again.

#life advice #social justice #don’t be an asshole #be excellent to one another #text post

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monstersinthecosmos · 7 years ago

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The thing about whether or not fiction affects reality is only half the conversation, and most people who bring it up just drop it and walk away and leave it at that. It’s an empty gesture intended to be a conversation stopper.

Like, of course fiction affects reality to an extent, we know this. I mean anyone in a fandom space knows this--we’ve all been emotionally affected in some way by the fiction we’ve consumed.

HOWEVER. You can’t end the conversation there, because you’re not tackling the other half of it. Because what exactly do you plan to do about it? And when do we stop holding people accountable for their own actions and talking about personal responsibility?

Marilyn Manson was blamed for Columbine.

Judas Priest and Ozzy Osborne were blamed for inciting their fans’ suicides.

People will. not. stop. blaming video games for gun violence.

The thing is, yes fiction affects reality. To a point. But the idea that we should blame artists for what people chose to take from their work is fucked up and unwarranted and you’re placing the blame on the wrong party.

You know who was responsible for Columbine?

The shooters.

And, this isn’t necessarily fiction related, but I’d also like to introduce how many times innovations have been misused from the way the creator intended, because I think it’s the same. Like pop-up ads and K-Cup pods. Do we blame creators for what people choose to manipulate from their work?

Don’t sit here and rally against all types of victim blaming where we’re constantly reinforcing the truth that the perpetrator is the one responsible for the crime and then turn around and try to blame artists and writers and creators when it’s convenient for your virtue signaling.

Our culture is a complicated tapestry and while there are bigger conversations to be had about the ethics of having a platform and knowing your audience, media’s role in rape culture, the way we’re programmed to have biases that keep oppressive structures in place, that sometimes criminal behavior does take a village--blaming creators for their artistic expression instead of blaming the predators and criminals and holding them accountable for their actions absolves them of responsibility. You could say the same for people blaming their sociopathy on childhood trauma, where we’ve accepted that plenty of people endure trauma without turning evil, and it can’t be the only factor at work. We’ve all watched horror films and not murdered someone after, we’ve all played violent video games. Don’t blame the artist.

It’s my dream that instead of blaming creators, we start looking up and questioning the efficacy of our educational system, because maybe if the general public had a better grasp on critical thinking they wouldn’t be so prone to falling for stupid bullshit.

#honestly at the end of the day if we could fix education it would fix all the other problems lol #fucking educate people #this was a coded message where i'm actually just telling you to FUCKING VOTE #fix our goddamn country lol #fuckin tumblr lol #also i mean this ties into the idea of like #with the k cup thing like can naivete be malicious?#kinda like how people on tumblr think ignorance is malicious sometimes #when sometimes people just... don't know things #and it doesn't make them a bad person #sigh!#it's just!#a lot to talk about!#black & white thinking gets you nowhere if you can't have this conversation!#also as a metalhead this is a topic that hits really close to home #and is usually only a few degrees out from me bringing up the WM3 so #hey

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brycetaylorblog · 6 years ago

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“You Speak to Me With Respect”

Dissecting privilege, for the sake of productive discourse

Pictured: Revolutionary of the Black Panthers Movement Stokely Carmichael.

Background: This post has been inspired by Stokely, and my friend Nadine Silva. Nadine is passionate and works hard in addressing the current position of privilege people unknowingly take when engaging in dialogues with people about their community, and the way certain dynamics effect their community this will be the premise for the analysis that follows. She is a journalist and a model striving to represent her community in a positive light, and serve as a role model for young South Asian girls globally.

Stokely’s relevance is through his influence. Ironically Stokely’s importance and presence in today’s time is that the most intimidating thing about this man is how well spoken he was and how he articulated the thoughts and feelings of his community. He didn’t gain notoriety through wielding shotguns and AK-47s, whilst tailing police. He gained his notoriety, by making it known that America is on notice and his community refuses to be scared anymore, and will no longer take the back seat. I respect him immensely, and try to emulate the characteristics of him as an individual and as a movement.

“Our grandfathers had to run, run, run. Our generation is out of breath. We aint runnin’ no more.”

- Stokely Carmichael.

So lets begin .....

First and foremost let it be clear that no race nor creed or colour has the authority to take the moral high ground on any issue that effects everybody. That means no race or people is more or less entitled to control any one narrative that involves all. However, that in itself is indicative of what the issue is I am about to discuss.

Now I could sit here and explain through several paradigms how privilege operates and has transcended since that first boat left Britain, to the way our politicians engage in dialogue about issues that effect communities that are not their own. Most evidently of late, how majority of our government on both sides of politics have backpedaled in light of the recent atrocity committed in Christchurch. But that would be pointless .... Because the reason as all diverse people are aware, is that privilege and accountability to rhetoric is not about knowledge or discourse. It is about the retention of power, and hegemony.

What is discussed, and how it is discussed comes second to the position of the conversation. But i’ll stop there......

Rather what i’m going to do, is include in an interaction I had with an individual from the US to exemplify what POC mean when they refer to privilege. Typically I don’t engage with people online who are inclined to be argumentative, but on this occasion I thought I could document this interaction, and turn it into an example of something that can be used for productive purposes.

The interactions and my commentary are as follows:

*The original post was referring to someone I follow regarding how the Christchurch attack is indicative of ‘hate winning’ *

My initial comment was long winded so I’ll keep it punchy to the part that triggered this individual:

Myself - “They’re resorting to desperate measures, because they’re realizing that just by the virtue of being white doesn’t count for anything anymore.”

Lets call him Fred, initiated as follows:

Fred: “Virtue of being white? Your jumbled sentence with racist tones seems to have the desired effect of the gunman’s motive.”

| Note how he included the word ‘virtue’ whilst quoting me, but his response neglected the context that word provides? Never mind that a supremacist just murdered 50 innocent people, i’m racist because I addressed White virtue signalling and the unfounded fear that these people frequently share. So therefore i’m part of the problem. Deflection is a tactic that is commonly employed, this is a fine example. | (Lets continue) ....

Me: “This is a fair point (it wasn’t) one I am happy to discuss. As an Indigenous person of Australia in particular one that has spent a large part of my childhood growing up in the same community as the gunmen many people in rural NSW have only typically been there for 3 or 4 generations. They killed a lot of people in that time. Given that it was only someone’s grand father or great grandfather who were doing the killing. It is not unreasonable to claim that someone of today’s generation such as Tarrant grew up with a similar disdain for brown people. Given the contempt these people hold for people who were already here. It is not difficult to comprehend the psychological effect that would have on someone with the disposition that ‘foreign’ people are coming to take what is ‘his’ with the supposed threats of sharia law threatening this mans status as a white man in the West.

So to answer your comment do I think that by the virtue of being white you are inherently bad? Of course not! But given the very recent history where this man comes from, in context with today political climate it is hardly unreasonable to suggest that perhaps this man was defending his “whiteness” despite none of these people having actually threatened it.”

Me: And if you won’t accept any of that. You can read it in his manifesto because he has literally admitted to everything I have outlined himself.

Fred: Why would I read the manifesto of a nutter?

| Note the deflection again, no attempt whatsoever to address my response to an unfounded claim that I am a racist. But if you throw around words I will hold you accountable for them. |

Me: Well initially your comment stated that what I said had undertones of racist sentiment based on the “virtue of being white”? This tells me you received this as me saying this is generally how how white people think and feel when it was merely a reflection of this particular individual and many like him. So from an objective standpoint despite him being a ‘nutter’ it would give you an insight as to his views, and where my original comment derived from.

Fred: Lot of words finally getting to the point. People focusing on colour do not have the ability to see things clearly. When we stop giving people little ethnic terms people will actually co-exist. You’re definitely overthinking my comment with all that unneeded info.

| Quick summary: I wouldn’t need to write a paragraph breaking it down for Fred if he took the initiative to understand what the single word ‘virtue’ meant but that is how privilege works. “I’m right I don’t need to consider anything.”

Secondly, for anyone reading this for good intentions. This is a prime example of trying to control narratives. Because never mind hundred of years of colonial destruction and minimization. Fred has all the answers ... All we have to do is stop seeing colour! THEN the world will finally coexist. Fred knows this! Fred knows everything. Thanks Fred. |

Me: Is it unneeded because its irrelevant? Or because you personally don’t care? I feel as though you’re trying to oversimplify a complex conversation to give yourself the higher moral ground. Which ironically plays into the whole “virtue of being white” thing that you initially disputed. I didn’t originally place you in that category, but am now starting to see why my original comment may have caused a reaction from you.

These “little ethnic terms” you down play is quite condescending. Because to many ethnic people they represent a great deal of importance. So for you to suggest that i’m ‘overthinking it’ when 40 (now 50) people have been murdered. That is pretty arrogant of you. “A lot of words finally getting to the point” that’s condescending and exactly the type of attitude i’m talking about. You can disagree with me, but you will speak to me with respect!

| Note* I demanded respect in this manner for two reasons. Number one is that I deserve it. Number 2 is that for the purpose of this experiment I know that when you address people of privilege accustomed to dominating discourse the fight or flight response is triggered. Typically they will either get quite defensive and resort to aggression, or they will flee. The response that comes next is telling. |

Fred: You’re clearly disgruntled, i’ll just let you hit your keyboard.

|Note: For someone who initiated this interaction he was pretty quick to want out as soon as he realized that though emotionally driven, I am not emotionally operating. I am more than willing to hold him accountable for not only his comments but his motives, through reasonable dialogue. He is not.

Some will say he’s just a troll others may believe he holds white supremacist views himself. Perhaps a combination of both. The lesson for us no matter who we are though is that we maintain composure and refrain from giving these people the reaction they want. But also ensure that we hold them to account for their views. Whether it be an internet troll or a politician.

As a side note, whats also very indicative of privilege in this interaction. Is how quickly he removed himself from the conversation as it suited. People of colour don’t get to do this. Muslim women have their clothing debated in public domains, Aboriginal people have their blood percentage and pigment debated in public domains, African people have the morals of their children and their parenting debated in public domains. If you reserve the right to opt out of a conversation, my suggestion would be don’t enter one. Unless you’re willing to learn. Because sometimes, only sometimes, certain conversations aren’t about you. Unless you feel like the shoe fits. |

My final response: I’m definitely disgruntled 40 (50) innocent people were just murdered.....

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jesiwrites · 7 years ago

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For Pride, For Honor, For Glory

Summary: “Tell me how you sucker punched the crap out of that piece of shit Loras and embarrassed him to the point he won’t even look you in the eye.”

Tanner is fifteen years old. The pretty bastard of the army, a fledgling soldier, and a popular subject of gossip; Loras wants to see if he can add another notch on his belt.

It’s a GOT-type setting, so genre-typical warnings apply. Attempted sexual assault of a minor, intoxication.

It said something about Tanner and Allister’s closeness to where, even after a fuck, they were cordial enough to share the same bed, hold each other close, and engage in pillow talk that ranged from military tactics to the going-ons of the campsite.

Perhaps cordial wasn’t the right word. Tanner knew, but he’d rather Allister figure it out on his own than be forthright. They had gone this long without saying what they were, preferring to let the others guess and know with looks, touches, and a need to be together to signal what they meant to each other. Tanner looked at it that way, in any case.

Allister snorted before tossing his head back and letting a laugh out from deep in his chest. “No, no, no, really? That was you? You, the pretty bastard of the army?”

Tanner crinkled his nose and made a snort, then a laugh. “What, you think I don’t know how to throw a punch?” He gave a light shove to Allister’s chest.

“Never said that! Tell me how you sucker punched the crap out of that piece of shit Loras and embarrassed him to the point he won’t even look you in the eye,” Allister teased, toothy grin and a devilish delight in his eyes. He pushed Tanner’s hip with a tease, laughing when Tanner brushed his hand away.

“It’s a long story,” Tanner offered, to which Allister gestured to the dark night outside. They had hours until the morning.

Tanner was fifteen years old and had been making a name for himself in the army. He was diligent, quiet yet friendly; a strikingly handsome bastard boy of Lord Aesnir Palatinus III who took to a lance like the fire dancers of the south to their batons, maneuvering a polearm the way a color guardsman did a banner. Caster took a shine to him as the boy was eager to learn and prove himself. It showed in the way he pushed him harder through drills, drug him up by the collar of his shirt and threw him back into the practice ring until Tanner would nearly pass out from heat and physical exhaustion. Without being told, Tanner would tend to the stables before the stable boys, taking his horse for obstacle course drills, moving with her as one unit and piercing through dummies with his lance. He had gotten to the point of training her to buck and kick to defend him should he make an oversight.

It was a team of rider and mare if he had ever seen one.

Loras, meanwhile, was a knight who was comfortable resting on the laurels of many things: his name; his skills; his good looks. A fine swordsman, all things considered, but the titles and various privileges that came with his station had made him comfortable in recent memory. He had a reputation for being quite the dog of the army, taking nubile young men and many a blushing maiden to bed with the deftness of a fisherman in a clear lake during spawning. And he eyed the young bastard boy the way a chicken hawk did prey, not that it was unusual for any of the men in the army to have their eye on fresh meat.

Especially if that fresh meat had cheekbones like his father’s and carried himself with dignity, but sand-colored skin; wine red eyes; and slate grey hair that draped down his shoulders all of his own. Tanner would play with his hair in agitation when he heard the same refrain across the camps: “Aesnir’s pretty bastard…pretty like a woman…pretty like his whore mother.”

That same old song and dance haunted him since he was born. Everyone knew that Tanner chose not to engage in relations with anyone in the army, for one reason or another. They had their suspicions of whom he bedded, but no one had ever heard of anyone bedding him; the idea of doing so a challenge of mythic proportions. He was perfectly aware of what people said about him. It didn’t hurt any less, even as he drove himself to be a good soldier. He was a boy becoming a man with eyes on a ranked position, titles and dignity that he was frequently told he didn’t deserve due to his pedigree.

He kept to himself mostly, overseeing and training new recruits, delegating responsibilities of the camp to people he sized up as worthwhile. There was a sense of caution in his eyes, despite his gregarious nature: sweet and kind, but keeping would-be paramours well over arm’s length. Some of them had been on the sharp end of his weapon, taking the hint or seeing it as an obstacle to overcome.

Loras had been one of the latter.

It had been a day they were sniffing out raiders like hounds on a fox. It was one of Tanner’s first missions as a member of the cavalry, being expected to follow before leading. Loras claimed glory for his kills and charisma towards the townsfolk; Tanner wasn’t faulted for observing him. Tanner continued to prove himself a worthy recruit, his horse bucking and kicking when he would miss a hit to make up for his oversight, lance spearing through a neck or skull like a fork into a cut of meat. It had been a good mission all around. The night ended with a celebratory meal, ale and mead flowing freely with roasted boar and root vegetables.

Loras took the opportunity to seat himself next to the recruit, who was being teased by some of the other men for a variety of things his tongue had let slip.

“Now now, what’s everyone teasing the little blueblood for?” Loras started, gentle smile as he looked down at Tanner. He was playing with his hair; he always did when he was flustered, like he was trying to hide behind it.

“Well, Tanner here just confessed an interesting little secret for us,” started Magnus, the axe-wielder. He was bulky but intelligent, like an ancient yew or oak tree. He started out a commoner, but one wouldn’t know with how well he could mimic the upper class when discussing tactics or going ons of the army when prompted. Craster looked to him to guide the foot soldiers for good reason.

“Oh?” Loras asked, looking at Tanner. “Not good to keep secrets from your brothers at arms.”

“It’s personal, no need to share it,” Tanner started, looking at Magnus with the slightest hint of embarrassment. Loras had to admit, he was cute, painfully so. He wouldn’t have been surprised—

“I’m surprised you’ve kept your virtue in tact with all these beasts here, little half-prince,” Magnus said smoothly, the table going silent as Tanner made a thousand yard stare into his mug of ale. That wasn’t a secret; everyone knew Tanner was a virgin of some capacity. Not totally, not with the way he flirted; but enough to prove he hadn’t quite let his boundaries be breached yet. “You mean to tell me none of these strapping young men have you curious to try?”

“Oh there’s a few--!” Tanner started before clamping his mouth shut; gods, alcohol was going to get him in trouble for half of the things he said. He wanted to sign a waiver to forfeit responsibility.

“Oho, a few, huh?” Loras grinned, sitting beside the younger man with a deliberate tap of his hip against Tanner’s. “Do tell; I may be able to make something of it.”

Tanner snorted and shooed away Loras, the knight only mildly affronted. He hadn’t seen someone this shy since one of the handmaidens of the court, a soft-spoken nit named Agatha who turned out to be quite the screamer by the end of it. “Come on, there’s a few here you’ve clearly got your eye on,” the knight said with the tease of an older sibling, looking at the boy who kept squirming in his seat. He was thoroughly out of his element, dangerously close to being the butt of a joke. And with a crippling hatred of being embarrassed, to boot.

“Didn’t you mention one of those recruits? Alexander?” one of the younger soldiers offered to Tanner, whom corrected him: “Allister.”

“Ah, how cute, you know his name. Not bad though, you like that sort: manly, sure of himself.”

“I’ve also found that Scotch character rather handsome,” Tanner admitted meekly, taking another drink of ale in a meager attempt to shut himself up.

“Ahaha, two pretty men having their way at each other, looking like a pair of women without the bits!” Magnus howled at the observation. “Both of the two you mentioned, I bet they’re a right pair of cads. Allister probably fucks whoever looks his way right, and that noble boy could charm the pants off the royal family without even trying, from what I’ve heard.”

Of course Tanner had his eyes on men with experience, who had more swagger in their bodies than some men had in the experience of their lives. Loras took that assessment to heart; he could charm him, he determined. “So, those two specifically? Are men naturally your type, Tanner, or have you ever fucked a woman?”

Tanner felt his face grow a little warm but made a slow blink and nodded. “Of course. Just…servant girls, girls who were curious. Sometimes they felt bad because I’d been excluded, because they knew what I was. One girl told me that she wanted to see what it was like, fucking a pretty boy. She said I was gentle, scared even. I mean, I was twelve.”

“And your first time with a man?”

“I went to a whorehouse,” Tanner admitted. “I wanted to bed.”

Whatever embarrassment normally accompanied his admissions was surprisingly absent. Tanner was a painfully honest drunk, the kind that was perfect to assassinate literally or figuratively. Loras wasn’t in the mood for bloodshed.

“Was he pretty like you?” Magnus teased with a little sneer, more good-natured than anything.

Tanner nodded again as if a father or uncle was addressing him, coaching him through the minutiae of fucking versus lovemaking. “He was,” he murmured, “Fair skin and pale blue eyes.”

“Ah those are always gorgeous. You have good tastes, by all accounts.”

Tanner felt his face warm up more, deciding it was the ale and not the compliment. “I should probably go to bed, this is…quite a lot that I’ve talked and I’m afraid I’ll get myself into more trouble.”

“Come. I’ll walk you to your room,” Loras said, hand on Tanner’s back as he held him steady. Magnus watched the scene unfold and then back at Tanner, who was wobbling like a new fawn. Loras gathered himself and kept his hand on Tanner’s back, leading him away to the quarters.

Was it dirty-handed, taking advantage of an easily flustered, inebriated boy? Of course.

But you didn’t look at a lame boar and think “I should kill my food honorably.”

He could’ve been crueler and had half a dozen men who wanted to claim a piece of the royal bastard for themselves when he was finished, but he’d rather save the privilege in its entirety for himself. At the end of the day, Loras knew what he was: a glory hound. And he wasn’t about to look a feast away just because it had fallen to the floor. Tanner was unaware enough to not have registered where he was in the hallway, all the doors in all the corridors blending together. The braziers were like melted suns on the walls, the windows slightly tilted. He watched Loras open the door and looked around, and said something that made Loras’ blood start to run cold: “Did we pass my room, Ser Loras.”

“We may have, but do you really want to be alone in your state,” Loras replied coolly at the young boy who was doing his best not to show that he was at the halfway point of tipsy and drunk. Loras didn’t give Tanner an option to respond before guiding him into his room, the boy taking to it like a suggestion.

Loras’ room was no different than any of the other knights’ or soldiers’. Minimally decorated, a few medals and pins to suggest his stature and accomplishments along with his armor, but above all, he carried it all in his heart, character, and disposition. Tanner was both a little stunned and a little unsurprised, figuring Loras cared little for material tokens of his winnings. He looked back up at Loras, mouth against his and fingers holding his chin, firm lips against his.

A few seconds later, he registered: “Goodness, you are cute.”

Tanner overestimated his tolerance, the alcohol making the room tilt and waver, but not spin. He was still a lightweight, all things considered. Loras composed himself with enough swagger to diffuse his slight sway, the cant of his head weaving and bobbing like he had a good laugh. First-timers were always easy; get them drunk enough and say enough nice things to them, and they’d do anything to keep the night going.

Tanner was proving to be no exception, especially given the fact his self-esteem issues had all the subtlety of a gaping chest wound. He starved for affection; he didn’t quite believe the experience was real. Loras especially liked the way he sat in his lap and straddled him, draping his arms around him as the knight supported him from falling over. His inhibitions had been stripped from him like his trousers were close to being; a terribly lonely boy who wanted affection from anywhere, particularly from men. It was almost sad how easy it was. He could’ve done it here, pull himself out while Tanner was least expecting it and just hazy enough to register what was going on –

But he did have a soft spot for seeing Tanner on his back, being put in his place for good.

“Ah, ah, ah, what a sweet little thing you are,” Loras teased, leading Tanner to the bed and holding his side, tracing the slight curve to it. A pretty little prize, he determined, enjoying how cute he looked as he kept trying to blink away the effects of the ale, color in his cheeks. The knight grabbed his chin, pulling him down for another kiss as the hand stroking Tanner’s side went around and pushed his ass towards him. He restrained a laugh at Tanner’s expense when the recruit fell over himself and into the bed face first.

Tanner inhaled and pushed himself up, pushing back against the bed. His sway was becoming less pronounced, his faculties returning to him as he gripped his head and winced. He looked back at Loras, a hand around his wrist as he guided him back into the bed like a song. He had him, he needed to confirm it. He loomed over the younger soldier, pinning his arms back to keep him from moving and settled himself between his legs.

Tanner didn’t like the way the knight leered at him, not as a person but a conquest. It was becoming increasingly clear there was no kindness or consideration; he was a notch in Loras’ belt, a prize that he would gloat about winning to the whole army. Tanner felt a sense of dread pool at his stomach as Loras had his wrists gripped behind his head, thrashing and kicking.

“Easy, easy, thought you said you were curious to try,” Loras whispered in his ear, coquetry with a bite of expectation. “Come on now, I know you’re pretty like a girl; didn’t think you’d be a fucking tease like one, too.”

Tanner’s nostrils flared at that sentiment. “Get - the fuck - off me,” he snarled, every syllable and fragment clipped like stabbing.

Revulsion coursed through him like sickness, feeling the urge to vomit in the pit of his stomach and to the back of his throat as Loras smashed his wet lips against his, taking a hand away to reach around and find the waistband of Tanner’s trousers, beginning to yank them down. Red flags were in Tanner’s eyes with alarms ringing in his ears; he had to do something. Loras was between his legs, pinning him down and he was scared; gods above, he was scared. He was in possession of himself to not cry or shut down, trying to relax himself from the thrash but thinking of a way to get out of the hold quickly and give enough distance between the two of them. Without fail, he curled his legs to his chest and kicked firmly into Loras’ shoulders, launching the knight off of him and a good few feet away from the bed. For a moment, he thanked the fact he was more flexible than he gave himself credit for.

He quickly scrambled off the bed, keeping a wide distance between him and the other man. He looked like a feral animal ready to strike, Loras seeing that he snatched his hunting knife off the bedside table and had it unsheathed at him.

“You come near me and I gut you. Stand down,” Tanner warned. He had all the fear of a young man but with all the determination of someone ready to kill. Loras kept down to the ground, not unlike a wolf being challenged by an upstart and aware it was losing. Tanner was merely threatening him; he was a little stunned Tanner didn’t take the opportunity to mount his back and put the knife to his throat.

“This does not leave this room. There will be no discussion of what happened tonight. So gods help us both.”

And with that, he backed against the door and slipped out, keeping Loras’ knife as protection.

---

The morning had started normally, with an average breakfast of smoked meat, gruel and water. Men had split off into their factions and groups, sitting around their compatriots who would hear their stories and entertain their bullshit.

Tanner came in, a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he was still dressed in riding leathers. It was the middle of the week, his usual day to do his drills with Silverfish. What made today unusual was how silence came like a wave the moment he walked in the door. He looked around at the men and chose to not say a word, making his breakfast and slinking to an unoccupied table to assess the day.

Then he heard snickering, tucking his hair behind his ear. He was always self-conscious but something told him he had every right to be right now. He could feel eyes looking at him, the whole room watching him; something wasn’t right. He looked up and scanned the room. Everyone was looking at him, staring at him, leering at him. And he was alone, the fact making the situation worse than usual.

Where was Loras?

Something between hurt, anger and embarrassment set in like teeth. Another soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and teased: “Hey, so that’s your type? Didn’t think you’d be so quick to bend ov—“

Tanner turned at the soldier who looked at him like the he had yanked the tongue clean out of his throat. He put up his hands to his chest in a show of surrender. Tanner snarled, “Where is he? Where is Loras?”

The soldier tried his luck again. “Why, so you can demonstrate your oral abilities?”

He went white as a sheet when Tanner had his eating knife at the soldier’s throat. “I’d say you calm your oral abilities before I remove them. Permanently.” Whatever warmth left in Tanner’s eyes was replaced by indignant fury, out for blood. He repeated his question one last time.

“He’s over by the fires,” the soldier spat out, legs halfway ready to give out. He was used to enemies ready to hack him to size; an ally and fellow soldier wasn’t exactly who he had intended to piss off this early in the morning. Tanner lowered the knife and turned on his heel.

He made a beeline to the fireplaces, boots stomping into the wooden floor. He stalked like a wildcat, ready to pounce and tear limb from bloody limb, finding himself next to a certain blonde and overly cocky (and not particularly handsome in hindsight) knight, glaring down at him. The knight looked up at him, a cocky smirk on his face as he rested his chin on the back of his hand.

“Well, good morning, Tanner. How’d you sleep,” he offered sweet like honey. Tanner wanted to give the world to spit it in his eye.

“What did you say this morning.” His voice was grave, holding his anger in his fists like white-hot coals, the knife shaking in his grip. He didn’t care if his hands were on fire; he was ready to burn the man alive, shove his face into the damn fire to watch him scream as the flames licked off his skin.

Loras looked surprised, letting way to mild amusement. “This morning? I didn’t take you one to care about idle gossip around the camps, always so serious.”

Tanner cut him off. “Don’t skirt the issue; what have you been saying.”

“Goodness, Tanner, I thought we had a rather pleasant evening last night,” Loras started, corners of his eyes crinkling with delight. “You were so sweet, so eager to please, you know; who knew such a cautious, skittish little boy was such a sex kitten in the sack.”

Tanner felt hot in his face, his nostrils flaring even more as Loras spun a lie from his own ego, relishing in Tanner’s humiliation. “Mewling like a wanton queen, I always knew you liked cock, but goodness, not so voraciously. Couldn’t seem to keep your hands off me, practically begging me with that mouth of yours, like that cheap whore of a moth—“

One minute, Loras had his shit-eating grin like he had his cake and ate it too. Somewhere in the slow motion memory and adrenaline-fueled haze, he was up at his feet, fury and agony mashed in his eyes and brow line. His hands had flown up to cover his clearly broken nose, blood dribbling down over his lips, chin and onto the floor. It took a few seconds for pain to register on Tanner’s knuckles, blood smeared on the back of them as testament for the punch.

He didn’t remember feeling his mouth move but he heard his voice say, “The ring. Now. Gather your lance. Don’t bother with your armor.”

It took at most twenty-five minutes, a small procession behind Tanner not unlike schoolboys excited to see a fight at the nearby field. Tanner still had his riding leathers on, his hair done in a sloppier rendition of his usual topknot, curls of his hair falling out the bun and over his ears. He gripped his lance like a throat in a stranglehold, lips in a firm frown. He was ready. Loras had bandaged his nose, gauze bandaged haphazardly over it but still oozing confidence. His victory was certain; he did have more years on him in the army, after all.

“Really, Tanner?” Loras taunted. “A bastard-born greenhorn challenging a knight to a duel of honor? What honor could you possibly have?”

“I don’t lie,” Tanner started, bracing himself to either move, parry or strike at a moment’s notice.

Loras charged first; Tanner parried. The knight expected that much, swinging his blade over. Tanner read the move, ducking and rolling to the side while keeping his lance close to his chest. Loras was puzzled for a moment, but not surprised; it wasn’t too unusual for lancers to wield their weapons like spears. Lancers without training, he snorted to himself.

“You did last night-“ He swung his lance again, his cocky stance making his attacks too wide, too easy to read, too easy to dodge. He wasn’t taking a single part of this fight seriously, determining he was fighting an indignant, hurt child with wounded pride. Tanner’s face said it for him, the way rage was setting in his eyes; it reminded him of a bull to a slaughter.

He sidestepped, pushing Tanner away, who stumbled but didn’t fall. “When you said you were ready-“

They continued the back and forth, Loras dodging and Tanner attacking; impenetrable force of a man who underestimated the indignity of a boy. “When you said you wanted it-!”

It got quiet. Loras was stunned. Tanner’s lance had ripped through his shirt and shoulder, another nick on his neck. It was too shallow to damage his jugular, but the fact he even went that far made him painfully aware of his situation.

“I don’t attempt to rape one of my brothers at arms.”

And then Loras was thrown like a haystack from a pitchfork.

The knight guarded his shoulder, hissing. The blade had grazed him, but what surprised him was the maneuver. Tanner had caught his shirt, twisted the lance to catch again to be able to have him in a distance hold before throwing him to the side and knocking him to his flank. The knight only had experience of doing that move with a man in armor. His lips set into a firm line; Tanner was good, frighteningly good.

What made it worse was the maneuver proved that Tanner was ready to kill him to prove a point.

Loras drew his sword, parrying Tanner’s swings, knocked back half a pace each time blows were countered. He had gotten sloppy, not counting for Tanner’s footwork with his lance on top of the sheer force he was commanding with his polearm. The way he swung it, not only intent on slicing and eviscerating Loras, but actually hacking him, was more reminiscent of handling a halberd. The counters kept going until Tanner sliced at Loras’ hands, making the man hiss and drop his sword. Some of the men took to retreating to call for backup, someone to stop before things escalated. Tanner had him on the ground, without a weapon, and with intent in his eyes. He raised his weapon, rage replacing inhibitions, pride mercy--

“Tanner, yield!”

The whole army watched, the captain the only person who had the gall and balls to grab Tanner and his lance with his bare hands, not bothering to parry with his sword. The field was silent in awe, Tanner looking at Craster, stunned out of his indignation and brought into the reality of the moment: he was going to murder Loras in cold blood over a spiteful rumor and his wounded pride.

“Explain yourself, boy.”

Tanner was wide-eyed, angry and damn well terrified, the one man who had any right to be considered a father figure to him staring him down and gutting him with cold disappointment. Color drained from his cheeks as he looked down at the rightfully terrified Loras, who was peeking out from under his arm that he had flung to futilely protect himself from an upcoming beheading. His lance was several feet from him to his right, several paces further his sword; if he had tried to grab either weapon, he would’ve been cleaved in half.

“I-I,” Tanner started; gods above, it had been a minute since Craster had been that pissed off at him. “Loras – I, it’s personal, Loras was calling me a pretty bastard whore, lying about – I was defending my honor!” he explained, embarrassment making him trip over his words. He felt the ground wanting to sink under him; he hated being embarrassed, hated disappointing people—

His head snapped to the right as his lance fell, Craster’s right hand flat and crossed over to his left side with his left hand wielding Tanner’s lance. “Defending your honor how? By being a knightslayer on top of being a bastard? For gods’ sake, Tanner, you kill everyone who called you a pretty whore’s bastard, there’d be no one left in the country; fuck, the whole realm!”

He then looked at Loras and said, “I’ll deal with you and your stupid mouth in my quarters.” He then looked at Tanner again. “The both of you – separately, if I can help it.”

---

Allister looked at Tanner, wide-eyed and propped up on one arm. He threw his head back for a belly laugh, watching Tanner tell the story, the way he recounted his embarrassment and sheer loathing of Loras being his typical piece of shit self. “The hell did you tell Craster?”

“The whole thing, about how Loras tried to pin me down and was trying to assault me. He patted my back and said good job on kicking him off of me and would’ve paid all the gold he was worth to see it. Then he told me that, while I shouldn’t have been alone with Loras, that I had handed his ass so thoroughly that he wouldn’t have thought to antagonize me again. And he was right.”

Tanner had rolled to his back as he recounted the story, looking up in the direction of the ceiling but not focused. His eyes fluttered a hair, closing them as he chuckled. “Can’t believe I almost killed that idiot, thank the gods Craster stopped me. Would’ve taken weeks to clean up the blood.”

Allister looked at the lieutenant for a moment, eying his frame: sturdy as a birch tree, but not as hefty as his own; sharp cheekbones and equally sharp nose; muscles toned, not made from work like his had been. His hands were roughened from the army and from years of attempting to be a leather maker’s apprentice and son, while Allister had always hefted rocks and mortar for his father and brothers, thighs and buttocks cut from years of squatting and heaving the workload. Tanner had the body of a disregarded boy who proved himself to be a man in due time; Allister’s was the body of a boy who was expected to work like a man the day he crawled out of his mother’s womb.

To any other man, it would’ve been humbling that Tanner chose him to share it with. Allister was pleased he was the only one who had any real chance.

He broke the silence. “I suppose Loras is right about something though.”

Tanner scrunched his nose at the comment. “Gods, how?”

“You are quite the little sex kitten,” Allister teased, wrestling on top of the lieutenant and kissing his throat. Tanner came undone when he played with his bare nipples, laughing as Allister made little bites at his throat. “Glad I got to be the one to see it.”

Tanner looked at Allister for a moment, a look in his eyes that radiated something that Allister couldn’t – didn’t want to - place, but felt warm all the same. He pecked the stonemason’s forehead and murmured, “Me too.”

#writing #oc: tanner dubois #friend oc: allister #GoT verse

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ninewheels · 4 years ago

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I think the root of a lot of personal virtue-signaling (as opposed to corporate virtue-signaling, which is a lot easier to understand) is that people feel so overwhelmed by the amount of injustice in the world and helpless to do anything about it, because we mostly are helpless. It’s all happening way above our metaphorical and literal pay grades. So some people, myself included, sometimes parade around our nobility and lash out at anyone who disagrees with us over the smallest and pettiest things as if those things have indisputable moral ramifications. (Fandom is foremost on my mind here) We pretend that every single slightest thing that we disagree with is an act of violence because then when we speak out against it, we get to feel like we’re doing a good deed by fighting that “violence”. We get to pretend that we’re having a bigger impact than we are. We get to pretend that someone else shipping so-and-so with such-and-such is the same as condoning abuse, or racism or pedophilia or whatever, but it’s just fucking not. We get to pretend that we’re righteous for making others play by our rules, but we’re not. We get to pretend that participating in fiction is the same as participating in reality, because fiction feels more pliable to our desires than the capitalist hellscape does.

And the thing is, because the corporations and the people with the real power are impervious to anything we can say, the only effect we can have is being hurtful to other individuals who are on basically the same level as us. (And just in case I haven’t lost enough people, let me assert that no racial or gender privilege holds more power than the economic privilege of the 1%--and also that 1% is mostly not comprised of people with Twitter accounts.) We know deep down that punching up doesn’t do any damage, at least not on an individual level, and as such it’s not satisfying, so we punch each other because at least then we get a reaction. We get to ruin somebody else’s day. To go back to the role of fiction, we cast aspersions on the morality of the people writing our stories for not writing them the way we want to because they’re slightly more likely to listen, and care, and be hurt, than the people writing our laws.

Of course, some people are actually being douchebags, but at what point does being hostile to douchebags stop being constructive? I’m not saying there’s never anything constructive about being hostile to douchebags--I know some of you hypothetical readers are thinking that, but our fixation on interpreting opinions at one extreme or the other is part of the problem. I’m saying, at what point does this behavior only serve as a means for us to vent our own frustration in the form of bile? I say this in empathy, because we’re all hurting, but we need to stop taking that out on other people.

#shut up Alex

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paperbackwritersblog · 5 years ago

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It is March 2020, the world is not at war, at least not in the physically world war sense of the word. And yet the world is very much at eachothers throats! It is impossible to tell if there has always been an underlying issue with ideologies and beliefs not being able to debate and find middle ground in times before now, for I can only take in what history has left us in terms of information, even that information is always told from a perspective. After all isnt all information just a perspective? Isnt everything we think and feel just a personal perspective? The information passed down again a perspective.

With that in mind, the ability to understand that it is all perspective seems to be lost on the vast majority of people! Why else would people venomously defend their set of beliefs unless they genuinely believe they know the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It blows my mind to exist at a time where so many of us sapiens believe we KNOW the truth! When I read about history , the further you go back the less and less people believed they knew anything, only a select few thought they knew anything. And when someone elevated themselves as someone who KNOWS, people hung on their every word. Nearly all belief systems are designed by someone at some point in time who knew THE TRUTH!!

To understand that there is no TRUTH, just your truth. To empathize with others and understand their truths are as real and undeniable as your truths takes either a natural ability or constant mental work. I have met people in my life who naturally seem to feel, know or understand that we are all so very different, the differences are what make our species as remarkable as it is. These people have been rare to come across, possibly just because of my time and place of upbringing.

Most of the people I know and have met in my life think their experiences of life and their reactions to experiences account for anyone elses experiences, they think we all think the same when things happen and if you dont then something is wrong with you!! They believe the first story they are told unless they already have an impression or view on something or someone , they are unable to hear anything contradicting the beliefs they already hold! This is the person I was for the best part of my life so far, id say the first 37 years of my life! Then something happened, a psychological shift in how I see things. And even then, a daily reminder, an hourly nudge! Even with much better awareness of myself it still happens. I now find myself in another group of people who understand yet still have years of programming to be undone, its a daily grind.

I thought for a long time that with the right ingredients I would one day have a satori moment! Something would click and I would from that day forth see the truth in things!! And there we are again, the TRUTH!! So to get to a place where there is no truth to strive for, just my perspective to roll back.

How would this be felt by others, how can the world become more aware? Obviously this question has never been answered despite it being asked throughout time! Was Marxism an attempt at this? An attempt to make everyone the same, was confucianism the same? Although these ideologies were an attempt to put everyone in the same place physically! Its painfully obvious it didnt hit everyone mentally in that way or the outcomes would have been completely different when attempted.

I recently sat and watched a parlimentary session, I think it was prime ministers question time. What I found to be so destructive was not the need to keep the government to their word but the want to destroy and tarnish peoples moral code and reputation! I understand the opposition in parliament is there to keep the opposite side in check, oppose bad ideas, suggest better ideas etc etc. But I saw none of that! All I saw and heard were people doing their best to make their opposite number look inadequate, il-informed, stupid, racist, bullying etc etc. So rather than stand tall on their own ideas, they would rather stand tall with their feet on the head of whoever they have slayed!

Wokeness and virtue signaling has become so dangerously destructive, with the finger pointers completely unaware that when pointing at someone or thing, at least 3 of their fingers are pointing back at them. The hypocrisy of the movement is not allowed to be questioned, for doing so gives you an instant label, of us and them. Like religion, philosophy, ideologies it creates a “we are right” and a “they are wrong” , not even wrong! They are evil!!

So I see , that throughout time this has never changed, tribalism is so deeply rooted in us as a species.

I dont think its impossible for us a a species to think or feel differently, however I think time is most deffinately a factor, for evolution is a very long process.

I believe states we reach in meditation is an idea of where our species can eventually evolve to, the world is crying out for understanding , love, kindness. However we are not evolved enough to deliver on our desires on a grand scale. Pockets of people exist that truly understand the only real TRUTH there really is! That there is no truth, only perspective.

Im leaning very slowly that the things I have always believed to be true are only true to me. The hardest part of this understanding is to not judge others when they act in a way that makes me look away. Nowadays when I feel the need to look away a voice whipsers that im turning away from attributes of my own that I cannot face! This causes discomfort in so many areas of my mind, to admit and take ownership of these traits is not something anyone will cheerfully jump into. There are parts of my darkness that are easier to see and admit than others. As someone who was bullied significantly as a child, to recognise the bully in me was something that I did not want to admit, after all I know how it feels to feel stripped of power in that way, yet when I really got down into it, it wasnt so difficult to see how I had bullied in my attempt to claim power back at some point.

When I started to truly dismantle my darker attributes I realised that all of the traits I had worked so hard to subdue or remove from myself completely were all the traits that reminded me of my father! I was so effected by his behaviour growing up and the opinions of him that others held I was determined that no one would ever think or talk about me in that way and this was something I know I felt, this was not subconcious at all, I actively and openly worked to that end. But then for many years I atrributed the shitty sides of myself to him! When I acted out of character I didnt just think but also said aloud thats my father! And this ment not taking any of my own personal responsibility.

This was my truth, and it only applied to me. I cannot speak for my father nor his aims and wishes in that situation. My truth could have been that my father was a cunt and he fucked me up in many ways!! And in a way that is a truth! But its choice , do I choose that to be my truth? I could just say that my father made many mistakes, yet his mistakes are not mine, if anything they are lessons he gave me in what not to do, I could spin this truth very much into a positive.

So you see truth is a very personal perspective, it applies to you. I often wonder if there are any collective truths! Because even the scientific world is not absolute truths, they are answers based on testing and monitored results up to this point! All science is open to new information, all science is never absolute truth, only what we know and have measured thus far.

Do we all feel exactly the same about our truth? Is the feeling shared for all. Peoples protection of the truth is linked to their past present and future! When long held beliefs are disturbed and shaken it can cause such psychological disturbance that we react as if protecting a loved one from a rabid dog. Thats because hard wired truths are so deeply rooted that to shift the perspective of that truth it means to shift the entire lense that life is seen through. From my own experience of this, it is initially destabalizing. If dealt with appropriately we can grow from this and go onto much healthier mindsets, after all these beliefs would be unshakable if they were anything close to a fundamental truth shared. Most of these challengable truths are sets of programming we have taken on from our peers. For me to believe that all black people are criminals, all chinese people know kung fu(all stereotypes are programming), to believe in god, to believe in flat earth, to believe in vaccinations, to belive in anything and everything as a truth, this is ok so long as I understand that this is true to me, its is not true to others.

And with that moving forward I think a great place I am nearing is the truth of no truth.

E. Plaistow

#truth #philosopher #thoughts #reflection #being mindful

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verdiprati · 8 years ago

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Thirteen ways to approach your favorite opera singers

In 2013 when I went from a casual opera fan to a more committed one and joined the Tumblr opera community, I wanted very much to meet the opera singer I idolized, but I did not know how to go about it. At the time, I had seen some corrective advice on Tumblr about how NOT to interact with your favorite opera stars, but it would have helped me if someone had spelled out in positive terms some of the social norms of opera fan/star interaction so that I would know what was possible.

Four years and many opera adventures later, I’ve learned a lot that I wish I could convey to my past self. Since I can’t go back in time, I’m writing up this post to offer a few pointers to newer fans.

This advice is mostly based on my personal observations and I’m definitely open to other viewpoints and additional information. If the detailed explanations all seem obvious to you, then you are probably not the target audience for this post! It is meant for people who want to make a connection with their favorite opera stars but feel mystified and intimidated by the world of professional opera singers.

FIRST: SOME GENERAL ADVICE.

Having strong feelings about opera and about your favorite artists does not make you “creepy.” For one thing, opera is meant to stir feelings such as love and sadness. For another thing, celebrity crushes are perfectly normal. Even celebrities get celebrity crushes.

What makes a person “creepy” is behavior that shows a disregard for other people’s feelings, time, or privacy.

There is a long tradition of opera fans showing love for their favorite stars. It is fine to express your enthusiasm for opera and for your favorite artists, and it is totally normal to want to meet them! (It is also OK to not want to meet them; some people prefer to keep their idols on a distant pedestal.) Just always stay attentive to the artist’s signals. If you know that you have difficulty reading social cues, you might even want to ask for guidance from someone you trust who can help you with social steering.

That being said, I have observed an odd twist to fan/artist interaction: sometimes fans approach artists with excessive caution and reserve, understating their own desire to connect with the artist, feigning nonchalance or saying things along the lines of “we could meet just for a minute really quickly if you want.” I think artists can sometimes misread these signals and get the impression that a person is not really a fan and would actually rather be elsewhere, which could be a little hurtful. Yes, definitely respect performing artists’ time and feelings and privacy; sure, hold back from fawning and gushing over the artists if you think you would embarrass yourself; but there is a virtue in simply and straightforwardly telling someone that you admire them, that you are honored (or would be honored) to meet them, and that you would really love to have a photo of yourself with them or their autograph as a memento of the occasion.

=== THIRTEEN WAYS TO APPROACH YOUR FAVORITE OPERA SINGERS ===

First part: some things you can do even if you are not able to go to your favorite artists’ shows in person.

1. LINK UP WITH OTHER FANS. Look around on social media. The most prominent opera stars tend to have communities of fans gathered around them. Singers are individuals and they can have different quirks in how they interact with the public. Your best information about your favorite singers may come from other fans. If you join a community and earn some trust you may get to hear about other fans’ close encounters of the operatic kind.

2. INTERACT ON SOCIAL MEDIA. Some opera singers have a personal presence on social media; some do not. You should be able to tell whether a singer manages their own Twitter, Instagram, fan page on Facebook, etc, or leaves it in the hands of a PR professional. Many singers are approachable this way. They do not necessarily owe you a response if you tweet at them or comment on their posts, but I see a lot of genial fan-artist interactions online, and those can result in the artist recognizing you if you finally get to meet them in real life. (This has happened to me more than once! Val has a cute story about it too.)

If your circumstances allow it, I recommend using your real name and/or photo for any social media accounts that you use to interact with your favorite artists. I think it fosters trust and helps them feel that they are talking to a real person.

As for what kinds of things to say to artists (or when tagging / @-mentioning them) on social media, I have three rules that I try to follow:

Keep it positive.

When in doubt, keep it positive.

You are allowed to have critical opinions, of course! But you can be selective about where you express them. If you trash a singer’s colleagues—not just other singers but also, for example, the director or costume designer for their current show—on their Facebook fan page or in a tweet @-mentioning them, you put them in an awkward position: if they “like” your comment, it may appear that they are publicly endorsing your criticism of the people they work with.

It is good to keep compliments 100% unambiguously positive, too. I’ve seen singers react with hurt feelings to social media comments that were clearly meant to be compliments, but that were phrased in a sort of backhanded or sardonic way. Clear and sincere expressions of enthusiasm never go amiss.

3. KNOW WHO THE ARTIST’S AGENT IS. This is not in itself a way of approaching your favorite opera singers, but you may need this information if you want to send fan mail or a backstage request. Here are the artist rosters for some of the larger agencies: IMG Artists, Askonas Holt, Harrison Parrott, and Maxine Robertson Management. If your fave does not appear on those lists, try googling “[artist name] agent”. Normally each artist’s webpage on the agent’s site will have contact information for the main person who represents them.

4. SEND FAN MAIL. Sending a letter of admiration written on actual dead-tree paper is still a time-honored and perfectly acceptable way of reaching out to let an artist know that they have inspired you or touched your heart. If you cannot find contact information on the singer’s website, you can email their agent and ask where to send fan mail for them. Keep your letter reasonably succinct and focused on the artist’s work and its importance to you.

5. PETITION LOCAL ORGANIZATIONS TO BRING YOUR FAVORITE ARTIST TO TOWN. I am not sure how often this works, but it can’t hurt, right?!

Make a list of opera companies, orchestras, and concert/recital series near you that regularly hire artists of similar professional esteem to your fave. (This last point is important—some smaller organizations do not have the resources to bring in A-list artists, and it is best to make a proposal only if the organization could realistically fulfill it.) Then write polite, formal letters or emails to those organizations naming your favorite artist, explaining why you think the artist would be a good fit for the organization and its audience, and saying how much you would love to see this artist perform there. Without going overboard, you may back up your case with one or two YouTube links or quotes from recent reviews.

You might not get a reply and you might not see instant results, since classical music and opera programming is often planned years in advance. However, you have little to lose—the worst case scenario is that your request gets ignored. The potential upside, if your favorite singer comes to perform near you, is awesome.

Second part: some things you can do if your favorite artists come to perform in your area, or if you are able to travel to see their shows.

6. GO TO CD SIGNINGS. Although they cannot be expected at every show, CD signings, when offered, typically take place in the lobby of the theater immediately following a concert or opera. Signings may or may not be announced in advance. In my experience there are always CDs for sale so you can buy one to be signed on the spot. There are not always credit card readers, though, so take cash to every concert if you want to be able to seize the opportunity. (The price for CDs is typically rounded off to $15 or $20 in the US.)

There may be a sign or announcement saying that the artist will only sign the specific CD they are promoting. In the absence of any such declaration, though, it is generally OK to bring your own CD, photograph, or other material for the artist to sign, or you can get them to sign your copy of the program or cast sheet. (I even saw a necktie being signed by the artist in one case, and I have to assume there have been far stranger requests.) For convenience, you can bring the booklet from a CD and leave the actual disc and jewel case at home.

It is also usually acceptable—unless there is an announcement to the contrary—to ask if the artist would be willing to pose for a quick photo or selfie with you. It is acceptable to ask, but the answer may not always be yes; if the artist demurs, be prepared to wave off your request and reiterate your thanks for the signing.

You will probably have a chance to chat very briefly with the artist. Be mindful of the line of people behind you as well as of the artist’s time; keep your remarks short and light. If your opera idol’s co-stars or accompanist are doing signings at the same table, be gracious to them; say thanks or “bravo” for the performance and collect their autograph(s) on your program.

I am still not sure of the etiquette about how many signatures you can ask an artist for at once, but one autograph is certainly the norm and I personally would place the max at two (e.g. asking the artist to sign one item for yourself and one for an absent friend who is a huge fan). Be prepared to give a name for the artist to dedicate each item to.

Bonus tip: Bring a spare Sharpie just in case. You may become the hero of the hour. (I have been the Sharpie-supplying hero on more than one occasion!)

7. GO TO PUBLIC Q&A SESSIONS, AUDIENCE TALK-BACK EVENTS, AND SIMILAR. Although this type of supplemental programming is sometimes announced months in advance along with the opera or concert in question, it often is added to the calendar on relatively short notice. If you have tickets to a performance, check the sponsoring organization’s website and social media frequently in the week or two leading up to the performance date.

If audience interaction is invited, you have a great opportunity to talk to your favorite artist about a topic you both care about: their professional work. Come with a few questions in mind but be aware that the moderator may steer conversation in certain directions. If you are called on to ask a question, you may briefly introduce yourself and say how much you admire the artist, but keep these statements really short. Really, really short. Then move on to your question.

It is not unusual for the artist(s) to hang around for a few minutes after a Q&A type of event and chat with audience members. If you see them doing this, go ahead and walk up to say “thank you for taking my question” or “I just want to say how awesome you are.” Just be respectful of the artist’s time and of other people’s desire for access to the artist.

8. TAKE CURTAIN CALL PHOTOS (OR VIDEOS) AND SHARE THEM ON SOCIAL MEDIA. This is the one thing I have done that has resulted in opera singers contacting ME out of the blue (!!!), asking for higher-res copies or permission to republish my photos of them taking their bows. Some singers don’t seem to care about curtain call photos, but many value them as mementos of their performances.

There is one major rule to follow: it is very important to wait until the performance has ended and the applause has started before you even take out your phone or camera and point it at the stage. Taking photos or videos during a performance is strongly frowned upon and can distract and anger the performers as well as your fellow audience members.

Many venues have signs or program notes saying that all photography is forbidden inside the auditorium. Despite these warnings, I have never had an usher try to stop me from taking curtain call photos, and even venues with these warnings have retweeted my curtain call photos, which I take as a form of tacit approval. Obviously, if any theater official asks you to stop taking photos, you should comply immediately.

Minjaš ��ugić has made a real art form out of his curtain call portrait photography. His work is inspirational, but keep in mind that it is the result of years of investment in photographic equipment, editing software, and skill development. The average opera fan takes much humbler cell phone pictures, and that’s just fine.

9. SEND A NOTE OR GIFT BACKSTAGE. Like fan mail, this is a time-honored tradition!

What to send? A brief note expressing your excitement for the show and wishing the artist “toi toi toi” or “in bocca al lupo” (the opera world’s phrases for good luck) is always welcome! The artist will be busy getting ready for the show, mentally and physically, so you might want save your longer correspondence for fan mail.

It is not necessary to spend money on a gift; a note alone is perfectly good. However, if you have the means and want to send something, a bouquet of flowers is very traditional; goodies like a box of sweets or a bottle of champagne are also well within the norm. If you have artsy skills, small handcrafts are also nice.

One thing to keep in mind: if an artist is performing on tour, they may not be able to take hard-to-pack items like bouquets or bottles with them when they leave. That may be fine with you—they can simply enjoy the flowers in their dressing room, for instance—or you may want to come up with something more portable.

How to send? The simplest way is to drop off your note and/or gift at the stage door in person. The larger opera houses and concert halls will generally have a guard or receptionist stationed just inside the stage door in the hours before a performance. Locate the stage door by asking at the box office, walking around the theater, or googling “[venue name] stage door.” Walk in and state that you would like to leave a note or gift for so-and-so. This is pretty normal—I have never had the request declined. It helps if your note or gift is clearly labeled with the artist’s name. You generally will not be invited in to deliver the item to the artist yourself; the venue staff will take it to them.

Leave plenty of time before the performance (say, 30-60 minutes) for making the drop-off. Front-of-house staff like ushers, coat-check attendants, and box office workers probably will not be in a position to take items backstage to the artist.

If you are dealing with a smaller venue that might not have a stage door receptionist, or if you are in any doubt about approaching the stage door, contact the venue’s business office by phone or email a few business days in advance. Explain that you are looking forward to so-and-so’s performance on such-and-such date (be specific!); mention that you would like to drop off a note, bouquet, or small gift if acceptable; and ask how best to go about it.

You should also call or email the venue well in advance if you want to have something delivered to the stage door (e.g. by a local florist, or by a carrier such as FedEx) on your behalf; they will be able to give you the correct addressing information. They may want you to use an address for the stage door or loading dock that is not published on the venue’s website.

10. BRING A NOTE OR GIFT UP TO THE STAGE AT CURTAIN CALL. This is something I have seen on a few occasions, though I have not tried it myself: instead of sending a note, bouquet of flowers, or small gift backstage, a member of the audience will sometimes carry it up to the edge of the stage during curtain calls and offer it directly to the artist.

This strategy seems like it must work best at venues without orchestra pits. There is also a tradition of flinging flowers across the pit to the stage when a favorite opera star steps out for their curtain call, but that seems less personal—the artist might not see where the flowers are coming from.

11. STAGE-DOOR YOUR FAVORITE ARTISTS. Stage-dooring refers to the practice of fans congregating outside the stage door after a show with the hope of briefly meeting the stars on their way out of the venue. It seems to be common at some of the major opera houses such as the Met and the Royal Opera, and if you spend any time browsing opera fans’ social media, you will see stage door selfies and group photos.

This is actually not something I have done myself, so I have limited advice on precisely how to go about it. Perhaps someone else can chime in?

As in any other situation, stage door behavior should be respectful of the artist’s time and feelings. Address the artist as “Ms. ---” or “Mr. ---” (or “Signora,” “Monsieur,” “Dame,” etc., as applicable!) to get their attention, unless you are already on a first-name basis. Ask politely for what you would like: “Would it be all right if I took a photo?” “Would you have time for a selfie?” “Would you be willing to autograph my program?” If the artist says she is tired or in a hurry, thank her for the performance and let her go. If the artist spends time with you and gives you an autograph, a selfie, or a bit of conversation, remember to thank her for that, too.

12. ATTEND POST-SHOW RECEPTIONS AND MEET-THE-ARTIST PARTIES. These events may or may not be well publicized in advance. Sometimes meet-the-artist events are by invitation only to high-level donors, but sometimes they are open to all ticket holders for a show. Sometimes there are post-show receptions with no formal “meet the artist” component arranged by the venue, but the artists might choose to put in an appearance.

I have had some very lovely chats with favorite singers over post-show drinks and I recommend sticking around for any receptions that you have the opportunity to enjoy!

As for how to approach artists at these events, it is like any other cocktail party or similar social situation, though with the slight twist that a star artist’s attention may be under more demand than other people’s. Sidle up and wait for a break in conversation. When the artist turns your way, say hello, introduce yourself, and tell them what a fantastic performance they just gave. Positive feedback and compliments are very much in order, especially in the hours immediately after a show!

You will have to read the situation a little bit to gauge how long to chat with the artist—try not to take longer than other people are doing, which could be anywhere from under a minute of quick greeting / admiration to several minutes of casual, wide-ranging conversation, depending what the event is like and how mobbed the artist is. If the artist seems to be hanging out with family or personal friends, err on the side of keeping your interaction brief.

I think it is generally OK to ask for an autograph or a selfie or offer the artist a fan letter or small gift at this kind of event: it is a form of compliment, and most artists are happy to oblige. Just keep in mind that it is primarily a social event and not a CD signing line. Make sure the artist gets time to chat with people and enjoy the party.

13. MAKE A BACKSTAGE REQUEST. If there is a singer who would be really special for you to meet, you can straight up ask for the opportunity to meet them. I really wish I had known this earlier! There is no guarantee that your request will be accepted, but it does not hurt to ask. The most standard sort of request is to ask if you may meet the artist backstage after a show.

I would generally recommend contacting the singer or their agent about two weeks in advance of the show you are going to see. If you can find direct contact information for the singer on their website, or if you are able to send them private messages online, you can go that route; otherwise, send an email to their agent. Making your request via a private channel of communication is best, since it might be awkward for the artist to respond to a public request on social media.

Keep your message businesslike and to the point. Here is a template based on emails I have sent to artists’ agents:

Subject: backstage request for [singer’s name] on [date] at [venue]

Hello,

I have been greatly impressed by [singer]'s work and I am very much looking forward to her recital at [venue] on [date]. Would I be able to meet her backstage briefly afterward, to say a word of admiration and perhaps request an autograph?

Thank you,

[my real name]

Allow about three business days for an answer to come back. After that point, if you have heard nothing, you may send a single, polite follow-up query; sometimes messages get lost in the shuffle. However, if your followup also gets no reply, I would read that silence as a “no.”

If your request is accepted, probably the artist will put your name on their backstage list. In most venues, access to the backstage area is restricted, and you will not be admitted backstage unless your name is “on the list.”

When the show ends, approach an usher and explain that you have arranged to meet the artist backstage, and ask where you should go. Go promptly after curtain down, but make sure and stop to collect any belongings you may have left at coat check, because it may close before you are done backstage.

When you get to the backstage entrance (which will probably be an interior door, not the exterior stage door), give your name to the guard and mention which artist you are there to see.

What the backstage experience is like will depend on numerous factors: How many people were onstage? How prestigious are the performers? Are you in a big city at a major opera house or at a smallish auditorium on a college campus seeing a show on tour? Are you part of a small crowd gathering to meet your opera idol, or is it just you? In some cases, the artist or the venue may have assistants guiding you around. In other cases, once you are through the door, you are more or less on your own. You might meet the artist at their dressing room, in the green room, or in a hallway. They may have changed to street clothes by the time you get there or they may still be in costume or in their concert clothes. They may be drinking champagne and celebrating the performance with their castmates or they may be exhausted and yearning for their hotel bed.

Despite the difficulty of generalizing about the backstage experience, the menu of common fan/star interactions is still similar to other in-person events. Lead off by introducing yourself and congratulating the artist on the performance they have just given. Say something about how much you admire them and why you wanted to meet them. You may offer a bouquet of flowers or another small gift if you have brought one, or a fan letter for the artist to read later, but it is certainly not required that you bring the artist anything. You can ask for an autograph or a selfie with the artist if you wish, or you can chat for a bit and say “I just wanted to tell you in person how much I admire you,” and leave it at that.

As always, be respectful not only of the artist but also of the other people in the room. Assume that everyone you meet backstage is someone important who has a good reason for being there.

With regard to the length of your visit, take cues from the artist and from the other people around you. When you sense that your time is up, thank the artist sincerely for their time and make for the exit. Congratulations! You have just met one of your favorite singers. Bask in the glow. :)

#opera tag #advice from verdiprati #advice

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burstbombbitch · 8 years ago

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don't chase the rabbit >:0

Don’t chase the rabbit. || ⚜ please do n’t send more right now lmfao

❝Step aside.❞

He laughed at his own joke; she couldn’t, could she? Not with her hands around his, desperately prying at the grip he had on her face.

Blinded by the palm pressed against her visage, and ensnared by the digits that dug deeply into her head, Bon’s teeth—ineffectively snapping at what flesh she could try to get at—do nothing more than become a gritted scowl.

Through his fingers, she could see her team being wiped. She could hear her heart plummeting into the depths of her being. This wasn’t anything new, but like this brutish Inkling, it still held her with a cold, harsh grip. The taut grasp on his hand weakens as resolve bleeds out her veins. The shine of the rainmaker advancing garnered a breathy sigh of despair, and the fight in her finally fails, her hands falling to her side.

❝Fuck you,❞ she wheezed. Who knew that those were the magic words for her descent? Contact was relatively rough, and no amount of clenched teeth could withhold the shrill screech of a damaged nose. With his hand now on the back of her head, pressing her face into the edge of Mahi-Mahi’s land, the little pinkling got a bountiful view of her leakage. Oh, oh, that was a lot of ink… Desperate peripherals acknowledged the nasty smile that spread this squid’s lips from ear to ear. Her team wasn’t coming. No one was; they had to defend the pedestal. If one could call their pitiful, three-person beat-down a defense.

❝Something tells me you’re too young for that kinda language, brat.❞

❝’m here, aren’t I? Old ‘nough. S-So… Play fair!❞

❝You just proved my point.❞

He didn’t do her the justice of raising her head from the ground. She’d have to do that for herself while he pulled her tentacles closer to the water-logged edge.

❝Let me clean up your act.❞

She held her breath. Rightfully so. Tightly closed eyes still felt the pressure of sifting waters knocking along her cranium. The ink of her running nose faded into obscurity with the liquid’s cleansing properties. Rolling bubbles danced atop the broken surface tension, exacerbated by her inability to retain air. Only when the oxygen pockets would halt did he relent, yanking her out of the wet clutches of her demise. Instinctively, her mouth flies open, gasps sufficing in her desperate gathering of air. Upon seeing her go for gulps, the inkling plummets her back into the shimmering water. ❝Now, now,❞ he laughed. ❝I didn’t say you could do that! What if you were to be nasty to me again? That’d hurt my feelings.❞

His habit of pulling her out right when her struggle relented was tiresome. She would’ve preferred a graceful splat. The next two dips were given significantly less fight, and his boredom was evident when he yanks her out for the second-to-last time.

❝You’re pretty quiet now, squiddo.❞

Tired eyes, lacking their usual light, merely gaze through him. The most she can garner is hocking up a glob of her ink, only to spit it directly into his eye. Her quivering, shivering chest and frame couldn’t handle any more liquid. Just splat her already. And judging by the way a new fire illuminated the horizon of his face, it was coming soon.

Whatever he was saying… whatever unremitting castigation she was to endure, she couldn’t comprehend. The only thing blurrier than her eyesight was her ears. Everything sounded… unusually waterlogged. She could hear the liquid still sloshing about, drowning her every thought. Even when he shook her, demanding her attention, she couldn’t relinquish such a waning currency. Wary eyes drifted to a complete close, flickering open every now and then, before clarity rashly smacked her into consciousness for a second longer.

❝Guess we’re done here. Don’t let me catch you sneaking in here again, squib.❞

Weightlessly, her body was launched into the shimmering teal liquid of the resort. She hardly put up a fight. Her soul left her easily as the referee ended the match with the fish on the pedestal.

How many years had it been since that fateful day? It felt all so recent, albeit her brain was the culprit for that. That memory, those feelings, her hatred… it flooded her like the water she had been tossed into.

Amidst the idle conversation of competitors, her brows lower in their eerie tranquility. Out went the lights that defined her pupils. Slowly, her own misery lacerates a small opening betwixt her lips. Nia’s jubilant chuckles preceded a few pats along her shoulder. Speech bounced off her ears, the reminiscent liquid choking their only entry points.

❝Oh, you’ve played with Bonbon before?❞

❝Holy—yeah, ha ha. I did. She might not remember me; she looked like she just managed her human form then. Woo. She actually S+ now?❞

❝Yeah, dude. C'mon! She’s older than that, y'know! Isn’t that right, Bonnie?❞

Laughter was hard to parse, even when the chill of her friend’s chortles usually calmed her. All she could hear was his, and time had hardly molded his pitch into anything more than a turbulent storm. Her smile was motionless. Nia’s face folded tightly in her doubt. Narrowed eyes questioned Bonbon’s stability, but the signal for their dispersal resounded abruptly. Time for them to get ready.

Roll-out was normal. Rush to the center of Kelp Dome, as always. Jump on the Zone. Bonbon and Nia assisted one another, while the fellow twin squad went their separate ways. Once enough lines were made for Nia’s advance, Bon took her leave… into the enemy base. Squints of skepticism tightened the Carbon’s face. Her feelings of dismay didn’t leave her, but she would have to trust that Bon knew what she was doing. It would be strange to fight without her assistance, but… she would make due. Away she went.

The looming threat of a Charger slinking into enemy territory was disregarded with ease. The enemy team’s rationale was sound—if they didn’t see the E-Liter on its perch, it was safe to say they were down. Why would they ever attempt to flank in such a risky map, where the only good perch they could take was always in enemy sight? Accounting for the more unusual cases was more effort than need be.

It was dreadfully unfortunate that, for once, such caution would have been appreciated.

Patience was a virtue she was always proud to harbor, for it always came to fruition no matter the circumstance. Squid after squid, respawn after respawn, her team did efficiently without her. She was not splatting anyone—something that she’d surely have to apologize for in the long run—but Nia was always good with locking people out once she was set up. She knew her darling well.

Self-restraint rewarded itself with a glimpse of her target. As he was falling from the ledge of spawn, she stepped forward. For a moment, he merely batted an eye, mistaking her in his haste for their own charger, but the contact of a gas tank along his cranium was enough to garner second thoughts.

The splash of his collapse into his own ink went unheard, overlapped by the disheveling sound of blunt force trauma. He could feel his skull shivering from the blow. A struggling arm shakily bolstered his weight, legs sprawled out before him as a bowed head underwent fervid rubs.

❝H-Hey, man, what’re you—hold up. You’re not—❞

From this angle, her shadow engulfed his slumped person, extended only by the weapon being incorrectly held up high by the barrel.

❝I do remember you. Oh, my love, how could I ever forget.❞

Wide eyes took in a gaze that easily beat his through sheer loathing alone. Quickly, he curls into himself, protecting his head from more hits. Thankful was he, if only because her target was more general—she whacked away at the center of his being, further disheveling a queasy stomach. Oh, how melodious his cries were! T’was like the gentle brush of practiced fingers down the keys of a piano. Perhaps, if she could ponder a song, she could align his torment into a harmony. She loved a good hymn, after all.

So then why? Why was her baton stopped prematurely? She was not done conducting, even if the squid she drummed upon had long become quiet and unresponsive.

Her body, rigid and tense, retains its inflexibility as her head nigh creaks to gaze at the interloper.

—Nia.

❝Bonbon, what… what are you doing? I’ve been—❞

Narrowed eyes interrogate the flickering stars they gazed into. Black fought against white, aptly appearing like… static. Even the radio silence she received was reminiscent of a screen devoid of broadcast. Furrowed brows lightened up in their shock, similar to her grip on the tank of the E-Liter. In that moment, the beast turned back, preparing another swing on their foe. Nia proved, as always, to be faster to the draw with her Carbon.

Up rose the enemy squid’s soul. He’d be back. Refreshed from his agony, albeit the memory that it accompanied was not one to be displaced. A sigh of relief contrasted deeply with Bon’s guttural growl. Nia would get to her feet, turning to placate her friend, only to gasp as a swing is hastily dodged. Clarification that they were on the same team did nothing—the sniper seemed dead set on taking another blow out on someone else.

Her Carbon becomes, for the first time, a defensive tool. A few swings aimed for her head are deflected by the roller, until the last attempt ends in the charger finally being launched from Bon’s hands. That alone doesn’t seem to hinder the onslaught, for the monster leaps at her with both hands outstretched.

All Nia does is raise her arms defensively, her face scrunching up in anticipation, but no contact is made. Slowly, eyes that clenched in preparation open, watching as two referees pinned the rabid Inkling down by her arms. Nia’s breathing is deep, her chest heaving to its maximum incline compared to Bon’s faster inhalations, accompanied by loud wheezes and hisses. The only thing to describe the display… was animalistic. It was unrefined, a word she’d never think would go in conjunction with the prissy princess. And yet, there she was, baring fangs whilst struggling in their grip with all of her might. A third referee intervenes upon request when it comes to light that even her petite form required another hold on her feet.

Amidst her gurgled screams were choked laughs and sobs. Their pitch was eerily high, unlike her natural titters, and frequently interrupted by more hasty huffs. Streaks of black melted down her ‘mask’, trailing her round cheeks and soiling the static-heavy lights of her bio-luminescence. The ink that coated her gear was not from the way they bodily brought her to the ground, but the actions that she had partook in moments before her demise. Nia’s eyes fell to a close, turning her head away as they escorted the child off the field. Her lip undergoes a light gnawing treatment as the other contestants make their way over to where the incident took place.

Their inquiries go unanswered. It was impossible to convey what she herself hardly understood.

#sturmazing #✧.° ⦙ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴏɴ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ 'ᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴜɴ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ᴄᴀᴋᴇ. — ❪ & meme reply. ❫#✧.° ⦙ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ... ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ʙʟᴜᴇ. — ❪ & drabbles. ❫#me: this. this is not going to happen again #i made this way way way too long it needs t o go

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