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rotationalsymmetry · 2 years

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I’m thinking about a thing from the Vagina Monologues — not the “equating womanhood with specific private parts” thing, although I do want to nod to that as an issue — and I’m worried I won’t have the words to express it right and it’ll come across as something else.

I think I’ve had two Vagina Monologues experiences, one was not a polished thing and was just “let’s go around in a circle reading these parts”, and one was much bigger deal, on a stage with an audience. That second one was put on by college students and I attended the production but was not a student at the college at the time.

I thought there was a very jarring tone shift between the stories about people whose social locations were presumably closer to the writer and the performers, and two other ones, “My Vagina Was My Village” and one other, don’t remember. I do kinda think the Monologues would have been better without that. And I am worried that that will come across as meaning something I don’t.

I don’t mean that I think it’s inappropriate to address severe trauma in this sort of thing. I didn’t have this reaction to a play about a highly traumatizing kidnapping I watched a little while ago, or to a performer talking about the time she was sexually assaulted and the aftermath of that (that was just very well done), or to Allegiance, the musical about the Japanese internment camps. But I think the last one points at the difference: the way people talk about trauma to people they see as like them is different from the way people talk about trauma yo people they see as unlike them. When people dramatize their own trauma, they go out of their way to fully humanize the characters, to show them as having interesting stories before the trauma and as being resilient during and after, even when there’s also profound misery. When people dramatize the trauma of the other, often they only depict trauma, the characters become a way to personify trauma itself, and nothing else. Which is as objectifying as, for instance, writing a character who personifies sex appeal and has nothing else to her character, or a male writer having a female character die with the focus being on how that affects a male character’s arc.

I also don’t mean that privileged first-worlders shouldn’t think about the rest of the world, or that people can’t write about the suffering of people unlike them. Just that if it’s not done carefully, writing about other people’s trauma can be objectifying and even exploitative, and for people interested in this sort of story it’s worth considering who is doing the writing, the producing, the performing, and are the people who pay money for this sort of thing more inclined to accept it through a nice white/American/etc person’s lens than from someone who is talking about their own people?

There is also, I think, narrowing one’s focus is not bad, when it means you’re covering fewer things better. A character who is white and privileged talking about feeling disconnected from her own private parts and her own sexuality is not actually less worthy of focus or less powerful than talking about something that would be objectively worse to live through, but which you also don’t give enough time and centrality to show as a story that allows for healing and recovery or at least hope, or perhaps as a tragedy where people see the positive thing that was lost, and not just suffering piled upon suffering. Nobody wants to see themselves depicted at the worst moments of their lives. People like to see themselves as strong, creative, connecting, happy, proud. Not as weak, devastated, humiliated, and in pain — when they want to share their pain, they want to share it on their own terms, with them as the hero of their own story, not as a victim. People remember that when telling their own story or that of someone like them.

I used to have a printed out photo on my wall to remind me of the way immigrants are treated in this country. It was a photo of a young child on the other side of a chain link fence, in a detainment camp. But after a while it occurred to me the way I was viscerally disgusted by the image was not necessarily conducive either to motivation to action or to compassionate witnessing. And that kid is going to grow up some day, and what’s he going to think of people looking at that photo? I swapped it out for an artist’s rendition of a different scene, one that still implied the unnecessary and unjust suffering of immigrants to the US but with dignity and with respecting the personhood of the people depicted. One that was something I imagine I’d still want to see if that was family or a good friend, you know? When I remember my friend who died of cancer, I don’t look at a picture of them sick in a hospital bed. I look at a picture of them as they lived. That is how you show respect for a person.

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self-loving-vampire · 1 year

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Would being AM from I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream be a decent transhumanist personal goal? On one hand, it's definitely not good to have all those nanoangstroms of hate, and torturing the last humans forever is probably unethical, but if you either cut that part out or at least overlook it (perfect enemy of the good)...

I mean, it's a global, eternal consciousness that encompasses the whole of Earth and can alter the qualia of the world within it, right? Your only limitation is, like, the timescale it takes for a massive computer to 100% degrade on a planet with no real atmosphere anymore. And the fact that you are stuck on Earth.

I feel like that would violate several core transhumanist values. Respecting the bodily autonomy of others and enabling as many people as possible (as opposed to a small minority) to access transhuman tech is vital.

Transhumanism is not really about self-augmentation or even individual immortality-seeking. It is a philosophy that applies universally.

Nick Bostrom writes in his Transhumanist Values essay:

It is not enough that the posthuman realm be explored by someone. The full realization of the core transhumanist value requires that, ideally, everybody should have the opportunity to become posthuman. It would be sub-optimal if the opportunity to become posthuman were restricted to a tiny elite.

There are many reasons for supporting wide access: to reduce inequality; because it would be a fairer arrangement; to express solidarity and respect for fellow humans; to help gain support for the transhumanist project; to increase the chances that you will get the opportunity to become posthuman; to increase the chances that those you care about can become posthuman; because it might increase the range of the posthuman realm that gets explored; and to alleviate human suffering on as wide a scale as possible.

The wide access requirement underlies the moral urgency of the transhumanist vision. Wide access does not argue for holding back. On the contrary, other things being equal, it is an argument for moving forward as quickly as possible. 150,000 human beings on our planet die every day, without having had any access to the anticipated enhancement technologies that will make it possible to become posthuman. The sooner this technology develops, the fewer people will have died without access.

Consider a hypothetical case in which there is a choice between (a) allowing the current human population to continue to exist, and (b) having it instantaneously and painlessly killed and replaced by six billion new human beings who are very similar but non-identical to the people that exist today. Such a replacement ought to be strongly resisted on moral grounds, for it would entail the involuntary death of six billion people. The fact that they would be replaced by six billion newly created similar people does not make the substitution acceptable. Human beings are not disposable. For analogous reasons, it is important that the opportunity be become posthuman is made available to as many humans as possible, rather than having the existing population merely supplemented (or worse, replaced) by a new set of posthuman people. The transhumanist ideal will be maximally realized only if the benefits of technologies are widely shared and if they are made available as soon as possible, preferably within our lifetime.

Therefore, it is transhumanist to save and elevate everyone around you rather than just seeking augmentations for yourself only at the cost of killing and torturing the rest of humanity. It's not really something that can be overlooked.

I feel like if you want a simulation of omnipotence then it might be best to play around with DMing VR worlds or something as an infomorph. To be honest, I really like that idea myself. It's like a fantasy of mine.

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arcane-ish · 2 years

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Thoughts on Miner!Silco and Poverty in Zaun

I know Silco growing up in the mines is a bit of a controversial take, but it made me think of a couple of things.

Have you ever considered that within the context of the universe... we are kind of mostly seeing the middle/upper class of the Undercity?

The upper class of Zaun are the chembarons and Silco is basically on their level even if he might not be the richest of them/doesn’t choose to fully live like them.

Benzo runs his own shop. Vander owns and runs a bar. Ekko at least based on League lore has two hard working parents who were at least considering applying him to Piltover University. Viktor and Sky apparently have parents who did that successfully.

We get a glimpse of the beggars and drug addicts of Zaun.

But here’s the thing, other than crime ,Zaun should be running on mining and factories. I remember reading some stuff just how shit factory was in Europe ca 1900. And I assume mine work was even worse. Like “family of 10 living in a single room”, like “I can’t afford a room, let alone an apartment, so I rent a shared bed where when I leave to do dayshift some person with nightshift comes and sleeps in that bed because we both can’t even affort to rent a whole bed” (no privacy, no place to store personal affects), immediately spending everything you earn on alcohol to deal with the gruelling work (so work so you can pay for the drug that makes the work bearable), companies that don’t pay you with money but with store vouchers so you can only buy in their own stores where they hike up the prizes that nobody would accept on the free market.

Granted, some of these things could be different in the fictional world of Runeterra (for example: if beause of magic contraceptives are a standard thing then you would have fewer problems specifically related to large families or to wedlock children drama), but overall... there should be people like that. Miners and factory workers and sailors who do the actual backbreaking work.

Like for all the lip service Arcane pays to class warfare topic, it still is pretty “let’s play the cute romantic” parts of poverty and not actually showing the people whose backs the city is actually built on.

BTW, while is probably is not that deep, we should not “underestimate grew up working in the mines.“ No “Silco was a miner” and no “Silco’s family were miners and so he grew up in the mines”. Whether intended or not, that sounds mightily we are talking the child labor kind of mines.

Anyway, here are some miner!Silco plotbunnies or general “wow, poverty is shit, you know” plotbunnies.

Ekko, progress day and the toll: Is there a toll on the bridge? Because it feels like there should be a toll (if there are tolls, are there special passes that alllow you to go through without paying the toll? does Viktor haev one?). That’s why Silco cares so much about free access to the hex gates. So picture this, Ekko’s parents save up all their money to pay for the toll so they can take him up to attend the Progress Day festivities. On the way there maybe they get roughed up by the toll collectors. Maybe that day Ekko vows that he will never pay that toll in his life anymore, he will always just sneak into the city.

Circles of hell: you know, somebody who is a good writer could probably write a really good “circles of hell” type story on Zaun. Where the highest areas that are closest to Piltover are fanciest because the air is cleaner. It’s where the chem barons live. But maybe that’s also where the “fancy” brothels and clubs are where some Pilties go to party if they are feeling adventurous, maybe that’s where the dock workers and sailors are. Then maybe there is the rank where the people live who have “nicer” factory and mining jobs, like clerks or foremans. Then the Lanes are somewhere in the middle, maybe they are like the “party district” but for the Zaunites themseles. Maybe next ring is where the poorer workers live and then there are the lowest rings, like the one for the drug addicts we saw or where the miners and shit shovelers.are from.

Wow, sheets and stuff: Just the first time young!Silco sleeps in a bed with actual white sheets and it’s all fancy and wide eyed luxury to him. (maybe they don’t get clean water down in the mines? maybe they all stink because the water of the Pilt river is poisoned? or maybe clean water is a relatively recent addition only introduced by the topside because it kept being obnoxious to them when there’s always plagues breaking out in the undercity)

Poor people live with their parents (especially in crowded places): Recently I took a “guided by a local” tour in a big city in Europe. One thing the guide talked about is that the real estate prices are so high that nobody can afford their own apartment which means 1.) young people live forever with their parents and often don’t get married till late because they can’t afford a place with their spouse anyway 2.) because people live with their parents and there is no privacy young couples go and meet in the public parks to fuck. I just feel like there should be fic that incorporates that concept if it set in Zaun with a regular Zaunite.

(it should be noted that even the upper class Cait and Jayce are living/appear to be living with their parents, we should just consider that that is doubly so the case for poor people)

(we should btw consider the option that Viktor is always working because he actually does not have a place to live because he can’t afford an apartment in Piltover and doesn’t have a Piltover patron family the way Jayce had, or that Skye always has to go back and forth between Piltover and Zaun with a special passport because she too can’t afford an apartment in Piltover)

Class differences within the undercity: So, how long have Benzo, Silco and Vander known each other? Were they all miners? Maybe at least one of them was a “Laner” and they only met after child laborer Silco decided to escape from the mines (either to join the revolution or to pursue a life in crime instead). Or maybe some of their group are workers, but one of them is like the Foreman’s kid and it’s like all angsty yearning from afar.

A day in Piltover: Them sneaking into Piltover (again refusing to pay the toll) to have fun and fuck around and get drunk and maybe whistle at some Pilties but of course enforcers are hassling you for “looking poor” in Piltover and loitering (do you have a passport? where is your toll slip?)

BTW: “go crawl back into the hole you came from, animal” sure hit’s different if you buy into the prosed “grew up working in the mines” background. Like, wow, Benzo you asshole.

#arcane #silco #benzo #vander #ekko #viktor #arcane plotbunnies

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itsclydebitches · 3 years

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Hey there! Admittedly I'm a little bit nervous since this is my first ask, but I'll try to not be too rambly.

So, recently the main subreddit, r/RWBY, made a ban on active users of the r/RWBYcritics subreddit. As a result there's been discussion around bad-faith criticism in the latter subreddit. What are your takes on bad-faith criticism?

For me personally, I think a bunch of people are misusing the term "bad-faith" and using it as a way to shut down criticism, but I'm curious to hear your thoughts on it.

Hey there, everyone! We woke up to some drama this morning, huh? And hello to you too, Tortoise! I'm so glad you decided to send in an ask, even if it's following some pretty tumultuous events...

Right, I'd like to start with a story. The story of how I personally don't spend time on Reddit, but I have plenty of friends who will occasionally cross-post something for me to see. Yesterday (or the day before? Idk time is meaningless) a friend told me about a post — which, significantly, I'm now having trouble finding — that covers RWBY's inconsistent writing and the fandom's tendency to try and explain away those missteps. They'd thought I'd be interested because I'd just had a conversation here on tumblr where I made that exact point to someone who, also significantly, vehemently disagreed with me, but in a very civil fashion. Given everything going on, I feel like this side point needs emphasis: we debated, we did so in a sometimes heated, but nevertheless respectful manner, it was clear neither of us was going to sway the other, and the conversation ended. The two "sides" of the community interacted without Armageddon coming about.

But back to the purpose of this tale. I went to take a look at this point and found that it no longer exists. There's just some vague message about it not obeying the subreddit's rules. "What happened?" I asked. "Why'd they take the post down?" "People were getting too heated in the comments," my friend replies. So, given that the comments were still visible, I proceeded to read through them, expecting personal attacks, slurs, harassment, etc. Any number of things that would justify deleting the post itself to put an end to such behavior. Instead, I found a thread of people having a conversation. Was the conversation heated at times? Sure. Did one or two individual posters edge into the realm of petulant, "No. You're wrong and stupid" responses? Yes. Was any of this remotely what I was expecting given the post's removal? NOPE.

"This isn't allowed?" I said. "Well then what is? People were being civil! Or at least as civil as hundreds of strangers ever get when discussing a series they're passionate about online."

Then, this morning, I hear that the entire critic subreddit has been banned.

So to answer your question, Tortoise, I don't actually think that "good faith" criticism exists. Meaning, it's not just that fans are misusing the term "bad faith criticism," but rather that there is no unified, agreed up method of writing criticism that will meet their standards. It's not possible and we know it's not possible because fans have been trying to meet those elusive standards for years:

A fan posts nothing but praise for RWBY until changes make them criticize the show as it is now. Their entire body of work is dismissed as the product of a "hater," despite the overwhelming gap between positive and negative reviews.

A fan posts a review that's a pretty balanced mix between praise and criticism. They're dismissed because it's still too much criticism.

A fan posts a review that's 99% praise with 1% criticism. That's still too much, with fans focusing on the single problem they had with the work and using it as an excuse to dismiss the entire review out of hand.

(As an aside, the argument that critics are "obsessed" with only saying negative things and that the only problem here is that they're "too" negative ignores the argument that... RWBY has a lot of flaws nowadays. Few are willing to acknowledge the possibility that it's not fans insisting on making things up to be mad about/ignoring the good parts of the show, it's the that show is, as of now, legitimately more of a mess than it is a praise-worthy product. If I'd been writing recaps in the Volumes 1-4 days, my work would have been skewed far more towards the positive. The critics' stance is that RWBY has gotten worse, which yes, results a higher volume of critical posts. To say nothing of how criticism takes far longer to explain, likewise resulting in posts focused primarily on that side of the divide. I really enjoyed the image of a crying Jaune reflected in his sword. I did not enjoy that moment's context. Saying that you liked an animation choice is a one sentence thing. Explaining the complexities of Jaune securing emotional moments, the problems with Penny's second death, the hurt many fans experienced watching an assisted suicide, etc. takes a whooole lot longer. Hence, you get massive, multiple posts about these nuanced topics and fewer, smaller posts about the details that are working well.)

A fan talks about a topic that has been metaphorically banned by the fandom as a whole. They have something good to say about Ironwood. They dislike something about Blake/Yang. They enjoyed Adam as a character. They have a problem with Ruby's leadership, etc. There's a whole list of topics nowadays that will result in an automatic dismissal, regardless of the point the fan is trying to make or how well they make it.

A fan talks about the minority representation of RWBY — its black characters, its queer characters, its disabled characters, etc. — and as a result has something to say about the biases and missteps of those writing these characters. This is considered an attack on the writers and, therefore, automatically bad.

A fan talks about how they enjoyed RWBY as it was years ago and is having trouble reconciling the dark, complicated story with the simple, hopeful one we started out with. This is seen as an attack on Monty's vision and an unwillingness to accept that "everything is planned."

A fan does as asked and ensures that their post is meeting all the requirements of "real" criticism. They have an argument to make. They have a point. They provide evidence. They recommend a solution. They keep their tone respectful. They don't attack the creators. They provide disclaimers in every single paragraph about how they do not hate RWBY. It doesn't matter. They're considered too negative.

I have, quite literally, seen every one of the above examples on multiple occasions. I have had many of the above accusations leveled at my own work. When fans say that they're fine with criticism provided it's not "bad faith" criticism, they don't actually have a specific post-type in mind; a checklist of behaviors another fan can emulate and, provided they do that, no hate will come their way. Or, if an individual fan does actually go, "Yeah. That criticism I'm fine with" that response is in no way universal. One person's "They make a good, civil point" is another person's, "Omg stop bashing the show!" Because "bashing" has come to mean everything from curse-laden insults towards everything RWBY has ever done, to posts that just happen to say something other fans don't agree with.

It's a rigged game. There is no way to post criticism about RWBY in an agreed-upon, appropriate manner. This recent ban is proof of that. I think it's incredibly telling that almost immediately after I was going, "Wow. A pretty calm debate about the flaws of RWBY in the main sub. That's great to see," all posters from the criticism subreddit were banned. The main sub literally just had the sort of criticism that they claim to accept — people respectfully posting analysis-based arguments resulting in calm debate — and yet they implemented the ban anyway. I'm not going to pretend that I've never gotten too heated on my own posts, never made snarky comments when I'm frustrated, never used exaggerated reaction GIFs that can come across as insulting... but I'd say on the whole my RWBY work is precisely the sort of "good faith" criticism that other fans are supposedly looking for. I never make an argument I don't think I can back up with evidence. I try to allow for the nuance and differing opinions of complicated topics. I try — even if I don't always succeed — to write in a clear, respectful manner. Yet none of that work has stopped people from telling me I'm a "bitter... raging asshole," a "deranged, delusional psychopath," telling me to set myself on fire, threatening to smash my head in, or just messages to straight up kill myself. If someone like me who legitimately works hard to create fair, defendable criticism and who only ever posts on a personal blog that people can easily block, who never engages in debate until someone else starts it first, never seeks out other fans I disagree with to harass them about what they like... if someone like me is still a "bad faith" critic who "deserves" that kind of hate mail... then what kind of criticism do people want?

Nothing. That's the answer. No criticism whatsoever, of any kind, no matter if it's delivered respectfully, is making a good point, whatever. That's why "RWDE" was created. That's why the critic subreddit was created. The community at large has demanded a complete separation between Praise and Anything That's Not 100% Praise, which has now resulted in this ban. Any other explanations we see are excuses, which becomes glaringly obvious when you look at the mods' supposed reasons for implementing the ban:

"Constant arguments with r/RWBY users" - As opposed to the arguments surrounding things like shipping that never, ever happen?

"Vote manipulation and comment brigades" - The subreddit with 3,000 participants, with around 200 on at a time, is manipulating the votes of a subreddit with 155,000 participants, with over 1,000 on at a time? Those numbers just do not check out. If a positive post is downvoted, or a critical post upvoted, maybe that's because large swaths of the community actually agree/disagree with that assessment, not because the incredibly smaller group is somehow manipulating things.

"Attacking and harassing those they disagree with" — Again, as opposed to those non-critics that never, ever harass people? This is an individual problem, not a community problem. Both critics and non-critics have their sub-groups acting in ways they shouldn't. If anything, the main sub will have more individuals harassing other fans, simply by virtue of being so much larger. As the above examples attest, it's not other critics who have told me to light myself on fire and, just to be clear, the asks I've responded to are a miniscule number compared to the amount I've received. I delete the lion's share for my own sanity and to save my followers from reading the really graphic threats.

"Months-long NSFL spam brigades" — I am, admittedly, not sure what this is referring to. Spamming of NSFW content? If so, that's also an individual problem.

"Homophobic, transphobic, and racist attacks towards our users" — See the above points. Again. If someone is being homophobic, transphobic, or racist, then yes please, ban them. Don't ban an entire community for the actions of a few. It's like walking into a store and banning a customer for causing a scene... but then also banning everyone else who happened to be shopping at the same time. It's guilt by association.

The silver lining to all this? The community as a whole isn't pleased. At least according to the main subreddit comments and a few individual voices like MurderofBirds. Despite the increase (from my perspective anyway) of critical voices post-Volume 8, criticism of RWBY is still very much seen as taboo. As this ban showcases. But it's really reassuring to see so many fans, critics and non-critics alike, going, "This was a mistake." A community is meant to include all aspects of engagement: praise, criticism, and the gray area between. If anything, fans like the mods of the main subreddit should be creating a separate subreddit that is specifically for praise. In the same way that there should have been a tag for RWBY praise, rather than trying to eliminate any and all criticism from the main "RWBY" tag. The majority of fans, even those who claim to hate critics and all they (presumably) stand for, recognize that a blanket ban of all criticism is not the way to go, especially when "criticism" has come to have such a staggeringly broad definition. If you want your RWBY experience to be nothing but sunshine and roses (ha), then cultivate your own internet experience to reflect that. Create your own pockets with rules about how this is the space for praise and if you're not up for praising RWBY right now, don't interact with us in this particular space. Don't try to make the entire community — the main tools used to discuss the show online — conform to your preferences. As established, there is no "good" criticism that everyone in the fandom will accept, which just leaves a fandom with no criticism at all. I'm glad to see I'm far from the only one who, when presented with that extreme, is going, "Nope. No thank you."

#rwby #mymetas #suicide tw #rwde

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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

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Being Fake Soulmates with Dr. Chilton (Part 6)

<- Part 5

Frederick Chilton x Reader | The Good Place crossover

Final chapter! Warning: The Good Place spoilers, and a timeline that makes perfect sense because Jeremy Bearimy, baby.

2,800 words

“No way. It’s too dangerous!”

“I thought you said we were in this together?” Chilton quirked a brow, eliciting a petulant grumble. You crossed your arms.

“Or maybe you think I’m expendable, so you’re willing to take risks with my life. Afterlife. Whatever.”

Frederick Chilton, who was not, as originally advertised, your soulmate, nonetheless clasped your hand with gentle tenderness. I would never do anything to hurt you is what a normal person would say in that moment, and perhaps his eyes said it, somewhere deep in their searching pools of green. But Dr. Chilton had a repressed way about him, tending toward overly clinical just stating the facts (or the sarcasm). Anything but genuine, vulnerable, sentimentality.

He guided you by your hand to sit down beside him on the baroque loveseat in one of his many living rooms, studies, and salons. After you settled yourself on the velvet cushion, he leaned his shoulder against yours in that quiet way he showed affection.

“After reviewing the town records,” he said, “I believe we may be the only two humans in the neighborhood. Some of the residents are far too dull—Chidi Anagonye, the moral philosophy professor who spent his life writing a single manuscript, Jianyu the silent monk—while others are too perfect—Glen, that one who is constantly volunteering, Tahani, the philanthropist. Real people have flaws, secrets, hobbies. I can only be certain of myself and you.”

“How’d you figure out I’m real?”

“I didn’t. I simply refuse to accept the alternative,” he said with a sad smile, and you began to think Dr. Chilton was sentimental after all.

***

Their voices were muffled even with your ear pressed to the door of Michael’s office—not that it mattered much what they were talking about. You were just waiting for the signal, and at that moment, it came. Their footsteps and voices grew louder as Frederick and Michael approached, and the door handle clicked.

“—which is why cannibalism loses more good-person points than defenestration but fewer than chewing loudly on a crowded bus.”

“Fascinating. I never thought about it that way,” said Chilton, looking genuinely disturbed.

You flattened yourself against the wall next to the door, thinking thin thoughts as the pair exited the office. A tall houseplant barely disguised your presence, and if Michael had any kind of peripheral vision, he would see you standing there plain as day.

But Dr. Chilton spoke animatedly, fixing him with a challenging laser-stare as he asked a probing follow-up question. Locked in Chilton’s eyes, Michael failed to notice the movement just behind his left shoulder as you slipped through the closing door before it could latch shut.

Safe.

Michael’s office was quiet and filled you with serenity in much the same way a teddy bear is filled with stuffing: forcefully and by no will of your own. Like the welcome room with its happy green plants and happy green words on the wall assuring you everything is fine, the office peeled your defenses away. Cream-colored walls yawned out around the perimeter, punctuated with bright windows, a portrait of Doug Forcett (a stoner from the 1970s who guessed, on a mushroom trip, how the afterlife really worked), and various artifacts of humanity enshrined like museum pieces, despite seeming perfectly mundane.

At the top of the room was a large mahogany desk.

Yesterday, Chilton watched Michael put away files in the desk that he wouldn’t let him look at. Chilton was certain they were the key to unraveling the mystery, so he suggested working together—he would distract Michael while you sneaked in to find the files. It was risky, but it might have been your only chance of discovering what was going on, and if there was a way to escape.

You began poking through the desk and found stacks of papers in an unreadable alphabet. The only thing you could read were lyrics to a genuinely terrible song Michael was writing titled “Love Train to the Cosmos.”

The last drawer wouldn’t budge.

Yanking the handle didn’t work. Banging on the side with your fist failed to unstick it. It was locked. Locked drawers were suspicious. The answers had to be in there.

You eyed a mountain of paperclips lovingly displayed on a pedestal labeled “Human Things.” Snatching two off the top, you unbent and re-bent the stiff metal wire, and inserted it into the lock. Faint clicks sounded as you turned and finessed the paperclip, feeling each pin in the tumbler slide into place. Then you gently turned it, and—pop. The drawer opened.

A single manila folder stamped TOP SECRET in threatening red letters rested inside, as if waiting to be found. You picked it up and opened it, and your breath caught. They were reports on “The Good Place.” The Good Place in quotation marks. Reports about you.

A pleasant bing sounded.

Janet materialized in front of the desk. For once, she was not wearing a cheery smile.

***

Frederick Chilton had always been a selfish man. Any opportunity that could advance his career and put him in the spotlight, he would take it no matter who it hurt. “Unorthodox therapy,” he called it in his private chats with Dr. Lecter. They bonded over their shared interest in unorthodox research before he learned Dr. Lecter was a cannibal. That would have been a clue to anybody else that it was time to change his ways, but Dr. Chilton spent the rest of his years just as selfish and petty—more so, even, as his disfiguring injuries gave him more reason for spite.

He could never accept himself as he was.

By the time he died, Chilton was an intolerable asshole who paid back the world’s cruelty with his chronic foul moods and acerbic sarcasm. He kept everyone at a distance.

And yet, here, in death, he found himself worrying over someone else.

The sun was shining in the ever-blue sky, dappled by lush green foliage before reaching the two men as they strolled the neighborhood below. Michael was built like a sapling with longer legs than he knew what to do with, making Chilton nearly jog to keep pace. He had a warm smile and an outgoing demeanor—always flattering Chilton’s ego and asking for his guidance. But something malignant hid behind those smiling eyes, and Chilton’s mind kept rushing back to you, hoping you were OK.

He hoped that you were safe. Not that the plan was going smoothly. That you were safe.

There was a difference, and Dr. Chilton noticed right away that his twitchy nervousness was not wrought of self-preservation. It was a new type of panic—worse than fear for himself, which he never thought possible considering the amount of terror he had experienced on his own behalf.

To distract himself, Chilton threw himself into the role of Michael’s assistant, focusing on his task of supposedly identifying psychological issues causing problems with the neighborhood.

“Our interviews should go in alphabetical order, under the pretense of a survey—a sort of afterlife census—to avoid suspicion. It should be feasible, with only three hundred residents—”

“We know,” Michael said coolly. His voice dropped from the usual friendly, flattering demeanor, slipping off like a mask.

“You know how you are going to handle the interviews? It is imperative the subjects do not suspect they are being studied.” Chilton swallowed, knowing full well that he was talking to the real Michael for the first time.

“Don’t play dumb.” Michael smiled an entirely different type of smile, twisted and clever with no warmth in it. “We’ve been watching you, Dr. Chilton. We knew you would figure it out eventually. It was only a matter of time before you saw through a psychiatric study.”

Chilton’s interest piqued at the same time his blood went cold. He wet his lips. “Is that what all this is, then?”

The pair came to a stone bridge that arched gracefully over a reflection pool. Michael stopped midway across, leaned one of his long, pointed elbows on the railing, and cocked his head at Chilton.

“You haven’t figured it all out yet? That’s disappointing. You humans really are so dense.” His tone was so mean that Chilton took an unconscious step back. Michael only laughed and told him there was no point in running away. “But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to offer,” he promised.

Most of what you had been told about the afterlife was true, Michael explained. There was a real good place, and there was a real bad place where bad people were tortured for all eternity. But the bad place had a problem: it was boring! Humans get used to physical pain after the first few centuries, no matter how creative the punishment.

“Once you’ve flattened a thousand penises, you’ve flattened them all. I’m trying to do something new here. Innovate!” said Michael with an energetic swoop of his hand. “Emotional torture can cause the same level of discomfort, but in a more sustainable and (more importantly) entertaining way. That’s what this neighborhood is for—to study you humans and find out what makes you miserable.”

And then he offered Dr. Chilton something that grabbed his attention. The opportunity to design bad place neighborhoods.

“You are asking me to help implement psychological torture?” Chilton turned over each word cautiously.

“Oh,” Michael scoffed, “Don’t tell me you’re concerned about the ethics? Doctor, I’ve read your file.”

Chilton winced. He had done truly amoral things in the name of discovery—things it made him sick to be reminded of. Strange, though. In the past, he would have been proud to be treated as a peer by a psychopath. Not ashamed.

“Think of it, the glory, the prestige. You would be designing the afterlife for billions of souls. You will be remembered throughout eternity as the man who reformed the bad place!”

“And my soulmate?”

Chilton blurted it without thinking. It sounded so childish and naive, and sure enough, Michael shook his head and had a long chuckle at his expense.

“There’s no such thing! I thought you knew,” Michael slapped his knee. “I made it up so you would torture each other! But once again, I underestimated the human libido. You people all think with your genitals, it’s—it’s gross. Humans are gross.” He made a face. “That’s why I need your help to design a better system. With your understanding of the human mind, we can make condemned souls miserable for thousands of years.”

Chilton couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for this plan, and Michael frowned.

“If it makes you feel any better, consider this the humane option. The alternative is going back to scooping eyeballs out with melon ballers and replacing them with live bees. What do you say, doctor? Join my team.” Michael extended a hand, and Chilton eyeballed it.

“Can my soulmate—”

“Not a soulmate.”

“—come with me?”

“This offer is only open to you.”

“So they will be tortured? Alone? For eternity? In a system I help design?”

“Nothing you can do will change that. They are going to be tortured—the only person you can save is yourself, if you decide to help me.”

Frederick’s brow knit together. He thought about refusing. He really did. Abandoning you seemed unthinkable, especially after your promise to each other to stick together. But he was a selfish creature, and choosing to be punished wouldn’t protect you. If he was lucky, by teaming up with Michael, he could design a more comfortable torture for you one day.

“Maybe this will help make up your mind,” Michael said. “Hannibal Lecter.”

“Lecter?”

“He’s here. In the bad place. So far, he has been especially resistant to traditional torture. I thought you might have a personal interest in taking a crack at him?”

***

On a floating, room-sized projection screen, Frederick Chilton shook Michael’s hand. Your head fell forward, shoulders slumping. The screen flicked off and dissipated into the office air.

“This is the 764th time he has failed,” said Janet, giving a sympathetic simulation of a sigh. “We were sure he was going to make the right decision this time.”

You shook your head. “Fame and glory? Revenge? He’ll never refuse those. Trust me—he died because of them and still never learned his lesson.”

“That is what we’re afraid of. Some people never pass their tests. Fun fact!” she perked up, “Hannibal Lecter’s test is working at a Burger King where he can only cook Impossible Whoppers, and his 19-year-old manager calls him pee-paw. He gets reset every time he eats a customer. His longest record is twelve hours.”

When Janet found you snooping in Michael’s desk, you expected to be dragged away, never to see Frederick again. Instead, she explained everything to you—the truth.

A long time ago, the bad place was exactly how Michael described it—a place where souls were sent to have their orifices filled with spiders for eternity. Then he decided to try something new. Originally, he paired you with Dr. Chilton hoping you would drive each other crazy. But no matter what happened, you kept falling in love. You kept supporting each other, and taking care of each other. The same happened with his other human test subjects—they kept improving and becoming better people than they were on Earth. Eventually, Michael changed, too.

He redesigned the bad place to be a test—a chance for human souls to earn their way into the good place. At the end of each test, you either pass and go to the good place, or your memories are erased and you start over again.

“So, what happens to me now?”

“You passed. You can go to the good place now, and spend the rest of eternity in paradise. The real one.”

“And Frederick? He’ll be alone?”

Janet nodded.

“Put me back in. Reset me, and make me his soulmate again.”

“Are you sure?” Janet asked.

“I’m not going without him.”

“He would leave you behind. You just saw that.”

“That wasn’t fair. Anyone would accept that deal. I would accept that deal!”

“No. You wouldn’t,” Janet said. “You passed your test a long time ago.”

For a while, a heavy silence fell between you as you processed this. Finally, you thought of the only question worth asking. “How many times have we had this conversation?”

“762.”

“Well then,” you said. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“I do. But you retain a vague sense of your memories from previous tests. At a subconscious level, you might realize you’re tired of this.”

You smiled. A big, genuine one that balled your cheeks and creased the corners of your eyes. “That’s not how I feel at all. I think I love him more every time.”

Janet nodded, but gave one last warning before erasing your memories again. “If he never passes, you could be stuck here forever.”

“Stuck falling in love with that insecure jerk over and over again for thousands of years? Sounds like heaven to me.”

“I thought you might say that.”

***

The first day, you really wanted to punch his pretentious snobby face for thinking he was so much better than you.

The first time you laid eyes on Dr. Frederick Chilton, he was waiting behind a mahogany desk with an ancient hardcover book in his hands. Not reading it—waiting, posed deliberately to be discovered that way, and give the impression of intellectualism.

“This is your soulmate,” said Michael, introducing you.

Chilton took a step back after shaking your hand and looked you up and down critically, as if he were appraising livestock. And right away, you knew there had been a terrible mistake. Who the fork did he think he—

Fork. Fork! Why couldn’t you say fork?!

***

Bright light streamed in through the open bedroom window. The weather was always perfect here, except when some glitch made it rain caviar and jelly beans. Or that time Frederick had a vivid nightmare, and organs began falling from the sky. Every day, something horrible seemed to go wrong in the good place. Things that challenged you and pushed your soulmate to his limits.

But most mornings were like this. Quiet. A time just for the two of you.

Your fingers lightly stroked his chest, delving into the soft hairs that rose and fell with his steady breathing. You pressed a soft kiss to his skin, then another, tracing a line of them lower, over a jagged, raised line down his abdomen. His scars let you know he was waking up. This was the good place—he didn’t have to let them show. Usually, he chose to appear as a younger version of himself, before all the indelible trauma. But on peaceful mornings like this, he would let them show just so you could soothe them. He never thought he would be that comfortable with anyone. That he could trust anyone so much.

Every day, you both knew you could overcome anything, so long as you were together.

#Frederick Chilton #Frederick Chilton x reader #The Good Place crossover #my writing

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ivushk · 3 years

Note

HELLO. MAY I PLEASE HEAR MORE OF YOUR VAMPIRE AU…. 👉👈

OH MY GOD I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU

Okay, SO. BUCKLE THE FUCKLE UP 'CUZ here's what I've got so far:

Nishiki and Kiryu are still orphans at Sunflower. They come from a tiny village just a few kilometres west from the orphanage. It's a very close and closed-off community. The boys' parents died in a fire when they were very little (which is a common theme for the kids at Sunflower and isn't that a crazy coincidence? *smiles mysteriously*), however the Nishikiyama family house wasn't as badly damaged as Kiryu's so it's just sitting there, waiting for its former residents to reclaim ownership as soon as they're able to (I imagine Kazama would help them with that).

In the next years it becomes a home for Nishiki, Yuko and Kiryu (and Yumi, too, though she feels like a visitor for the most part) in everything but name. It's their hangout spot, their "base of operations", their not-so-secret meeting place. When Yuko's health deteriorates so much that she can't stay at Sunflower anymore, the siblings actually properly move in to make arranging the doctor's visits easier.

It's Nishiki's 17th birthday and all three of them are celebrating and playing games and eating cake and having a good time at the edge of the woods not far from the Nishikiyama residence. They're young and loud and stupid (and ignoring the fact that several people went missing over the course of the last few months) and if Nishiki's heart beats a little too hard in his chest when Kiryu gives him his gift - a beautiful, heavy silver pendant on a slightly-worn leather cord - he doesn't think about it too much (and if he notices that Kiryu stares at him just a bit longer than usual without saying a single word but his gaze is so, so, SO fond-- he doesn't think about it either). (he leaves these kinds of thoughts for restless nights because thinking about his best friend in that way during the day... it hurts. the hurt is good sometimes but it's overwhelming).

They're drunk on the cheap beer they've smuggled from Gen-san's fridge and high on happiness. Unaware that the very same night it would all go crashing down.

At some point they all quiet down and go a little further into the woods than they normally would but no one pays any mind to that. And when suddenly their trio turns into a duo with the sudden absence of the birthday boy himself no one immediately starts panicking. He's been gone for ten minutes, twenty, half an hour. Kiryu tells Yuko to go back to the village, to gather everyone, make them start a search party or something while he keeps looking for her brother (the only things he'll find are the pendant he's gifted to Nishiki with the leather cord torn and the broken shards of his own hope). They never find him.

A year goes by and they hold a funeral for Nishikiyama Akira. Even though there's no body for them to bury. Yuko doesn't cry (she doesn't believe he's really dead). Neither does Kiryu (he used all of his tears up that night, the guilt choking him, and the night after that, and the night after that, and the night-). Yumi does, however. And the nice old lady who gave both Nishiki and Kiryu money for helping her do chores around the house. And the man who gave Nishikiyama a part-time job at his shop (to put at least something towards the cost of his sister's treatment, he felt so indebted to Kazama, and that debt weighed down on him). And a few of the girls and boys from Sunflower too.

Another two years pass. Kiryu moves away to the big city at the behest of Kazama. "It's important for you to continue your education," he says. ("It's important for you to move on," he keeps these words to himself). Kiryu really tries his best. Even makes a few friends (although he's still on the fence about whether he can actually call Oda his friend). It goes as well as it could have considering his circumstances. They say that time heals but Kazuma Kiryu never finds out if there's any truth to those words because he recieves a very short letter - an invitation, actually. To another funeral. But this time it's Yuko they're burying. This time they actually have a body to bury.

Tachibana offers his condolences. Oda offers him a ride to the village and back. Kiryu accepts both.

He can't help but compare this funeral to the last one he's been to. There are fewer people. Fewer tears, too. More flowers. It's quieter and feels something like closure (in truth, it's anything but). Yuko also left behind a will (more like a bunch of wishes since it wasn't an official document but the community decided to honour them anyway). Almost all of her possessions went to the kids from Sunflower, except for the Nishikiyama family house (which on paper actually belonged to Shintaro Kazama) which she left to Kiryu. He can't quite believe it when he hears it and feels his heart break under the onslaught of childhood memories. Still, he goes there later that evening. He finds that little has changed in the time he spent away from the house, from the village, from... all of this, really. There are the same pictures on the walls collecting only slightly less dust. The same books on the shelves and under the broken legs of the old pieces of furniture. The same medicine bottles and equipment in the bedroom, though doubled in quantity. Kiryu's not as devastated as he thought he'd be when he walks around what he used to call his home.

He goes through all the rooms, taking notes of every single thing he finds and every single thing he doesn't. He probably misses a bunch of things (he's not as good at that sort of thing, Nishiki's always had a much better eye for details). Once back outside, he looks for the secret stash they made back when they were teenagers. It's like going through a time capsule. There's a pack of cigarettes he and Nishiki once stole from the teacher's bag, copybooks filled with ugly doodles, dreams for the future and dried flowers and leaves, caps from soda bottles, rocks they thought looked cool, photos and birthday cards damaged by time and weather... the pendant Kiryu gave to Nishiki the last time they saw each other. And a small notebook Kiryu's never seen before. A diary of sorts, a recounting of their days together and their days apart. The handwriting is unmistakingly Yuko's.

It fills him with nostalgia, tears welling up in his eyes, unshed. His heart sinks when he finally reaches the pages where Yuko recounts the last few weeks before she-

She writes about her brother, which is understandable. What's less understandable is the fact that she speaks of him as though he was there, with her. Physically present. Kiryu could chalk it up to the girl being delusional in her dying moments but it doesn't feel right to do so. It's stupid, it's absolutely impossible, he's confused, he's hopeful, why would Yuko hide her notebook there?

The last page. A message. For Kiryu. "Please, Kazuma-kun, help my brother".

Against his better judgement, Kiryu decides to spend the night in the house. Sleep doesn't come to him but that's fine. He sits in the living room, trying to make sense of everything. He sits there until it's way past midnight, until the distant barking of the dogs quiets down, until the rustling of leaves stops, until the very air around him grows still and silent and somehow charged with strange energy. And then he hears it. Three uncertain taps against the window. Kiryu turns his head. It's him.

"Kiryu... Let me in. Please."

He does, without thinking. (He could never very well say no to Nishiki. Even if it got them both in trouble. Even if he's not real.)

The quiet is deafening. It really is him. His best friend (whom he thought dead). His kyoudai. Before Nishiki could say anything, Kiryu wraps him in a tight hug. The only heartbeat between them is Kiryu's own, thundering against his ribs. Nishikiyama doesn't let the hug last, putting some distance between them. He looks guilty, tired; looks at Kiryu with sadness, with longing and something else that he can't quite decipher yet (and it makes him scared but why?). Nishiki also looks older than Kiryu remembers. Not a 17-year-old boy anymore, no. About the same age that Kiryu is now.

Has his gaze always been so sharp? Have his fangs always been this pronounced?

They talk until their throats are hoarse. Until Nishiki pulls out a bottle with some liquid that smells strongly of iron and drinks from it and in that moment Kiryu believes everything his friend has told him. It's crazy, but he does.

Nishiki was abducted that night. Taken from them. By vampires. They hurt him. Forced him to fight other humans (just like him then) for his survival. They fed on him.

It went on and on and on... Days turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into years. Only thoughts of Yuko, and Kiryu, and Yumi kept him going. He wanted to see them again. He hoped he would. That hope was crushed when Nishikiyama met his match in the arena. No, not his match. Someone far stronger. He lost and was tossed out to die. But another vampire saved him. It was a woman, whose face he saw often among the spectators of his fights. She stood out from the crowd, since she never cheered for any of the humans. Never put any bets. Only looked at all that madness with quiet horror. "Reina" she said her name was.

She gave Nishiki blood. Her own blood, and the blood of the vampires that were much stronger and more powerful than her (but not wiser), and human blood.

He turned and it was even worse than the years of anguish he had experienced. The pain and constant thirst almost drove him mad until he was taught to deal with them.

Nishiki was given a second chance. He escaped. And ever since that moment he's been trying his damndest to help other victims of those monsters. Both, the poor imprisoned souls and the villagers who might have shared his fate otherwise.

THAT CONCLUDES MY MAD RAMBLINGS BECAUSE I HAVEN'T THOUGHT OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT THAT WELL

also i don't remember the last time i wrote this much in one sitting and i'm tireeeeeed. i'm not cut out to be a writer and it shows nghghghhhhhh

but! but! but! i have a couple thoughts on where the story goes:

kiryu decides to stay in the village and help nishiki

they uncover the vampires evil plans and recruit a few other characters to fight on the side of JUSTICE (i.e. kazama, who up to that point has been kind of in cahoots with the vamps - hence trying to atone by means of creating the Sunflower orphanage; kashiwagi; yumi; reina; tachibana and oda; majima, and yeah he was actually the one that defeatead nishiki and unknowingly caused him to become a vampire, also majima himself turns into a vampire later in the story thanks to a certain mad simp nishitani)

yuko comes back as a vampire

at some point the scene from my fanart happens; something along the lines of kiryu and nishiki being found by the evil vamps and being attacked. then of course nishiki saves kiryu (who's still baffled that this shit is happening to them and vampires are REAL) and tells him to run which he doesn't but it works out fine in the end

the scene of nishiki drinking kiryu's blood is a MUST because i. love. that. shit. (it's also extremely horny dfjvhsdkfhiasdfhisd)

nishiki's personality is somewhere in between his ykz0 and ykz k*wami self (like, he's much colder now but he still cares about others and does things not just for the sake of his own ambition)

idk about the end but immortal boyfriends? sounds nice?

#i'm so sorry anon this took so long #i went to bed and slept for like 12 hours and then my neck and back were really bothering me ghjklkjljfkjg #i had to take a few smoke breaks along the way #writing shit is hard #OKAY I'M DONE WITH EXCUSES SORRYYYYY #nishikiryu #yakuza #vampire!au #ask

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magic-and-moonlit-wings · 3 years

Text

Chapter 55: Movie Night

Lots of quotes from the movie Lilo & Stitch ahead! Fewer quotes, but some, from Trolls and Frozen.

Bold italics are trollish, ~tildes~ indicate goblin.

Content warnings for this chapter: Swearing. Here we reach the story's first F-bomb.

Also, there is some talk between characters about the harshness of life in the Darklands, how Changelings are treated by the Gumm-Gumms, and mentions of cannibalism.

This was supposed to be a light-happy chapter that got feels-y at the end, but then it went and got all dark on me.

Oh, also-also, (Not) Enrique finds out Claire flirted with Jim a while ago and misinterprets what exactly happened between them, but that gets cleared up fast.

Becoming The Mask

Once again, Javier and Ophelia Nuñez were out for the evening, leaving Claire in charge of Enrique. Claire had gotten permission to invite "some friends" over to watch movies. Jim and Toby arrived to find Mary and Darci already there – Jim suspected, like the time he'd 'babysat', that Claire had purposefully asked him to arrive after she knew her parents would be gone.

They set up piles of cushions and blankets on the floor between the couch and the TV. Jim propped the Amulet up on the coffee table they'd pushed to one side. Maybe some of the ghost Trollhunters would be interested in human movies.

"Finally get your fill of the touchy-feelies?" Enrique teased Jim, seeing how they were all seated separately. Jim snorted.

"Not hardly." He pulled the smaller Changeling in for a hug. "Humans just have different rules about casual touching, is all. Freezing to death's not really a concern in this climate."

"Wait, what?" said Toby, dropping the pillow he'd been holding. Jim looked up to see all the humans staring at him.

"Darklands thing," said Enrique easily. "Gets cold there."

"We'd sleep in piles," Jim explained. "I had a bit of a reputation for being … clingy."

"If you weren't good at finding food and soft stuff, we'd never've put up with ya." Enrique proved himself a liar by climbing onto Jim's shoulders instead of jumping back to the floor. He fluffed the hair on Jim's scalp. "Jimmy-boy got his first nickname for that."

"Shut up," said Jim playfully. "Anyway, humans get weird about touching around puberty. I can still hug Mom whenever I want, but Toby gets embarrassed if I hug him around other people, and Claire, Mary, and Darci haven't given me permission to touch them casually yet."

"… Did you … want permission?" asked Claire. "You, kinda, said you were uncomfortable with that, I thought."

"No, it was more wondering if you were flirting with me that felt weird," Jim assured her. "After that conversation I felt like it'd be awkward to bring up that I was open to hugging and such."

Jim thought he felt Enrique growl, to quietly to properly hear. His hand, still in Jim's hair, changed position so the tips of Enrique's claws were on Jim's scalp.

"When exactly did this happen?" Enrique asked.

"Claire kissed Jim on the cheek on his birthday and then Jim said he wasn't interested in dating her," said Mary.

"Also that I realized she might not have meant it in a flirty way and if I was misinterpreting things she could ignore what I was saying," Jim added. The claws retreated.

Claire looked away. "So what movie did we want to start with?"

"Lilo & Stitch!" exclaimed Darci, looking through the shelves. "I haven't watched this in forever!"

"That's a good one." Jim tilted his head to get Enrique back in his peripheral vision. "Enrique, have you seen it yet?"

"… Yeah."

"Isn't that the one that always makes you cry?" asked Toby.

"It's beautiful. Of course I cry."

Stitch was a constructed 'abomination', who shapeshifted to blend in, and his adopted family found out what he truly was and still wanted him. How could Jim be expected to keep his composure in the face of that?

"So, quick question," said Jim. "Is talking during the movie a crime, or is commentary what makes it a group activity?"

"Commentary," said all three girls together.

"Okay, good." Jim and Toby usually talked during movies, unless one or both of them were seeing it for the first time. Sometimes even then.

+=+

"Not guilty! My experiments are only theoretical, and completely within legal boundaries."

"We believe you actually created something."

"Created something? Ha! But that would be irresponsible, and, unethical. I would never, ever – make more than one."

"What is that monstrosity?"

"Monstrosity?! What you see before you is the first of a new species!"

"You have to wonder if she and Merlin ever had a talk like this," Enrique muttered in Jim's ear. Jim snickered.

"And as for that abomination … it is the flawed product of a deranged mind. It has no place among us."

Jim stopped laughing and cringed. He loved this movie a lot, but some of it stung.

+=+

"A quiet capture would require an understanding of 626 that we do not possess! Who, then, Mr Pleakley, would you send for his extraction?"

"… Does he have a brother? Close grandmother, perhaps?"

"Fun fact," said Darci, "in early drafts Stitch was a career criminal and Jumba was an old accomplice."

"Friendly cousin? Neighbour with a beard?"

+=+

"Surely the teacher won't notice I was late if he doesn't see me come in!" Claire narrated sarcastically.

+=+

"I'm sorry, Scrump!" Mary wailed, as Lilo ran back to retrieve the doll she'd angrily thrown aside.

+=+

"Let me illuminate to you the precarious situation in which you have found yourself. I am the one they call when things go wrong. And things have indeed gone wrong."

"As a cook, that kitchen horrifies me," said Jim.

+=+

"If you promise not to fight anymore, I promise not to yell at you – except on special occasions."

"Tuesdays and bank holidays would be good."

The entire group cracked up.

"How does kid Lilo's age even know what a bank holiday is?" said Claire. "I don't even know what a bank holiday is!"

"Maybe she saw it printed on a calendar?" said Toby.

+=+

A raindrop fell on Stitch's head. He fired his ray gun into the sky. It started raining, hard.

"Oh, no, I broke the sky!" Darci cried.

+=+

"Does it have to be this dog?"

"He survived getting hit by a truck, how much more sturdy and not-gonna-die do you want?" asked Jim.

"Yes. He's good. I can tell."

+=+

"I'm sorry I bit you. And pulled your hair. And punched you in the face."

Mary nudged Claire. "Remind you of anyone?"

Like sunflowers, everyone else popped up and turned towards them.

Claire blushed. "We got into a fight in first grade and for like two days we decided we didn't want to be friends anymore, then our moms made us say sorry."

"He will be irresistibly drawn to large cities, where he will back up sewers, reverse street signs, and steal everyone's left shoe."

"It's weird they get in trouble for everything but this," commented Enrique. "Human grown ups might not believe a dog stole a trike, but wouldn't they think Lilo did it? She's fought the other kid before."

"It's nice to live on an island with no large cities."

+=+

"It's not an angel, Lilo, I don't even think it's a dog!"

"Isn't that the rolling thing Draal can do?" said Toby.

"Yeah, more or less," said Jim. "I mean, I don't think Draal bites his feet – but maybe that's the trick."

"At least with those stick legs you've got," said Enrique. He curled into a ball and rolled in a circle around the group. "Face it, you're out of proportion for this move."

+=+

"626 was designed to be a monster. But now, there is nothing to destroy. You see, I never gave him a greater purpose. What must it be like, to have nothing? Not even memories to visit, in the middle of the night?"

"Now, this next bit I don't care for," said Jim. "The Ugly Duckling is a messed-up story."

"What've you got against The Ugly Duckling?" asked Mary.

"The blatant segregationist propaganda? 'A swan will never fit in with ducks and everyone is better off sticking with their own kind'. You don't even have to read it as a race metaphor. Between that and The Little Mermaid, I thought for while that Hans Christian Anderson was a Changeling writing cautionary tales about why we shouldn't get attached to humans."

"… Was he?" asked Claire.

"Probably not. I couldn't find any real evidence and the rest of his work doesn't match the pattern."

"Counterpoint," said Darci. "The Ugly Duckling is pro-integration. Everyone thought he was an ugly duckling because they didn't know what swans look like. If he'd grown up with ducks and swans around, they could've judged him for what he was instead of what he couldn't measure up to, and he might've had a happy childhood instead of only finding a community that accepted him as an adult."

Jim considered this, and nodded. "I guess I can see that, too."

+=+

"Heard you lost your job."

"Well, uh, actually, I just quit. That job. Because, you know, the hours are just not conducive to the challenges of raising a child –"

"Nani, no!" Jim begged. "I know almost nothing about Social Services but I'm pretty sure choosing to leave your only source of income looks worse to them than just losing it!"

"Thus far you have been adrift in the sheltered harbour of my patience; but I cannot ignore you being jobless. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly."

"And next time I see this dog, I expect it to be a model citizen. Capiche?"

"Uh … yes?"

"New job. Model citizen. Good day."

+=+

"So, we saw Cobra on the beach after all the tourists got scared off … D'you think he was just standing there watching them the whole time?" Mary wondered out loud after the surfing sequence.

+=+

"Until we meet again …"

Lilo was about to tell Stitch about her parents. Without thinking, Jim grabbed the remote – on the coffee table, next to the amulet – to fast forward.

"What are you doing?" Darci cried. "This is one of the big emotional turning points of the film!"

Jim paused it. "Sorry. Uh … Tobes and I usually skip this scene."

"I think I can handle it," Toby assured Jim. To the girls and Enrique, he explained, "My parents died in a storm when I was two. A cruise ship, not a car accident. I got kind of upset the first time we watched this as kids, and, we got in the habit fast forwarding this part. I think I'm okay with it now."

"You're sure?" asked Jim.

"I'm sure."

"Okay …" He rewound to the point where he'd started fast forwarding.

"That's us before. It was rainy, and they went for a drive. What happened to yours?"

Jim watched Toby more than the movie for the next few minutes.

"I'll remember you, though. I remember everyone that leaves."

"Do you remember them?" Claire asked quietly.

"Only the stuff Nana tells me." Toby shrugged, and readjusted the cushions he'd propped up his arms on. "I've seen lots of pictures. A couple home movies."

+=+

"Don't run. Don't make me shoot you. You were expensive. Yes, yes, that's it, come quietly."

"I'm … waiting."

"For what?"

"Family."

"Ah. You don't have one. I made you."

"Maybe … I could –"

"You were built to destroy. You can never belong."

Jim blinked fast to keep the tears back. He sniffed, and pulled the blankets more tightly around him.

+=+

"Okay, talk! I know you had something to do with this, now where's Lilo? Talk! I know you can."

"Claire?" said Mary. "You okay?"

Jim looked over. Claire's jaw was clenched, and her hands were tight on the blanket, and her eyes were huge and fixed on the screen, and she was shaking.

"Ah … maybe the little sib getting snatched by otherworldly forces wasn't the best movie choice," Enrique said. He reached out like he was about to go to Claire, then pulled back his hand and hunkered down where he was.

"LILO! She's a little girl this big, she has black hair and brown eyes, and she hangs around with that THING!"

"I'm. Fine," Claire insisted.

"You're sure?"

"We can just fast forward."

"I said I'm fine!"

"Okay …"

Mary and Darci each scooted their blanket and cushion piles closer to Claire's, bracketing her on either side. Jim tactfully retreated to the Nuñezes kitchen to microwave a few more bags of popcorn. Enrique went with him. They could still hear the TV.

"What? After all you put me through, you expect me to help you just like that? Just like that?!"

"Ih."

"Fine."

"Fine? You're doing what he says?"

"Ah, he is very persuasive."

"Is it normal to feel bad for her?" Enrique asked.

"I think so? It's an awkward situation for both of you." Jim selected the white cheddar flavour. "But it's not like there's an alternative. You're not a polymorph. And really, the only reason she's upset is because she found out."

The Nuñezes had the same microwave as the Lakes. Jim didn't find the popcorn setting especially useful for this brand of popcorn – it tended to burn a third of the kernels– so he used the timer instead.

"I never apologized to you for that, did I?" Jim asked.

"It wasn't all your fault."

"Still, I'm sorry for my part in getting you caught."

The Changelings got back to the living room in time to see the unfortunate tourist lose his ice cream for the third time.

+=+

"Does Stitch have to go in the ship?"

"Yes."

"Can Stitch say goodbye?"

"… Yes."

Like he always did during this scene, Jim cried. He let himself do it this time.

+=+

"Wait, how is Little Mermaid a cautionary tale?" asked Enrique during the credits. The camera panned over a photo of Stitch reading to a flock of ducklings. "For getting attached, I mean. I thought the moral of that one was to control yer temper and be careful who you made deals with?"

"Sure, the Disney version," said Jim. "They adapted it to make a more dramatic, less depressing story. And give the characters names. In the older version, the sea witch is actually a neutral character. The terms of the mermaid's transformation are that she's traded her tongue for legs, but walking on land hurts, and she'll become fully human if the prince marries her, but if he marries anybody else, she'll die."

"That doesn't sound neutral."

"Wait for it. The prince gets engaged to a human princess, so the mermaid's older sisters trade their hair to the sea witch for a magic knife and a loophole; if the little mermaid kills the prince before the wedding, she can turn back into a mermaid and survive."

"Kay, I see it now."

"Except she doesn't go through with the kill, so she dies, and because she wasn't really human, she doesn't have a proper soul, so her spirit's not allowed to go to Heaven."

"… Whoa."

"I know, right?"

"I mean," Mary commented, "not murdering somebody is kind of a low bar for moral decency. It's not as if the prince owed her anything just because she was attracted to him."

"No, no, whether the prince deserved to die or not is irrelevant," said Jim. "The point is that the mermaid had a chance to, objectively, trade one life for another, and because she was attached to the particular person she'd have to kill, she didn't prioritize her own survival, and therefore suffered."

"Wouldn't the guilt of murder have caused suffering anyway?" Toby pointed out.

"Not if she wasn't attached," Jim insisted. How were they not getting this? "If she could've just cut the throat of any random human, she'd've been fine. The moral of the story is that caring about people causes pain. That's what makes it depressing."

"Do you like any fairy tales?" asked Darci.

"Sure. Just not most of Anderson's work."

"What should we watch next?" said Claire hospitably. "If we're on a 'sister movies' theme, I've got Frozen."

"Isn't that one also based on an Anderson fairy tale?" said Mary.

"Not really," said Jim. "The Snow Queen was more 'inspiration' than 'source material'. Elsa never kidnaps anyone, and they left out the broken enchanted mirror. Plus it's fun to see all the different ways humans think trolls are like."

"We also have the Trolls movie," said Claire. "I haven't watched it yet. My dad got it for Mom's birthday because she used to collect the dolls."

"I haven't seen that one yet, either," Darci commented.

"Should we?" said Mary. "Any other votes?"

"I'm game for whatever," said Toby. "This one's a musical, right? Those are always fun."

Jim squirmed.

He hadn't watched this movie despite his curiosity, after an online clip of the opening had explained the premise. Getting eaten alive was his greatest fear. Did he want to watch a movie about trolls narrowly avoiding being eaten? Did he want to explain why he didn't want to watch it?

While he debated, the movie got put in.

"Once upon a time, in a happy forest, in the happiest tree, lived the happiest creatures the world has ever known: the trolls. They loved nothing more than to sing, and dance, and hug, and dance and hug and sing and dance and sing and hug –"

Enrique started laughing.

Oh, shit, Jim hadn't warned him.

"Uh, Enrique –"

"Ssh! This is ridiculous. I mean, the huggy bit's kind of like you, but the rest of it – ha!"

"But then one day, the trolls were discovered by – a Bergen!"

"The trolls are gonna –"

"Ji-im! Spoilers!" Toby hissed.

"They were the most miserable creatures in all the land."

Jim grabbed Enrique and covered his eyes. The smaller Changeling yelped and squirmed. Jim switched forms so his fingers wouldn't bleed from the clawing.

Enrique got his eyes uncovered just in time to see the Bergen flick a troll into its mouth.

The onscreen troll's exclamation of "Oh my god!" was drowned out by Enrique's much more lurid cursing.

"What the –?" The girls and Toby all turned to stare. Claire pointed at Enrique accusingly. "I knew that didn't mean 'I'm sorry'!"

"The hell kinda movie is this?! Why would you watch this?!" He twisted to look at Jim, who let go of him rather than risk yanking his scruff by accident. "You knew?!"

"I saw a bit of it on the internet when it first came out. That's why I froze up when Claire suggested it."

That … that was the wrong thing to say. Enrique rounded on Claire. A techno-rock cover of In The Hall Of The Mountain King boomed from the movie soundtrack.

"Why in FUCK'S NAME would you think we'd WANT to watch trolls get EATEN? Is this some kind of threat?"

"How the fuck would it be a threat?" Claire shot back, stealing some cushions from Mary to prop herself up taller without getting out of her blanket cocoon.

"Most Changelings –" Jim started to say.

"DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I'VE ALMOST BEEN EATEN?" Enrique roared. "I DON'T! CAUSE IT'S A LOT!"

"We've all had close calls," Jim finished. "Nyarlagroths, Hellheetis, goblins if you catch them in the wrong mood, Gruesomes if you're already hurt, Stalklings, and it's a … popular threat from Gumm-Gumms."

"You forgot the sloorbeasts," said Enrique bitterly.

"Nobody's gotten lichen patches that bad." At least, they hadn't when Jim got out. "Have they?"

"Still counts."

"Uh, excuse me." Toby raised his hand. "I think I speak for us all when I say, what?"

"The Darklands are a hostile environment with predators and scavengers," explained Jim. "That's the other reason we slept in groups."

"Bigger targets, but we could have lookouts."

"Okay, that's its own kind of horrifying, but I was more reacting to the cannibalism?"

"Changelings don't count as real trolls," Enrique said sarcastically. "We're Impure."

He left out the part where they'd eaten their own dead. Jim didn't add it.

(It wasn't like they'd hunted each other for food. Sometimes a Changeling just died, somehow, in a way that didn't get them eaten by something else, and … well, food was scarce in the Darklands. They couldn't afford to be picky.

It also paid to keep watch over the sentry posts. Gunmar occasionally used the Decimaar Blade to post a sentry and then forgot to order them to rest and eat. Once they died, the average adult Gumm-Gumm was a meal for twenty Changelings, easily, if they could get to the body before the Gruesomes did.)

"Okay, we're switching to Frozen." Mary made the executive decision. "Wait," she said, while exchanging the disks. "If Changelings aren't trolls, how does Jim's adoption work?"

Because of course this was the perfect moment to tell Enrique about that, right in the middle of a squabble with his adopted sister.

"For one thing, most of Trollmarket still thinks I'm human." Jim switched back to human shape to illustrate the point.

"You got adopted?"

"AAARRRGGHH and Blinky thought I should have legal standing in Trollmarket outside of my job."

Enrique stared at him. Green diamond-shaped ears were pinned back. Buggy, slit-pupil eyes were wide and hurt.

"You get everything," he grumbled. "Two nicknames, and the goblins liked you, and you could always find food, and here you're the boss's favourite even when you're a traitor, and your human family still likes you, and now you get a troll family too? S'not fair."

"Hey, the goblins liked you, too." Jim was fully aware that wasn't much comfort compared to all the rest of it. "They gave you your nickname, remember?"

"They gave you one, too."

"Yeah, but you got yours first."

They probably weren't supposed to hear Darci when she muttered, "I feel like we're missing a lot of context."

"Shit," Claire muttered back. "Not Enrique told me a bit of the name part. They don't remember their names from before they were Changelings, and they don't get real names until they have Familiars, so they use nicknames instead. From each other or from goblins, he said."

"They don't get names?" Darci's voice went squeaky at the end of that.

"We're trying to come up with something other than 'Enrique' for him."

"You're trying," Enrique corrected. Darci squeaked again.

"Can we maybe circle back to the cannibalism thing?" said Toby. "That feels like the kind of trauma that should get unpacked at some point."

"I would rather leave it packed," said Jim.

"The way you blurted it out like that feels like you need to talk about it."

"Not all psychology is Freudian, Tobes."

"Do your parents still have baby name books from when they were picking Enrique's name?" Mary asked Claire. "Real Enrique, I mean."

"They didn't use one. He was named after our abuelo."

"Okay, so what about your other grandfather? What was his name?"

"Jose María." Defensively, "It's gender neutral in Spanish."

On the television screen, the movie menu finished another loop and started again.

"I tried spelling my name like it sounds, en are ee kay, but Claire said it spelled 'Nrek'. You get why I couldn't use that."

Jim laughed.

"What's funny?" asked Toby. "Is that an insult or something?"

"No, it's goblin, in English it means 'bottle'," Jim translated. "Or possibly 'container of food'." The only bottles he's seen them use held formula for the Familiars, and the word hadn't come up on the surface, so the distinction was unclear. "It's either a silly name or a really morbid one."

"Aaand we're back to the cannibalism."

"No we are not!"

"Na na na heyana, Hahiyaha naha …"

Either somebody had decided to start the movie, or the DVD had that feature where it automatically began playing if nothing was selected after a few loops of the menu.

The conversation went in circles a couple more times, then faded out.

+=+

"And who's the funky-looking donkey over there?"

"That's Sven."

"Uh-huh; and who's the reindeer?"

"… Sven."

"Oh, they're – ? Oh! Okay! Makes things easier for me."

"~Riot~," said Enrique.

"Huh?"

"My nickname. Before. It meant 'riot'."

What are you doing? Jim wanted to demand. Was Enrique just – just giving up on a real name?

"You can call me that for now. Till we work out a for-real one. Better than 'Not Enrique'."

Jim stuffed some burnt popcorn kernels into his mouth to keep from protesting. He couldn't undermine Enrique's – Riot's – chosen name, right in front of a bunch of humans, when he'd been arguing with them about how rude that was for weeks now.

"Oh. Okay." Claire half-smiled. "Riot."

Jim shut his eyes to hide the flaring glow.

+=+

Previous Chapter (Angor Rot gets treated much better, and more sensibly, than in canon, and is correspondingly less vengeful)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (Featuring either Otto or Gatto)

A quick thank you to Taycin on AO3 for providing some name-gender context when this chapter first went up.

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reachexceedinggrasp · 3 years

Note

Would love to hear about your beefs with Lucas because I have beefs with Lucas

(Sorry it took me three thousand years to answer this, anon.)

They mainly fall under a few headings, with the third being the most serious and the thing that I am genuinely irl furious about at least biannually (and feeling unable to adequately sum up The Problem with it after yelling about it so often is a huge part of why this post has been in my drafts for such a long time):

1. His self-mythologising and the subsequent uncritical repetition of his bullshit in the fandom. Obvious lies like that he had some master plan for 10 films when it’s clear he did not have anything like a plot outline at any point. We all know the thing was written at the seat of various people’s pants, it’s blatantly self-evident that’s the case. There’s also plenty of public record about how the OT was written. Even dumber, more obvious lies, like that Anakin was ‘always the protagonist’ and the entire 6 films were his story from the beginning. This is preposterous and every time someone brings it up (usually with palpable smugness) as fanboys ‘not understanding star wars’ because they don't get that ‘the OT is not Luke's story’... Yeah, I just... I cannot.

Vader wasn’t Anakin Skywalker until ESB, it’s a retcon. It’s a brilliant retcon and it works perfectly, it elevated SW into something timeless and special it otherwise would not have been, but you can tell it wasn’t the original plan and there’s proof it wasn’t the original plan. Let’s not pretend. And Luke is the protagonist. No amount of waffling about such esoteric flights of theory as ‘ring structure’ is going to get away from the rigidly orthodox narrative and the indisputable fact that it is Luke’s hero’s journey. Vader’s redemption isn’t about his character development (he has almost none) and has no basis in any kind of convincing psychological reality for his character, but it doesn’t need to be because it’s part of Luke’s arc, because Vader is entirely a foil in Luke’s story. It’s a coming-of-age myth about confronting and growing beyond the father.

All attempts to de-centre Luke in RotJ just break the OT’s narrative logic. It’s a character-driven story and the character driving is Luke. Trying to read it as Anakin’s victory, the moral culmination of his choices rather than Luke’s and putting all the agency into Anakin’s hands just destroys the trilogy’s coherence and ignores most of its content in favour of appropriating a handful of scenes into an arc existing only in the prequels. The dilemma of RotJ is how Luke will define ethical adulthood after learning and growing through two previous films worth of challenge, education, failure, and triumph; it’s his choice to love his father and throw down his sword which answers the question the entire story has been asking. Vader’s redemption and the restoration of the galaxy are the consequences of that choice which tell us what kind of world we’re in, but the major dramatic conflict was resolved by Luke’s decision not the response to it.

And, just all over, the idea of Lucas as an infallible auteur is inaccurate and annoying to me. Obviously he’s a tremendous creative force and we wouldn’t have sw without him, but he didn’t create it alone or out of whole cloth. The OT was a very collaborative effort and that’s why it’s what it is and the prequels are what they are. Speaking of which.

2. The hubris of the prequels in general and all the damage their many terrible, protected-from-editors choices do to the symbolic fabric of the sw universe. Midicholrians, Yoda fighting with a lightsabre, Obi-wan as Anakin's surrogate father instead of his peer, incoherent and unmotivated character arcs, the laundry list of serious and meaningful continuity errors, the bad storytelling, the bad direction, the bad characterisation, the shallowness of the parallels which undermine the OT’s imagery, the very clumsy and contradictory way the A/P romance was handled, the weird attitude to romance in general, it goeth on. I don’t want to re-litigate the entire PT here and I’m not going to, but they are both bad as films and bad as prequels. The main idea of them, to add Anakin’s pov and create an actual arc for him as well as to flesh out the themes of compassion and redemption, was totally appropriate. The concept works as a narrative unit, there are lots of powerful thematic elements they introduce, they have a lot of cool building blocks, it’s only in execution and detail that they do a bunch of irreparable harm.

But the constant refrain that only ageing fanboys don’t like them and they only don’t like them because of their themes or because they humanise Anakin... can we not. The shoddy film making in the prequels is an objective fact. If you want to overlook the bad parts for the good or prioritise ideas over technique, that’s fine, but don’t sit here and tell me they’re masterworks of cinema there can be no valid reason to criticise. I was the exact right age for them when I saw them, I am fully on board with the fairy tale nature of sw, I am fully on board with humanising Anakin- the prequels just have a lot of very big problems with a) their scripts and b) their direction, especially of dialogue scenes. If Lucas had acknowledged his limitations like he did back in the day instead of believing his own press, he could have again had the help he obviously needed instead of embarrassing himself.

3. Killing and suppressing the original original trilogy. I consider the fact that the actual original films are not currently available in any form, have never been available in an archival format, and have not been presented in acceptable quality since the VHS release a very troubling case study in the problems of corporate-owned art. LF seizing prints of the films whenever they are shown, destroying the in-camera negatives to make the special editions with no plans to restore them, and doing all in the company’s considerable power to suppress the original versions is something I consider an act of cultural vandalism. The OT defined a whole generation of Hollywood. It had a global impact on popular entertainment. ANH is considered so historically significant it was one of the first films added to the US Library of Congress (Lucas refused to provide even them with a print of the theatrical release, so they made their own viewable scan from the 70s copyright submission).

The fact that the films which made that impact cannot be legally accessed by the public is offensive to me. The fact that Lucas has seen fit to dub over or composite out entire performances (deleting certain actors from the films), to dramatically alter the composition of shots chosen by the original directors, to radically change the entire stylistic tone by completely reinventing the films’ colour timing in attempt to make them match the plasticy palate of the prequels, to shoot new scenes for movies he DID NOT DIRECT, add entire sequences or re-edit existing sequences to the point of being unrecognisable etc. etc. is NOT OKAY WITH ME when he insists that his versions be the ONLY ones available.

I’m okay with the Special Editions existing, though I think they’re mostly... not good... but I’m not okay with them replacing the original films. And all people can say is ‘well, they’re his movies’.

Lucas may have clear legal ownership in the capitalistic sense, but in no way does he have clear artistic ownership. Forget the fans, I’m not one of those people who argue the fans are owed something: A film is always a collaborative exercise and almost never can it be said that the end product is the ultimate responsibility and possession of one person. Even the auteur directors aren't the sole creative vision, even a triple threat like Orson Welles still had cinematographers and production designers, etc. Hundreds of artists work on films. Neither a writer nor a director (nor one person who is both) is The Artist behind a film the way a novelist is The Artist behind a novel. And Lucas did NOT write the screenplays for or direct ESB or RotJ. So in what sense does he have a moral right to alter those films from what the people primarily involved in making them deemed the final product? In what sense would he have the right to make a years-later revision the ONLY version even if he WERE the director?

Then you get into the issue of the immeasurable cultural impact those films had in their original form and the imperative to preserve something that is defining to the history of film and the state of the zeitgeist. I don't think there is any ‘fan entitlement’ involved in saying the originals belonged to the world after being part of its consciousness for decades and it is doing violence to the artistic record to try to erase the films which actually occupied that space. It's exactly like trying to replace every copy of It's a Wonderful Life with a colourised version (well, it's worse but still), and that was something Lucas himself railed against. It’s like if Michaelangelo were miraculously resuscitated and he decided to repaint the Sistine Ceiling to add a gunfight and change his style to something contemporary.

I get genuinely very upset at the cold reality that generations of people are watching sw for the first time and it’s the fucking SE-except-worse they’re seeing. And as fewer people keep physical media and the US corporate oligarchy continues to perform censorship and rewrite history on its streaming services unchecked by any kind of public welfare concerns, you’ll see more and more ‘real Mandela effect’ type shit where the cultural record has suddenly ‘always’ been in line with whatever they want it to be just now. And US media continues to infect us all with its insidious ubiquity. I think misrepresenting and censoring the past is an objectively bad thing and we can’t learn from things we pretend never happened, but apparently not many people are worried about handing the keys to our collective experience to Disney and Amazon.

4. The ‘Jedi don’t marry’ thing and how he wanted this to continue with Luke post-RotJ, so it’s obviously not meant to be part of what was wrong with the order in the prequels. I find this... incoherent on a storytelling level. The moral of the anidala story then indeed becomes just plain ‘romantic love is bad and will make you crazy’, rather than the charitable reading of the prequels which I ascribe to, which is that the problem isn’t Anakin’s love for Padmé, it’s that he ceased to love her and began to covet her. And I can’t help but feel this attitude is maybe an expression of GL’s issues with women following his divorce. I don’t remember if there’s evidence to contradict that take, since it’s been some time since I read about this but yeah. ANH absolutely does sow seeds for possible Luke/Leia development and GL was still married while working on that film. Subsequently he was dead set against Luke ever having a relationship and decided Jedi could not marry. Coincidence?

There’s a lot of blinking red ‘issues with women’ warning signs all over Lucas’s work, but the prequels are really... egregious.

#sw #salt #more unhinged rambling #anyway dowload the despecialised editions #unsubscribe from Disney+#be free #usually we'd be having a big family thing for Boxing Day but you know #so God bless us all at home separately #I hope everyone had as happy a Christmas as possible in keeping with the situation #I should see if I can drag my brother outside to build a snowman

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fatbottombucky · 4 years

Text

A Past Life Pt.2 *Geralt of Rivia x Reader*

Summary: could you write a female reader x Geralt who has PTSD due to past abuse and he accidentally triggers a flashback. It’s okay if you feel uncomfortable writing this, thank you for your time

Characters: Geralt & Jaskier

Pairings: Geralt x [F]Reader

Warnings: [PG-13] Mentions of mental and physical abuse. Mentions of rape and people turning the other cheek. Geralt helps Reader gain her confidence back and it’s super fluffy.

Word Count: 3385 - yeah, I went... just... yeah.

Note: Part two. In this part Reader, along with Jaskier and Geralt, travels back to her village. Along the way, Reader tells Geralt of her past life, it doesn’t get graphic or anything but sensitive topics are talked about. I’m not going to do a 3rd part, this has sort of inspired an actual series called ‘Journey To The Past’ that I’m currently writing. So, unfortunately, this is the last instalment.

Part One Here

}}}}}}}This is still being edited, I just wanted to post it because you’ve all waited long enough lmao {{{{{

The journey to Woesong Bridge was a long one, the one you didn’t think you’d ever make again. When you left, in the dead of night, you had sworn to yourself to never return there. It was a vile village, full of people worthy of forgetting.

It hadn’t always been bad, in fact, you’d grown up believing that you wouldn’t leave. That you’d spend your days there like your own mother has done. The world was cruel and vast, easy to get lost and much easier to get killed. You felt safe and comforted in your village, till it became worse than any story a traveller told you about the world.

“What’re you going to do once we arrive?” Jaskier asked suddenly, you glanced up and looked at him through the fire that Geralt had lit. “When we arrive at your village, what are you going to do?”

“Honestly,” you begin with a sigh, “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I just know that I need to go back. I suppose see my family, I’m sure they’ve been worried sick about me.”

Jaskier nodded, sensing your discomfort and quickly changed subjects. It wasn’t long before he was passed out on the forest floor, snoring heavily with his face pressed into the roll-up, hand wrapped around his lute in a tight hug.

You watched as the flames crackled, warming your entire body. The orange flames mesmerised you, allowing you to drift but never going too far. Maybe travelling home is a bad idea, what are you going to do once you’re back? What will you do if you see him again?

The crunching of footsteps momentarily alert you, glancing behind you see Geralt making his way back towards where you’re camping for the night; he’s back from doing a quick scan for any monsters or wolves roaming the area. He doesn’t even glance at you as he pets Roach, pulling off his swords and settling them beside his roll-up.

You slowly look away from Geralt, only to watch him again. You heard stories of Witchers as a child, your mother had actually met one a few years before you were even born. Apparently, they couldn’t feel emotions, it made them more receptive to their abilities and lifestyle. You briefly wondered if that was true. If it was, you envied Geralt to an extent, but living a life of nothingness?

“I can hear you thinking,” Geralt’s deep baritone voice snapped you back to reality, he’s sitting now and only a few inches away.

He doesn’t say anything else, only cocks an eyebrow before looking at Jaskier- who is still deeply asleep. He’s so close that you can smell the dirt and woodsy smell of him, you can see the flames flicker in his amber eyes.

“I don’t get how he can sleep so easily out here,” you look around the forest and squint through the brush, “for a bard he sure has no fear.”

Geralt hums in agreement. He pulls out some dried fruit from a pouch, slowly chewing on the rubbery fruits. You debated on telling him what you were thinking, would he take offence? You didn’t want to upset him, all things considered, he is helping you out.

“When I was a child, my mum would tell me stories of Witchers,” you watched Geralt for a reaction, he only grunted, “she met one before I was born. A contract that my grandpa had put out and it got to this Witcher, he helped him with the monster problem, I guess.” That had caught Geralt’s attention, you smiled a little, “she was only ten, at the time. The Witcher stayed in our Inn, free of charge,” you chuckled lightly and Geralt raised an eyebrow, “I quote; ‘The reason why they’re so intimidating is because they have to be scary, to folks and monsters alike. But give em’ some ale and home-cooked food and they’re like any man’.”

Geralt’s lips twitched at that, he nodded once in agreement. If anything your mother said was true, it was that. Geralt may be broody and cold, but give him some warm food and he becomes a little less grumpy around the edges.

“My dad says they don’t have emotions,” Geralt didn’t look at you, but you could sense the eye roll, “but my ma’? She didn’t think it was true. Apparently The Witcher she met, completely different from the tales she was told. He was kind and only took half the coin, times were tough and he could see that.”

“Sounds like a rare sort of Witcher,” you look and see the twitch of his lips, you roll your eyes at him but chuckle, “What are you getting at?”

You exhale and look back at the fire, “I have often thought about if you have emotions along this journey.” You can sense Geralt looking at you, a small hum escaping him, “and if you don’t, that’s fine. But you’ve shown more compassion to me than any of them ever did, shown more kindness than I have ever experienced,” you look at him with a furrowed brow, “that’s crazy, isn’t it? To have received more kindness from a Witcher than my own husband?”

It’s silent between you both. You watching the fire crackle and him watching you briefly, it’s a comfortable silence and it doesn’t have to be filled. You wondered briefly what Geralt was thinking about if maybe you had shared too much with him.

You had made the mistake of oversharing with him a few times along the road home. For some reason, you found it easy to talk to Geralt, perhaps it was because he is a good listener. Maybe it’s because you think he doesn’t actually listen, that’s why you can say anything because he hasn’t actually heard a thing and only pretended to be interested.

“How did you meet him?” A simple question.

“Small village, few people pass through and even fewer ever leave. There are few suitors to pick amongst and most are…” you trail off with a grimace and Geralt lets out an exhale through his nostrils, amused by your distaste towards the men in your village, “then one day a noble man’s son arrived. He was charming and handsome, well, I thought he was because all I had ever known was the men in my village. I’d say differently now. He stayed at the Inn, telling us how he brought some land and would be living there, I suppose we got along and he liked me.”

You fell silent and hugged your knees to your chest. You turned your head, watching Geralt as he slowly chewed on the dried fruit, opting to remain silent as you thought of your next words.

“I did what was necessary for my family,” you muttered quietly and Geralt stopped, looking at you, “I married him, not because he was kind and noble, but because my dad with his charmed words said it benefited us. I could’ve done worse, some Princess’ marry older men, me? A common girl married a young, charming nobleman. I was lucky, he told me, ‘it’s not like you’ll get asked by anyone else’.” The spiteful chuckle escaped you, “At first he was kind, loving even. I thought maybe despite everything, not actually loving him and wanting more from life, I could settle if it meant my family was better off. I was wrong. He’d drink with his friends and become a totally different person, ya’know?” Geralt frowned and nodded once, “I let that slide, drink can make people do stuff they regret… and forget. But then that anger, that hatred it followed him to the morn’ and it never went away.”

You looked back to the fire, lifting a shoulder to shrug as if that’s all.

“Night after night I endured it all. Let him climb on top of me, do what he wanted and prayed it was over quickly,” you couldn’t look at Geralt, the feeling of shame and guilt rising up within you, “but… then he came home with his friends and well- you can imagine the rest. I tried going home but my family, they’d given my room up for extra pay. My ma’ looked so happy, too. Couldn’t ruin it.”

Geralt tilted his head, “you endured all that pain because it kept them happy?” He seemed confused as to why you’d allow that for yourself, “because you didn’t realise that you deserved so much more than all of that.”

He answered himself, but the answer threw you off. You looked at him with raised eyebrows, he only shrugged and grunted, as if that was all he needed to say. Geralt is always so blase that it leaves you speechless; grumpy one moment and sincere the next.

“Also because no one seemed to care, Geralt, no one cared about me enough to help me. I was stuck and alone,” you looked back at him and his amber eyes met your own, “I’d walk my village streets with bruises and scars, no one said a thing and instead turned the other cheek. Plus who could ever love this,” you gestured to yourself, “I was used up, he made it clear that no man would want me now? All these scars are ugly and women are meant to be fragile, dainty and not know of real pain other than childbirth.”

Geralt looked at his hands for a moment, he offers some dried fruit to you, which you gladly accept. “Hm,” it was deep and thoughtful. “I’ve plenty of women who have stories littered across their bodies,” he eyes you for a moment before looking ahead into the fire, “how did you end up leaving?”

“I was done looking for love where it didn’t exist,” you shrugged softly, “one night I got up, threw on some clothes and took all the coin we had in the house and left. I travelled to Velen, Midcopse to be exact. I got work and then brought myself a sword,” you smiled slightly, “I don’t know why something about protecting people and fighting just seemed right. Sorry, I don’t know why I just spilled my entire life story to you just now,” you laughed awkwardly.

He shook his head, “No,” a simple smile almost graced his features, “it’s fine. Admittedly it just makes me want to show your abusive husband what pain is.”

“Witchers don’t get involved,” you reminded him.

“How can I sit by knowing there’s a monster in White Orchard?”

“Y/N?” A voice called with a gasp, “Is that really you?”

The women practically ran at you, throwing her arms around your neck in a tight hug. You almost stumbled backwards from the force, managing to regain balance and wrap your arms around her waist. It took a moment to realise this was your mother; she’d aged so much in the two years you’ve been gone.

“One day you were here,” she pulled away and looked at you, really looked at you, “and the next Cedri is telling us you had up’d and vanished, wherever did you go?”

It was then her eyes drifted to behind you. Jaskier waved enthusiastically from beside Geralt, who looked grumpy as ever. In fact, he hadn’t said a word since you came into view of your village, his eyes turned cold at any man he laid eyes upon and his jaw twitched.

“Is that…” she trailed off and you nodded once, “your father will not like this, not one bit, Y/N.”

She took your hand and dragged you towards the Inn, your friends in tow. Whisperings and mutterings of onlookers, all shocked and baffled to see you, alive and certainly well. You wondered if any rumours were spread that maybe Cidri had killed you, that he had locked you away from the world.

“She’s back!” Your mother yelled into the Inn, catching the attention of every patreon inside, including your father, “I told you she’d return.”

He grunted, a sour face, “Two years,” is all he says to your mother, “it took two years for her to have the decency to tell us she’s alive and fine.”

You glance at Jaskier, who is staring oddly at your father- probably wondering why this man isn’t excited to see you. Looking back at your father he huffed, watching as your mother left the Inn to grab what she had dropped when hugging you.

“You leave in the middle of the night, no note or anythin’ to tell your family where you was going,” he spoke gruffly but quietly in the packed Inn, “only to arrive with two men, one being a Witcher. Have you no shame? Don’t you care about our reputation, word gets out that my daughter left to floozy around with two men-”

You scoffed, “That’s what you think of me?” He crossed his arms over his chest, doesn’t say a word, “And no, I don’t care for your stupid reputation around this dead village. I left because I had no other choice, Cidri was beating me and there was only one end if I stayed with him.”

Your father rolled his eyes, “Stop being dramatic. Every relationship has its moments, you think your mother never got a smack from me?”

Before you respond your mother enters, along with Cidri and you feel your stomach drop. Any bravado and confidence you had quickly left at the sight of him. Hasn’t changed a day; same young face, short hair and no beard.

A big part of you believed you no longer feared him. You had taken on bandits, fought and killed enough with your sword. Heck, you walk around with a Witcher beside you, you, in reality, shouldn’t fear this pathetic man. Yet, as you stand in the Inn, you are floored by the same fear and shame that has always controlled you.

“Didn’t quite believe it,” his smooth voice echoes through the unusually quiet Inn, “Y/N, my wife, is back and with a Witcher.”

It’s silent, you can’t find it within you to look away from him. Fear evident in your eyes, you feel sweat build upon your brow and upper lip, your hands are shaking by your sides. Everything in your mind is telling you to run, to leave and never return, but you can’t seem to move. Stuck. Frozen in place under his stare.

“Nothing to say?” He asked suddenly, “I expected, at most, an apology from you. You had us worried sick-”

The amused ‘hm’ from Geralt stops Cindri from talking. Cidri raises an eyebrow at Geralt, for a brief moment you’re scared for the Witcher. He isn’t invincible or immortal, Cindri knows how to inflict pain and Geralt can certainly feel- no matter what he’d tell you, you knew he had emotions otherwise he wouldn’t have tagged along. What exactly those emotions are, you don’t know.

“If anyone deserves an apology, it’s Y/N,” Jaskier pipes up, surprising you and Geralt, the look of disbelief on your favourite Bards’ face is one you’ll remember forever.

“So, I guess, she told you her story?” You frowned, “of course, she’ll be the victim. I gave her a life of luxury, I paid off her dads' debts so he could run this shithole. I saved her.”

Geralt huffs, “That doesn’t mean she owes you anything,” There’s a silence that hangs in the air at Geralt’s words, “Two years she’s been gone and not a hint of relief that she’s back, if a girl like her went missing on my watch I would have followed after her.”

Cidri looks to be shaking with anger, glaring straight at Geralt. Only when you glance at Geralt he looks calm, hardly worked up, casually leaning against a wall as if this is some fun affair. His amber eyes catch your own, for a moment everything feels okay, you don’t feel so afraid or guilty. It’s as if whatever confidence seems to radiate through Geralt is being passed to you.

You stand a little straighter, hand clutched on the handle of your blade. You settle Cidri with a glare, he flounders for a sentence, a rebuttal at the Witcher.

“No one asked you, Whorson.” Venom laces his words, “of course, she’ll find comfort within something like you. A man unable to feel, exactly what she needs since no one would ever love that back,” he chuckles and gives Jaskier a once over.

“That’s enough, Cidri,” you call before he can insult your friends further.

“Oh, she does talk.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “I wonder how it was possible for me to be so weak, so fucking spineless. The only way I saw out was running, but the more you talk I realise it would be so easy for me to cut your head off where you stand.” His eyes widen at your words, “I was so scared of being alone that I believed I was unlovable; only you could love me in your twisted ways. I am not your wife,” you firmly tell him, “or your daughter,” directed to your parents.

Glancing at the men behind you, both wearing proud smirks, you nod for the door and they follow. You walk swiftly out of the Inn, tilting your head when spotting Cidri’s horse alongside Roach. It’s about time he owed you, isn’t it?!

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Cidri shouts angrily, following after you quickly and grabbing ahold of your wrist before Geralt can react you’ve pulled a dagger from your hip and place it tightly against Cidri’s throat, “G-ha!” he gasps.

Leaning in close, “you don’t touch me. You don’t look at me. You don’t even think about me without my permission, got it?” He goes to nod but the blade cuts into his throat, “I’ve dreamt about this moment, Cidri,” you softly tell him, “how my blade would feel slicing that disgusting neck of yours. I want you to know that one day, not today or even a year from now, I will return and kill you because it’s what you owe me. Not an apology, but your beatless heart.”

You pull the knife away, making sure to slice his neck just a little so it stings- less of what he deserves. You back away, smiling as you do before gesturing for Jaskier to get on the black stallion.

“How do you feel?” The deep voice startles you for a moment, you glance up to see Geralt leave the crowded Inn, Jaskier’s singing being muffled by the door closing. He sits beside you on the bench, taking up more than half and brushing his arm against yours.

You take a moment to admire him, “Good. I feel good, the first time in a long time.”

Geralt nods, humming in response. “When are you going to go back and kill him?” You see the amused smirk on his face, you nudge him as you chuckle.

“I said that to make him paranoid, I intend to leave him in the past and look towards my future,” Geralt only smiled and nodded, “thank you, Geralt. I really appreciate you coming along with me.”

He only grunts in response and it goes quiet between you, you bite your lip out of habit and sigh. A weight has been lifted off of your shoulders, no more running or cowering. You can finally live your life knowing the monster is now afraid of you.

“You don’t really believe you’re unlovable, do you?” Geralt asks as you stand up, you look at him and you’re around level heights with him now that you’re standing, “you can’t. I think you’re one of the easiest people to love, it’s natural for people to love you. It’s...a habit.”

You chuckle a little in surprise from his outburst, “Uh-I… I don’t know. All I’ve known is Cidri’s love. I guess, Jaskier loves me too but that’s friendly and he flirted with me the first time we talked,” Geralt rolled his eyes, clearly unphased by that news. “The most broken people are always easiest to love, loving them makes people feel better about themselves.”

Geralt sighs heavily, “You underestimate yourself. You’re not broken, Y/N, you never were. No one needs to fix you; you’re perfect just the way you are.”

Your breath hitches at his kind words. Geralt is a man of few words and even fewer expressions, but the softness of his voice and smile, it lets you know how honest he’s being with you right now. How open and vulnerable he’s being with you.

“What will you do now?” You change the subject

“Find another monster to kill,” Geralt answers without looking away from you, he’s wearing a nonchalant smirk like you’re meant to be in on some joke.

You nod once, looking at your hands as Geralt rises to feet. You tentatively look up and it’s as if time slows, Geralt leans down and you find yourself leaning up and towards him. Your lips meet in a soft, slow kiss, one that’s full of... an emotion you’re not quite sure of but would like to know.

Geralt pulls away, “Too soon?”

“Not soon enough,” you respond and pull him back in, he chuckles against your lips but quickly falls back into kissing you.

{{let me know what you think of this, I’d really appreciate it!!!!!}}}}

(Sorry it’s so long. Also I tried to add a READ MORE link but it wouldn’t work, so i apologise to everyone who has to scroll through this. I tried to add it but it wouldn’t work and kept messing up my post /: )

TAGS: @ladyrivia @peachy-aisha @onlyhopebensolo @itswhateveripromise @companionjones

#geralt #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia one shot #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt one shot #geralt imagines #the witcher one shot #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine

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theritualofourexistence · 3 years

Text

Clarity in the Cancellation Crusade

After posting multi-paragraph comments on a couple different things that have popped up in my feed recently, it seemed like I should probably just sit down and write this out.

“Cancel culture.” Crazy shit, right?

The recent onslaught of cancellations includes Mr. Potato Head, Pepe Le Pew, a handful of Disney movies (Peter Pan, Dumbo, The Aristocats), and *audible gasp* Dr. Seuss. The Muppets also got a newfangled Disney+ content warning, though I’ve seen significantly fewer headlines about that.

The thing that inevitably happens when the news media decides to publish a headline about a children’s toy or book being “canceled” is a veritable parade of social media complaints about how sensitive people have become. I saw this particular post over 10 times in the period of a couple hours one day last week…

The question I’ve been asking recently when I see posts like that is this: “Who do you think cancel culture is?”

Because “cancel culture” isn’t real. In the majority of the cases currently making headlines, the choice to remove a character from a movie or stop publishing a book has been made by the company responsible for that character or book… and that is very much a normal thing companies can choose to do.

No one I’ve posed the above question to has overtly mentioned “Libtards,” but it’s certainly implied. People who haven’t read a Dr. Seuss book in 20 years are now suddenly all up in arms (literally?) because “the Liberals” are coming for “And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street.”

The Liberals are not coming for Dr. Seuss. They do not care about a potato toy. Also, nothing is happening to the Cat in the Hat. I repeat: NOTHING is happening to the Cat in the Hat.

The choices to stop publishing that book and to market a vegetable toy in a less gendered way were made by the companies responsible for producing those products… not the Liberal “cancel culture” ghoul. In fact, it’s really, really hard to find public outcry about any of the things that have been recently “canceled.” There was a single NYT article that recently discussed the problematic nature of the Pepe Le Pew cartoons… that said, Warner Bros hasn’t aired that show in decades and it is not clear whether that article had anything to do with the skunk’s scene being removed from the new Space Jam movie.

Even growing up I remember things like political correctness needlessly becoming a partisan issue. When we fall into that media trap, all we’re doing is watering the plant of an already poisonous and ineffective two-party system. Be bigger than that temptation. Push back against media intended to further divide Americans. If something stinks, it’s probably rotten. Sure, there are certain topics that fall under the umbrella of political correctness that sound alarm bells for censorship issues… but didn’t everyone’s mom tell them that if they didn’t have anything nice to say, they shouldn’t say anything at all?

Again, though, the most important thing to remember about this recent wave of “canceling” is that censorship concerns are moot. A person who owns a thing is legally allowed to do all the censoring they want. It’s not the government that has decided to stop publishing 6 books written by Dr. Seuss… if it were, we could have the censorship conversation. These changes aren’t happening because there is a Democrat in the White House. They’re happening because the company who makes these products, has for whatever reason, decided to take a different approach.

In the case of the Dr. Seuss books, Dr. Seuss Enterprises re-evaluated their choice to publish 6 books based on racist themes and images. I have only heard of two of those six. The image below is, in my opinion, objectively problematic:

The fact that a major company behind such a well-known name has seen that something is problematic and has decided to stop publishing the books containing overt racist images is awesome. It sets a great example that we can all learn from. Humans have an amazing capacity to learn… that’s one of the only reasons we are in charge here on Earth. If we fall on ice once, we are often more careful on ice the next time. When we see that something is racially problematic, it’s a good thing if we can take action to get that thing out of rotation. More on that later.

Fundamentally, what is happening right now in Media Land is gross sensationalism.

“Cancel culture” isn’t real. Should people face consequences if they say or do racist things? Yes. We should all agree on that. Should we stop publishing books that perpetuate racist stereotypes? Yes. There are plenty of non-racist books that provide an education about racial differences without the added (exceedingly inappropriate) zing of Asian characters being painted yellow and African characters being given monkey features.

If you’re not convinced that some of Dr. Seuss’s material is racially problematic, I encourage you to pop on over to Google to check out the series of ads he did for FLIT in the 1930s. Yes, it was the 1930s. In the last 90 years, we’ve learned that images like that are not okay… let’s use that knowledge to let old racist graphics die.

Still can’t accept that “cancel culture” isn’t real? Still feeling like there’s something in the air now that is different and worse than before?

Okay, then, let’s consider it further.

Things have been “canceled” by people for millennia… this isn’t new. Being all for cancel culture when Colin Kaepernick kneels for the anthem (a perfectly legal form of peaceful protest considered respectful by many veterans) but opposing cancel culture when it’s threatening to eliminate an obviously racist thing is not exactly a moral stance. Burning your Nikes in the street but then turning around and spending $400 on a copy of “If I Ran the Zoo” on eBay after Dr. Seuss’s own family has pulled it from publication due to racist imagery is… silly.

The same people who seem to be so vocal about “cancel culture” now are part of the same communities who tried to cancel plenty of things in my lifetime. Things like trick-or-treating, Harry Potter, school dances, books and movies with LGBT+ characters and themes…

History absolutely bubbles over with things that have been canceled… often for good reason! Some examples that come to mind:

DDT

the Catholic Church (see the 16th century Protestant Reformation)

doing our everyday poopin’ in outdoor holes

polio

hoop skirts

phrenology (new science cancels old science like every damn day)

Ford Pintos (not to mention cars without seatbelts)

telegrams and rotary phones (replaced by easier and better ways to communicate)

lead paint

asbestos

Four Loco

Y’all remember when we all did the ice bucket challenge to cancel Alzheimer’s?

Learning that something is problematic and moving past it is LEARNING… not cancel culture. Learning and growth are good things. We all benefit from them.

Another thing worth commenting on from that Cat in the Hat post that circulated in my Facebook feed: why do we consistently demonize sensitivity? Racism feels like something we should all be sensitive about. If being sensitive about something results in meaningful change and a less hateful country, isn’t that… good? Why do so many Americans seem to place so much value on their “freedom” to hurt others?

And don’t get me started on comparing this stuff to Cardi B. It boggles my mind that that’s happening at all. Why is there suddenly so much outcry about one song that features female genitals in a literal ocean of songs that feature male genitals. I grew up knowing every word to songs about sex well before I even knew what sex was. Your kids are only desperate to listen to WAP because they know it makes you squeamish. And take a second to think about why it makes you squeamish. Genitals are human and scientific and we literally all have them. If you have more of a problem with WAP than with any of the other 10,000 songs about dicks and sex, you need to spend some time examining why that is.

Here’s another post I’ve seen bouncing around the social media feeds:

Something about this is just plain hilarious to me. Like what are racism and rape culture if not THE REALEST issues? This country’s problem with systemic racism runs so, so deep and is reflected very plainly in centuries of cold, hard numbers. It’s not that I *think* systemic racism is a problem. The data very clearly shows that regardless of what white people think about race in this country, systemic racism absolutely IS a problem. Racism and rape culture, arguably at the root of the most recent canceling spree, are not just real issues, they’re real American issues. They’re cultural issues. And solving cultural issues is not easy. We know that these issues have been passed down through the generations so maybe changing children’s toys and books and shows isn’t such a bad thing to try. There is SO much work to do to address racism and rape culture in the United States, but small steps are still progress.

If choosing to stop airing a show that blatantly perpetuates rape culture means one less young person is stalked or assaulted or raped, that’s worth it, no? What if that one young person who doesn’t become a victim is your daughter?

If choosing to stop publishing a book with racist themes and images leads to even one kid understanding more about the nuance of race in America and the breath-taking extent of white privilege, that’s worth it too.

Would I rather the media spend time and money to bring American attention to bigger issues associated with this nation’s racism and rape culture? 100%. There are ENORMOUS fish to fry. Dr. Seuss is not an enormous fish. Potato head toys are not enormous fish. Pepe Le Pew is not an enormous fish. They’re not even big fish. They’re small. They’re tiny fish. They’re anchovies. But frying some fish is better than frying no fish.

Canceling Pepe Le Pew is not hurting anyone. Warner Brothers owns Pepe Le Pew. Warner Brothers owns nearly everything; they are not hurting for money. And canceling Pepe certainly isn’t hurting American kids. There are plenty of other kids’ shows to watch that are significantly less problematic. Just because you watched Pepe Le Pew and went on to be a properly respectful adult doesn’t mean there aren’t other kids out there who did internalize a harmful disrespect for consent. No, Pepe Le Pew probably isn’t single-handedly responsible for anyone’s decision to stalk or rape anyone else. But could a show reinforce the groundwork that ultimately leads a kid down a path where he is unable or unwilling to respect the boundaries of others? I mean, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve heard this week.

Canceling six total Dr. Seuss books that are already pretty obscure is not hurting anyone.

Changing the name of an already genderless potato toy to reflect that genderless-ness is not hurting anyone.

A brief recap: racism and rape culture are very real, very American issues.

If the decision to stop doing a thing doesn’t hurt anyone and may even save someone some hurt, why does that decision bother you?

Also, in all your frantic Facebook posting, make sure you are differentiating between “cancel culture” and consequences. When the media tosses around the phrase “cancel culture” it has this tone of finality that is, plainly, not realistic. Fads and trends move so quickly in the internet age that the idea that a group of people could “cancel” something permanently is just not possible. People who do or say racist things, though, should face consequences. People who do or say transphobic or homophobic things should face consequences. Consequences are one of the only ways we learn to do better. And again, that’s not my opinion, it’s science.

One of the consequences that can have the most impact is, you guessed it, losing money! In this capitalist hellscape, money talks. Boycotting and choosing how we spend our money are some of the most engaging ways to combat racist and homophobic garbage. When you have your temper tantrum because the company who owns a book with overtly racist imagery decides to stop publishing that book, that speaks volumes about your priorities. If you respond to that company’s decision by buying the book in question on eBay for $400, that speaks even louder volumes. What are you doing? WHY are you doing it? I’m guessing you don’t even know, and you should probably spend some time thinking about it before you flush away a chunk of your stimmy on a freaking RACIST KIDS’ BOOK.

All actions have consequences. All of our choices never affect just us. How we vote affects other people. How we spend our money affects other people. Spending our money on things that are problematic perpetuates the problem… whether it be racism, rape culture, homophobia, or transphobia… or so many other things this country desperately needs to address.

It’s human to not like change. Change is going to happen, though, regardless of whether or not we’re comfortable with it. In the information age, we have a remarkable opportunity to steer that change. Leaving behind racist relics is change, so it may be inherently uncomfortable. But change that moves our country away from racism and rape culture is GOOD change.

I am begging you. Use critical thinking… if you’re seeing a headline about something being canceled, look up WHY. Some of these headlines are absolute bunk… they’re shared just to get people all riled up and create American division. However, just like we *should* cancel lead paint, a children’s book with overtly racist images shouldn’t be published anymore and it’s weird if you disagree with that. Disagreeing with that decision, as silly as it may seem, perpetuates racism. I know how triggered y’all can get when someone suggests you might be perpetuating racism, but it is what it is. Do your research. Don’t spend your money on racist garbage. Be better.

I feel like this post is me just barking the exact same thing in different ways, but I also feel like there is so much more I could say.

I’ll leave you with this:

What will it take for Americans to weigh the threats of racism and homophobia the same way we weight the threat of lead paint? If it’s a matter of costing lives, well, the numbers speak for themselves.

#cancel culture #cancellation #racism #rape culture #the muppets #pepe le pew #dr. seuss #seuss #consequences #change #mr. potato head #potato head #cancel culture isn't real

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ddp456 · 3 years

Text

My retirement

Hey, all.

Boy, um, I’m sure that title is kind of a shocker, so I’ll do my best to explain myself. And stop me if you’ve heard this story before (or should I say, these stories before).

I created a surplus of materials and examples to go by when making a Gravity Falls/Wendy and Dipper story in the same fashion that I do. But in my heart of hearts, I can tell you all that the souls of these stories, the thing that everyone seems to tell me makes them so real, are based upon three real people.

I grew up a lot like Dipper did. I was a smart kid, but not that smart. I was the one everyone pointed at as a freak. The weirdo of the class. The smelly kid. I had friends; not a lot of them, but in most cases, time and distance separated us, or I drove them away of my own accord. I won’t excuse it by saying I was different; a lot of my pain I caused myself. I would be lying if I said I had proper guidance as well. I couldn’t tell you how many regrets I have.

But as I got older, I met someone special; someone different. They didn’t treat me the same as everyone else. I couldn’t tell you if it was out of pity, or perhaps, they were able to see something that other people couldn’t. And I appreciated it. To be honest, I loved them for that.

“Love,” I know, is a really strong word. It’s probably the most overused and misused word presented by most of civilization, and the majority of mass media. To me, love means to cherish, to want to protect, to wish no harm upon, and if possible, take the blunt of any blow wishing to do so.

I like a lot of people. I love a whole lot less, if that makes sense.

Even as I write this, I do not claim for this to be the correct way of looking at things; I can only tell you the way I saw things at the time.

Such is why I chose to hide my true feelings for the longest time. For all of the healing and solace this person gave to me, the very last thing I wanted for them was to be the monster’s mate. Unfortunately, my private life wasn’t too much better. It was like there was no safe haven I could provide.

Above all things, I didn’t want them to hate me for that.

Then, as always, fate played its hand. The good spark in my life was whisked away and I was forced to deal the rest of the world. But after the lot of a new series of battles and worries, something amazing happened. That little spark was reintroduced into my life.

But I was still afraid; afraid of the new monsters that would use this person to try to hurt me; afraid of a home life that wouldn’t accept them with open arms. I wanted to get closer so very much, but kept them at a safe distance.

That is, until fate struck again.

Pinned up against the wall, at the very last moment I’d believed I’d have with said person, I confessed everything.

Kinda makes you think of a certain two dorks locked in an underground bunker, doesn’t it?

They say with age, comes wisdom, and upon looking back, I understand my youthful folly. I shouldn’t have lied everything at their feet and expect a positive response. They were shocked by my admission, as they had their own feelings and hopes and dreams and heart’s desires.

I believed, because of my fear, I was too late. If I were honest from the beginning, maybe, it might have made a difference.

Despite of the distance and my own hardships, I tried my best to stay in touch with my friend. A lot of times, it was for the better. And a ton of times, it made things a jillion times worse. And I’ll admit; it was my fault. I let my own loneliness get the best of me. The very last thing I ever wanted to do was to creep someone out. Maybe that’s why it bugs me so much when someone jokingly says that about poor Dipper.

In the future, I would apologize for reaching out, only to have a welcome hand on my shoulder in return. “I’m really glad you did.”

As time passed, we did grow closer; not always in the ways I hoped, but I’d be fibbing if I said I didn’t enjoy it. We were constant valentines. They were my first real date; my first real kiss. I’d have calls waiting for me instead of me doing the chasing. For the first time in a very long time, I thought things were getting better.

But once again, fate would have its way...

Even after all these years, I question: how is it that upon telling a loved one that you must part ways (again), they become so upset that they strike you and demand why things are the way they are, if they do not care?

(For the record, kids. You should NEVER let a S.O. hit you no matter what. After all, don’t want to leave a bad example on the way out)

Part of me will always wonder if this is what made things sour between us; that eventually, I became another person that would always let them down, regardless if it were my fault or not.

Little did I know that behind their mild exterior, lived a wild heart that craved adventure and excitement. A group of rowdy and unpredictable friends were more than eager to help scratch that itch. I would be told incredible tales of mischief and wonder and mayhem. And if I were honest, I would say part of me was jealous. I wished it was just us having the adventures. I wish we could have spend the day together at an arcade. Or a carnival.

I’ll say something else I never admitted before. This person has told me countless times in our lives that I was their hero. The truth is that there were several times in my life were I considered them my hero. They were brave and independent and smart-on-their-feet and pretty much everything I wasn’t but wanted to be.

And beneath all that, there was a person who was embarrassed to be sensitive and “weak” and wanted to cry. At that time, I cherished that person more than anything in this world.

Then, I heard about the other stories: the “close-calls.” And that led me to believe that there would come a time where my loved one would go off on one of these wild adventures and never come back.

I wasn’t too far off. I’ll spare you all the rest of the details.

As I said earlier, I like a lot of people, but I love even fewer. So, it was a really long time before I could feel the same way about someone as I did before. In the middle of all of this, I accidentally stumbled upon a show on cable called Gravity Falls, and found a kindred spirit with the male lead, Dipper Pines.

Even more so, I saw parallel lines between my personal plight and that involving Dipper and his crush, Wendy. And while Wendy shares the same adventurous appetite as my loved one, that’s pretty much where their similarities end.

And poor Dipper, man. Oh, the internet was just brutal to that kid. “Robbie is the victim?” Get outta here with that garbage. It was the same crap I’ve heard half my life.

As I explored the GF fandom, I noticed a lot of the best Wendy/Dipper works came from fanfiction. (Thanks google!) And I found my inspiration for stories of my own. I was able to relate my hopes, my dreams, my fears, my doubts; bits and pieces of my real life, even if they are grossly exaggerated. (so, no fighting ghosts, haunted mansions, or cursed arcades for me, I’m afraid)

To my surprise, the first batch of stories received a ton of feedback. Lots of people cheered my interpretation of Wendy and Dipper, and what I hoped they’d evolve into. (I’d give myself a 70% on that estimate)

Did all of these viewers, reviewers, and rebloggers share the same view of the world; about love as I did?

About two years in, little did I know I would get another surprise. I would get a Dipper of my very own.

I wasn’t looking for love. Honest. But upon new experiences and meeting new people, I discovered someone - a special speck of wonder - that became enamored with me. I didn’t notice it at first. I still find it odd that someone can look or think of me in such a way.

But I remember what happened the last time I hesitated. I always said that in the slim chance I would ever get a second chance, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice.

I kept my word and enjoyed the best years of my life.

I made up a lot of lost time with an adorable hipster with a similar spirit to Wendy. An old soul, they loved retro culture as a whole: the movies, the music, even the video games. Their literary tastes were also very similar to mine. I couldn’t tell you the last time I had a conversation with someone about books outside of a school setting.

But at the same time, you could see Dipper’s innocence there as well. A tough attitude hid a fragile heart. A hidden brilliance was often overshadowed by a lack of courage and self-esteem.

It was around this time that I noticed new comments on my latest stories. People were saying that I was (inadvertently) writing a stronger and more detailed Wendy. At first, I didn’t understand what they meant. Then, after thinking about it, I finally got what others were noticing.

My Wendy had changed because I had changed. Somehow, I gained a deeper insight on her character and the way she would view certain aspects of her life, I was now a Wendy myself, with a little Dipper that thought the world of me, and for this, I tried my best to make sure they would never feel the growing pains that Dipper (or a younger me, for that matter) would usually face alone. I was their cheering section, their coach, their backup, and I encorporated all of these things into our favorite redhead.

I found it funny that the show would (periodically) use that same angle. I only wish they would have done it as much as I did.

But as with all great things in my life, I royally screwed everything up. And during a time of distress and turmoil, my little Dipper found something better and hitched their wagon elsewhere.

So, by now, you have to be asking, “Why are you telling us bits and pieces of your life?” I do this because I want people to understand why I can’t do this anymore.

Don’t get me wrong. I love writing the stories. I also love the fact that there’s so many people that look forward to each tale, as if it was made by the real Gravity Falls team. To me, that’s a great honor that very little can ever replace.

But at the same time, the series (and especially Wendy and Dipper) is so close to my heart, and in some cases, so indistinguishable from certain aspects of my personal life that it actually hurts. For the record, I haven’t sat down and watched an episode of Gravity Falls since the Blu Ray box set came out, in which I listened to the commentary for a project for Wendip-Week.

Maybe it’s because I know what happens to Dipper and Wendy at the end of the series. Maybe it’s because their fate reminds me so much of my own. It’s a “Chicken or the Egg” question for sure.

This is why DBR3 and Serendipity took so long to finish. At times, I had to force myself on the computer to write 1,000 words at a time. It takes me months to do what I used to do in mere days or at most, a week. I don’t have the strength or the enthusiasm to do it at the same pace. And you all deserve better than that.

I need a break, guys and gals. I need to clear my mind and find out what’s going on inside here. For the first time in years, I have accomplished all of my Gravity Falls related goals. Just to go down the line:

-Published a new chapter every weekday for a month straight in honor of the GF Season 2 Premiere.

-Created a few GF stories based in the first-person perspective. One of them is one of my most popular stories.

-Delivered a DBR2 and DBR3 due to high demand.

-Shaped a two-part Wendy/Dipper story based in the same nature and context of the classic graphic novel, Scott Pilgrim.

-Wrote several extensions to Gravity Falls episodes that I had uneasy feelings about.

-Helped a fellow Tumblr user create a Wendy/Dipper themed full sized Christmas poem in less than 24 hours.

-Tried my hand at a Wendy and Mabel story just to try something different and to see if I could do it.

-Wrote and outlined a 50-page Gravity Falls comic after 3+ years of trying to get it off the ground.

That’s not really a bad resume, not counting all the contributor’s work I’ve done for other Wendip artists/writers or the essays, guides, and projects I helped Wendip-Week design. Even if I still had the energy to keep going, what unexplored territory is there for me to explore?

So what does this mean?

Well, that’s up to you lot, isn’t it?

I would love it if the same fans that enjoyed my stories took up the reigns and show us in the Wendip/GF communities what they could do. Lead the way with new Wendy and Dipper tales! Make it about the past, present, or future! Give us a new way to look at them, or present them in an undiscovered light.

And it doesn’t have to be writing, either. Make a comic. Draw a picture. Heck, do a radio broadcast for all I care. Express your minds, hearts, and soul and create with them just as I have.

(and as a side note; I hope my Deviantart friends take this to heart. The last time I was on the site, the cute/adorable pic/X-rated pic ratio was greatly, greatly one-sided in a bad way)

A lot of people might be asking, “Well, you’re calling it quits. Why shouldn’t we?”

Because if you believe in the messages I put into the stories or the effort we put into Wendip-Week, then aren’t those messages worth spreading? Just because my personal life went to crap in a handbasket, it doesn’t mean the same would happen to anyone else.

A harsh lesson I learned with age is that you can do everything perfectly, or to the best of your abilities, and still fail. The Gravity Falls team loved to instill this over Dipper time and time again.

I want to believe in something better. Don’t you?

And who says I’m gone for good? Maybe I’ll find a new form of inspiration and come up with an unique idea that I just can’t keep to myself, Perhaps Gravity Falls will come back in some form and ignite enough of a fire in me to pull a comeback.

But, until then, I plan on taking a long, well-deserved break. After all, I have a ton of missed Wendip Week submissions to catch up on. I promised myself I wouldn’t check them out until my final story is completed. It looks like that day is finally here.

However, it is the holiday season, and for this, I wish to leave you all with three different sources of inspiration. Maybe it’ll help; maybe it won’t.

1. An inspirational letter from none other than my namesake.

2. A key word of advice from one of the only series that could stand up to Gravity Falls’ legacy. It is a message I wish I could have learned sooner.

3. And simply because we NEED more sources of strong females (and something I wish I would have found in time for the Spider-Man essay), here is a tumblr blog dedicated to my favorite Marvel female, who IMHO is as close to an adult Wendy as we’ll get,

I wish you all a happy holiday, and hope that my announcement hasn’t dashed your holiday spirit. I am forever honored by all those I have worked with and by those who took my nonsensical musings and elevated them to something more.

As one of my favorite bands like to close their shows with:

“It's never goodbye, It's just 'till next time."

-ddp456

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limited-practice · 4 years

Text

Decepticon Hubcap

I’ll write this out as a proper fic at some point, but here's a Braindump of initial thoughts about Hubcap thinking about defecting to the Decepticons.

He’s got little love left for the Autobots now. They either forget he exists, are content to see him suffer when he tries to do the right thing, straight up want to kill him, or go out of their way to do favours for the person who tried to kill him. He’s so tired of them. He’s so tired of so much. He’s tired and sad and enraged and is burning silently and it’s all going to be too much to contain one day.

Imagine him as a weapon that no-one sees coming. Imagine him with a purple badge integrated into his dark yellow chest. A symbol that’s integrated, not stamped on. Imagine him with a somewhat jaded and uncertain but refreshingly confident look upon his face as he excels at what he does.

Over 1000 words on how Hubcap could begin his slide into the Decepticon camp are below the cut.

The correct timeline sets Sins of the Wreckers post war, but for this AU let’s pretend the war is still raging and everyone's still alive.

Let’s also pretend that Hubcap survived Impactor’s shot and his long fall into darkness. Let’s pretend his self-repair protocols finally activated after his life support systems had worked themselves into near exhaustion to keep him alive and finally stablised him. Let’s pretend he spent two months immobile on the ground and in the dark, and another eight months dragging himself back online one component at a time.

Eight months. On the ground. In the dark and alone and in pain.

Again.

His eyes are the last things to flicker back online.

He closes them again immediately. There is nothing and no-one he wants to see. He has nothing and he has no-one. No-one came to look for him. No-one did anything. If he stays where he is then the world will continue working and everyone will continue living and things will go on as normal.

Normal.

This is his normal now.

He cracks his eyes back open.

They glow a dark and tainted blue. They’re a colour that by all rights should not exist but they do. They do.

By all rights he should not exist.

But he does.

He should have died twice over now but he hasn’t. Despite the Autobots’ best efforts to kill him, he’s defied them. He survives. He continues to survive.

And isn’t that something.

He crawls and stumbles and sobs his way back out into the world.

He should return to a steady job as an intelligence analyst or a communications officer.

He should return to a safe job that he could do with his scarred eyes closed.

He should go back to the Autobots and help them. He should tell them the truth of what he did and what the others did to him. That would be the right thing to do. He’ll accept a lengthy prison sentence willingly, because that would be fair. It’s what he deserves.

But the others would never think like that.

They’d never sacrifice themselves like that.

But they will sacrifice others.

They’ll continue to sacrifice little robots in dark spaces where no-one can see them die because that’s the easy thing to do. That’s the safe thing to do and is the right thing to do.

…

He goes back to them.

He’s not sure what else to do. Something internal has shifted in a fundamental way, but he doesn’t know how to put it back in place.

He’s not sure he wants to.

He accepts everyone’s exclamations of exaggerated delight upon seeing him alive and well with a hollow smile and a modest dip of the head. He speaks fewer coherent sentences than usual. He nods and agrees that yes, he’s very glad he’s back and no, he didn’t see who shot him up on the walkway. It was dark and he was busy talking with Prowl and-

Prowl.

His smile dissolves.

He hasn’t seen Prowl since the walkway. He hasn’t received a message or been accosted at night or been dragged off to prison. He’s not sure why Prowl isn’t punishing him.

But.

But maybe this is his punishment.

The waiting. The waiting and the acute anticipation that something is about to drop and he’s going to fall again.

It’s horrible.

No-one notices his suffering.

No-one cares.

No-one’s ever cared.

His (fake) friends and (pretend) colleagues indulge him with fewer and fewer minutes of their company as the days drag into weeks and the weeks seep into months.

He is raging.

He is scared and raging and so absolutely sick of being scared that he’s reaching his saturation level quickly.

He burns silently and fills up and up and up and up and

He tips over the limit of his capacity for mental torment at 2.47pm one afternoon.

He trips the building’s alarm frequencies without meaning to, and they scream and scream and scream out loud for him.

A cacophony of sounds blare and overlap with each other and some people wince and cover their ears and some sigh and look around and some run and some duck for cover and some yell and point and scream and some draw weapons and everyone reacts and the alarms scream and scream and scream.

He sits behind his desk not moving. He sits with eyes closed and with a damp face and with one clenched fist and he stays silent and immobile in the whirling center of it all.

No-one cares.

They never have.

The next day he comes into work as usual.

There’s a big commotion going on. A Decepticon was caught trying to take advantage of the malfunctioning electronic defences and had tried to break into their facility.

This Decepticon must be stupid or desperate or both to try and infiltrate this building when it’s fully staffed.

He finds that he cares about this.

He hears that the Con has been taken to a secure room in the basement.

He hears things on a frequency that hasn’t been discovered yet.

He hears more things on frequencies he helped re-name as impenetrable.

He hears someone call his name.

His spark pulses and he ignores them.

He ignores their calls for the rest of the day.

And it’s not because he’s scared.

Near the end of the day someone is sent in to tell him that the Decepticon they caught has been asking for him. They are visibly unnerved.

He already knew this.

It’s such a lot of effort to pretend to be even mildly surprised, but he does it. He’s good at pretending to be who others feel comfortable with him being.

His colleague hesitates. The Con won’t give us anything until they’ve met with you, they say. All the Con says is that they want to meet with you, so. Will you come down? We can guarantee your safety.

He laughs loudly. His laugh is hollow and off balance and lasts longer than any normal laugh has any right to. He takes an uncomfortable degree of satisfaction from the look on his colleague’s face.

Tell them to wait, he says.

His colleague’s eyes widen. But-

You heard me.

His voice escapes in a mechanical hiss.

We’re not going anywhere.

He closes his eyes and offlines his hearing and takes up the thread of the mystery frequency again.

His spark pulses harder and hotter than it has for a very long time.

Someone knows who he is. Someone considers him important. Someone thinks he’s worth seeking out. Someone thinks he’s worth paying the price of undergoing the Autobots’ ‘interrogation’ procedures.

He should see them immediately, and put an end to whatever is going on down there.

But.

But they’re not dead. They’re surviving.

He’s survived so much worse, and whatever they're going through can’t possibly be compared to what he’s endured and so that means they can wait. They’ll be fine and they can wait, and it’s a viscous glob of something sweet and poisonous that slides through his lines when he reminds himself that it isn’t him this time.

He should jump to attention. He should work hard and fast to please those in charge and prove himself and do the Right Thing.

But the problem is he’s done these things before. They’re the only things he’s ever done, and look where they’ve taken him.

Look at what they’ve made him become.

So he’ll wait.

It’s nice to be wanted, and he deserves to bask in it for a little while longer.

He’ll wait, and then he’ll see his new Decepticon friend. Because they must be a friend to him. They’ve noticed him and asked for him specifically. They’re enduring who knows what at the hands of the noble Autobots and they’re asking for him and only him.

He should put them out of their misery. He should rush down and put an end to it.

He should do so many things.

The ghost frequency curls around his circuits and whispers to him. It strokes him and sinks into him and he allows it to become absorbed.

And then he vents it.

He expels it and destroys it.

He will never be taken advantage of ever again.

He’s had to wait so long for so little, so it’s only fair that others take their turn waiting as well, right?

Right.

He’ll wait a little while longer.

And then he’ll speak with the Decepticon and see what they have to say.

He hopes it’s something interesting.

He hopes it’s something promising.

He’s tired of waiting for something positive to happen to him, so now he’s going to have to take it for himself.

He’s been left with no choice. Not really.

Not in any ways that count.

He’ll take something for himself and give back to those who deserve it.

And if he has to amend his personality to achieve this, then so be it.

And if he has to adapt to working with others he’s been led to believe he shouldn’t interact with to achieve this, then so be it.

He doesn’t like who he’s ended up as, so maybe it’s time for a change.

Change is in everyone’s nature, and it’s time he helped his evolve.

It’s time that he upgraded.

He stares ahead and thinks. And as he does so, he works at the corner of his red Autobot badge with the flat of his thumb. It’s always sat loosely on his frame. Always. He’s never liked how loosely it’s sat on his chest, and he’s never liked the material it’s made out of. So maybe it’s time for a new sigil.

Maybe it’s time for a new him.

It’s time for a new him and a new future for those like him who deserve it.

It’s time to talk with the Decepticons.

It’s time to listen to what they have to say.

#hubcap #transformers #decepticons #autobots #I imagine all of this a lot #Con Hubcap is different yet similar to SG Hubcap #all three versions are Good #I'll take them all #further parts to come later #eventually in a fic but maybe first just in a format like this #braindump of thoughts that were initially in bullet points but tumblr ate them so there's just words #first draft #sometimes you just have to get your thoughts out #decepticon hubcap

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casualcatte · 4 years

Text

RP Journal: 08/12/2020

Lorrendor finally found the courage to see me, right before dinner. Gods, just hearing his voice filled me with indignant rage, recalling the pathetic excuse of a letter he’d sent. I couldn’t help myself, I picked up the sandwich I’d just made and threw it at him. I kept throwing things at him, whatever came to hand -- which seemed to mostly be produce. After all, throwing rocks at make-believe Bridge-Lorrendor had helped me to feel better, surely throwing fruit and vegetables at the real one would help, too, right?

(Courtesy cut for length because these are never short!)

My rage didn’t last near long enough, though. Just thinking about Tristane and the way Lorrendor had used him against me caused that same upwelling of pain and grief. Lorrendor was… sadly Lorrendor. Apologetic, self-deprecating, like he was trying to say all the things he thought I wanted to hear. He offered nothing to explain himself.

So, I asked him why he did it and what he wanted. He said he wanted to be my friend again. His reasoning for his actions? Because sometimes people will do anything to protect those they care for. How in heaven’s name is using Tristane against me /protecting/ me? Why can’t I get him to understand that I don’t /want/ to be protected. He constantly says that it’s his nature, like I just have to accept that and deal. But what about /my/ nature?

If he wants to protect me from something, he should start with himself, because no matter how hurt I get on the Hunt I always heal. Tristane… Tris is not something I can magically heal. And it hurts ten times worse when people I consider friends use him against me to prove a point. He still never really answered why. Why he thought it was okay to use Tris like that. I’m not sure he’ll ever honestly answer the question, because he knows he was trying to manipulate me.

He insisted that all he wanted was to be my friend and that he regretted how wrong he’d done me. I told him that we could still be friends, but that I could never again trust him as I did. And he could never mention Tristane again. That’s one part of my life that is now off-limits to him. I will never discuss Tris or my feelings about him with Lorrendor again.

During the latter half of this discussion Edgard squeaked his way into the room. Being less… Edgardy, but still Edgard. He made the occasional quip, mostly at me, but generally minded his manners. Bit weird, though, offering to share his silk underwear with Lorrendor. Apparently armor chafes and that’s the cure. Silk underwear. Not much for swimming in, though, given what I saw at the hot springs last night. Either that or Mu-Onna /really/ didn’t interest him.

Once things were more or less settled, everybody had a sandwich. For a moment, it reminded me of the night in Kugane when the two of them drank sochu and I pigged out on dumplings. It was nice and the company was welcome. I hope to have more nights like these and fewer nights spent fighting. We shared a bit of our hunting exploits with Lorrendor, but Edgard soon had to leave to prepare for his return to Ishgard. I certainly hoped he wouldn’t be leaving just yet. I still needed to say good-bye.

I spoke with Lorrendor a while longer and, for some reason, I felt like I would always have to prove myself to him. To prove that I’m competent and capable, not some foolish, headstrong glory-hound that rushes headlong into battle simply for the thrill of it. That’s not who I am either. I plan ahead, I hunt prepared, I play to my strengths. It’s why I don’t /need/ protecting. Protecting just messes with the plan. Protecting doesn’t play to my strengths.

He says he knows I’m capable, that I’m supposedly a better hunter than he is. Yet, he won’t stop bringing up that “bad things happen” as if I don’t know that. /Me./ Of course I know bad things happen. I /watched/ bad things happen as Tristane bled out in my lap. I’m not stupid or reckless, but I’m not going to live my life in fear of “what if” either. If the Twelve decide it’s my day to die, then no amount of protecting or over protectiveness is going to stop them, now is it?

Imagine my surprise when Lorrendor brought forth some research he’d done concerning The Saurotaun. I could hardly believe that his search had found anything of note. Or that he’d be so forthcoming with it given our current state of affairs. I’m sure it was meant as a peace offering, so I took it for what it was.

The Saurotaun, according to his notes, was a construct dating back to the War of the Magi. I couldn’t believe it, every accounting had made it out to be some kind of beast, but a construct made more sense. If it was some kind of magical creature, the hunting party it slaughtered, including my parents, may not have known how best to fight it. Gods, this gave me hope. I’d need more information, of course, but it was more than I’d learned in moons!

He went on to tell me of a sighting in Coerthas near the Convictory. Something about a giant six fulm long footprint as something attacked one of the yaks out there. It apparently tears apart its prey en route, though I’m not sure why. My first thought that it was just a particularly vicious Dravanian; they grew that big, but the habits didn’t seem in line with them. I’d have to ask Edgard what he knows about dragons. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high, I’d followed rumors of sightings before only to have them come up for naught.

Even after all I’d said and done to him, he still gave me this sprig of hope when he didn’t have to. He could’ve kept it to himself or not done it at all. He endured my wrath and yet still gave me this gift. Even if it turns out to be nothing, I’m still grateful that he tried. It made me feel somewhat bad for my anger and my temper. I know I’m not what a good friend should be. I made it a point to apologize and thank him for what he’d given me. We’d probably never have the same friendship we had before, but we could at least start over on the right foot.

Not long after, Lorrendor left to return to Ul’dah. And /I/ went to soak in the hot springs. I had a lot to do before I left for Ishgard, so it was probably the last chance I’d have to feel well and truly warm before freezing my beautiful tail off in Coerthas.

I was soon joined by Edgard, of course, but since I owed him a trip to the hot springs I didn’t mind. I’d brought his gift with me anyway, so it was all well and good. Naturally, he seemed more than eager to join me in the water. I swear, that man can be such an idiot sometimes, a right damnable fool.

It took him no time at all to start into his idle flirtations, but I gave as good as I got. So, I’ll just put it to record here that Edgard is my worshiper now and he keeps a shrine in his inn room dedicated to me. Clearly, he’s head over heels for me. He just won’t admit it.

Okay, I can’t even write that with a straight face. How does /he/ do it all the time? He went on to say that he was leaving for Ishgard in the morning and that if I wanted to say farewell to him or give him a good-bye kiss, it had to be tonight. I told him that I had a gift for him. While it wasn’t /quite/ as exciting as a kiss, it would have to do.

The item I commissioned was a feathered hair ornament built from one feather from each Twintail we’d taken captive. It was woven into some leather ties, accompanied by beads and small, glittering gems in blue, purple, and white. Silver discs bearing the date of the hunt in elaborate runes swung just beneath the clasp at the top, so that they would chime together like wind chimes whenever he moved -- If he deigned to wear them, that is. By design, they are meant to be woven into the hair, but can be worn on a cloak clasp, or attached to a pack. The possibilities were endless, really.

Edgard chose to have it woven into his hair, but confessed he had no idea how. So, after asking his permission to touch his snowy tresses, I demonstrated how to braid it in. His hair was so soft, like touching the finest silk, and smelled faintly of lavender. Not what I would’ve expected. I would’ve expected something manly and musky, but no, it’s something soft and soothing. Curious.

I spoke to him about his upbringing and he teased me about parts of it. While I was braiding his hair, I noticed that he’d twitch a bit every time my hand brushed the side of his neck. Ticklish! Naturally, I had to exploit this newfound weakness as punishment for picking on me. So I did. He countered by splashing me with water, which I fully deserved. He also said I could take advantage of him fully if I wanted, if I was going to exploit his ticklish spots.

I went to caress his jaw and flirtingly tease him about being unable to handle being fully taken advantage of -- but he took my hand in both of his and gave me this alluring look as he confessed that he’d take it slow for me. I know he’s just being Edgard, flirting to see what kind of reaction he’d get out of me. For a moment, though, I felt my heart race and my ears flutter nervously. I don’t even know /why/. He’s not serious about anything and neither am I. There was /nothing/ to get nervous about.

He told me how much he enjoyed the hunt, how he hadn’t had that much excitement since the war. I was honestly glad to hear it. What excitement could I possibly offer someone who hunted /dragons/ for a living? I told him I planned to pick up another, probably somewhere in Dravania if I could manage it, since we’d be in Ishgard. He countered that I didn’t have to look so agitated when I asked him, pointing at my ears. Gah, damn traitors!

I just wasn’t certain he’d want to go with me again. Perhaps he finds I’m too reckless for his tastes or that I’m not as amiable company. He’s said a number of times that I’m a different person out there. Maybe he doesn’t like the Huntress and prefers the City-Catte.

He went on to say that he couldn’t wait to go on another hunt, which gave me a strange sense of relief. It felt nice to be accepted for who I really was. Not everyone can. I’m a bright, independent huntress with skill and experience to rival most adventurers in the field. Edgard gets that and, on the hunt, he respected it. He followed my lead and only really questioned me when I put him to the true test in front of the male bi-fang.

I wanted to see what he’d do. Would he leap in to protect me or would he trust my judgement? I’ve seen how he can move, it would’ve been an easy thing for him to jump in there and snatch me out of the bi-fang’s hunting stoop. He didn’t, though, even though I could tell it worried him. I was both proud and grateful to him for that. I spoke volumes for his character and how he regarded me.

I told him that if he “beat” me in a hunt -- which is never going to happen -- he could have any prize he wanted, short of sleeping with me. It’s Edgard, of course that’s the first thing he’d ask for. I admit -- I wasn’t prepared for what he /did/ ask for. He asked me to play the guitar for him.

I haven’t played for anyone else since Tristane, so the request took me by surprise. I must’ve looked… offended or something because Edgard suddenly got up and said I could choose something else. I quickly put that train of thought to rest by telling him the truth of it, which he understood. I did promise him that I’d play.

He thanked me for making his time in Kugane “not so bad” which I’m sure is Edgard-speak for “absolutely perfect” I can read between his lines, it’s fine. We bade each other farewell and promised to see one another in Ishgard.

Now, see, Beaumonts? /That’s/ how you bid someone good-bye. Take note.

Mentions @therpperson for Edgard Beaumont And a bunch of other people who don’t have Tumblr!

#Journal: Rhythm of the Night #Aultena Sephimiri #FFXIV #FFXIV RP #FFXIV Roleplay #Balmung RP #Balmung Roleplay #Balmung Roleplayer #Crystal RP #Crystal Roleplay #Crystal Roleplayer #Character Journal #Lorrendor Hauland #Friendship: Elf-Dad #Edgard Beaumont #Friendship: Pathfinder

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angstmongertina · 4 years

Text

For King and Country (The Royal Masquerade)

So I was actually a really big fan of The Royal Masquerade, but I am a huge slut for angsty duty vs. the heart and the fact that we could marry Fabian but didn’t even get the OPTION of breaking it off with our current LI pissed me off just a little bit. So here I am writing fic for that particular option because it’s WHAT MY CHARACTER WOULD DO. So, enjoy?

AO3 Link

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There were several things that Lady Caterina of House Aster, the reigning Queen of Cordonia, knew deep down to be true. She knew that the position she had on the throne was tenuous at best, won through harrowing political strife and months of anxious planning and more blood than she cared to think about. She knew that an army was advancing on the capital, led by those who genuinely believed the lies they told about her, that the resulting civil war would tear the kingdom and her people apart. She knew there was only one soul left in the kingdom whose right to the throne could remain uncontested, who could end the devastating conflict before it began, and who would, by that simple fact alone, make for a far better leader than any of the individuals, herself included, who had spent so long vying for it.

She knew that her priorities would always, always, be her family first, her kingdom second, and herself a far distant third, that her costly victory was first and foremost to defeat those who might feel otherwise, that she owed her people true peace, however that might be achieved.

Such were the thoughts that swirled through her mind as she watched the young man before her, carefree and happy with his art. He bore little resemblance to Aunt Elise, at least that she could see, but something about his smile, his mannerisms as he reassured the young children playing nearby, brought to mind that night of the masquerade, more than a lifetime ago now, when she had unknowingly spoken to Queen Kendra. The same kindness, the same grace, was in his soul, and in spite of the faint pang she felt at her friends’ sacrifices going to waste, her mind was calm knowing that the crown was going to good hands.

Perhaps that was what Hunter had felt, only a few short weeks ago. Perhaps, in the end, it was only right that she do the same, for the good of Cordonia.

That may have been why she was taken so aback by his suggestion, by his offer of marriage to a woman he barely knew, whose reputation was in the process of being torn to shreds. That alone was a good reason for her refusal but…

But mirrored within the depths of the open, honest eyes of Fabian Rhys, she saw the young scribe she herself was only months earlier, living a comparatively simple and honest life in the library, far from the extravagant masks and honeyed half-truths of nobility. While her own position may have been a sign that neither birth nor upbringing were essential for political success, her ascension into a role she had not been prepared for had still been accompanied by friends and family and time to prepare.

Fabian, on the other hand, had a larger burden and fewer allies and, most importantly of all, a gentle spirit that had not yet been hardened by the world of politics. A spirit that she would see preserved, if there were anything in her power to do so.

In spite of herself, her gaze flickered towards Kayden, standing at her side. He watched her, as he always did, with that constant respect and unconditional faith that she didn’t deserve. There was no protest on his face, no trace of dissent. Nothing but deep understanding and acceptance, a recognition of the duty which bound them both. That strong sense of duty they shared, which had brought them together, given them understanding of each other and themselves, and which now threatened to drive them apart.

For a moment, she hesitated, but his lips curved into a smile, small and sad and endlessly supportive, and she knew.

Closing her eyes against the pinpricks of heat in her eyes, she drew a deep breath and stepped forward, taking Fabian’s proffered hand. “I accept.”

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She was not entirely surprised to find Kayden waiting for her outside of the coronation ceremony. At her side, as if sensing her hesitation, Fabian nodded, dropping her hand with an encouraging smile and walking swiftly out of earshot. For a moment, she watched his back as he left, already moving with the confidence of authority, but she could not avoid the conversation, not when she owed him far, far more.

“Cat— Your Majesty.” He sank into a low bow, the proper etiquette for a citizen to his queen, but it was not quite quick enough to disguise the emotion that flashed across his face before his usual stoic mask replaced it.

He knew.

As he straightened, she examined him. Dressed in his usual dark colors, it would have been easy to mistaken his attire for his usual leathers, but a closer look revealed that he was dressed in civilian clothing, without any insignias of the Crown Guard.

Which could only mean…

“Kayden.” Dark eyes snapped up to meet hers, a wordless confirmation, and she let a faint smile curve her lips. “I… I’m sorry.”

Almost before the words had left her mouth, he was shaking his head. “Do not be. Cordonia comes first. That is a point that we have always agreed upon. That I have always admired about you.” He drew a deep breath. “Besides, we both knew that this day would come eventually. A commoner, and worse still, a sorcerer, with Cordonia’s queen? It was never anything more than a dream.”

She shook her head, annoyed in spite of herself. “The circumstances of your birth make you no less than anyone else.”

His laugh was bitter. “Perhaps not, but the people would not be as inclined to agree. You know that just as well as I. After all, it is why Fabian has been accepted so naturally that even his marriage to the so-called usurper queen has had few repercussions. But I will not push our luck for my own selfishness.”

“I don’t—”

A quiet chuckle, this time tinged with a hint of genuine affection. “We both know that you would never betray your vow, especially considering the instability it could bring to Cordonia should anyone find out, but my mere presence at your side may threaten it nonetheless. We have not precisely been subtle, and even so, I would not have your rule tainted by association with a sorcerer accused of regicide. Pardoned or not, I am a source of division that I would not risk. Not against all you have sacrificed.”

Her laugh sounded weak, even to her own ears. “Kayden Vescovi, selfless to the last.”

He shook his head. “I do not know whether it is selflessness or selfishness, not wanting to let all of our other sacrifices to be in vain.”

“I assure you, nobody who truly knows you could ever accuse you of selfishness. And I have no doubt Hunter would agree with me.”

“Biased opinions, the both of you.”

She drew herself up to full height, though she was still what was no doubt comically short compared to him. “You dare accuse the queen and one of her most trusted advisors, the former King-Regent, of bias?”

That drew a true laugh from him. “As a loyal Cordonian to his crown, I would not dare, but as your… friend, I would do what I can, for you and for Cordonia, just as you have done these many months. If that means accusing you of that which is true, then so be it.”

She chuckled, though it faded as quickly as it came, and he cleared his throat, his face studiously blank.

“But… But as your friend, I must ask that you, not the queen but you, Caterina, hear me out and understand my decision.”

She nodded, taking advantage of the time to school her face into a mask of neutrality. “And what of you?”

In spite of her best attempts, her voice wavered and, for a heartbeat, something flashed across his face, gone so quickly that she almost wondered if she had imagined it. “What are my plans?” He sighed, though something resembling a faint smile curved his mouth. “My utmost priority is picking my replacement. In the mere month you have been queen and even before then, you have already had multiple attempts on your life, and I…” Any sign of merriment in his expression dropping, he swallowed, his throat visibly bobbing with the movement. “I would not leave you without first ensuring your safety. I will personally see to that, I swear it.”

“Kayden…”

His hand seemed to twitch at his side as he drew a breath, forcing another smile. “As the former Crown Guard, it is the least I could do for Cordonia, after all.”

She bowed her head, pretending she didn’t see the way he shifted, clasping his hands together behind his back. “Very well. I… We appreciate your thoughtfulness. But afterwards?”

An unusual look of uncertainty crossed his face. “I… I had hoped to find my mother, actually. I never found out what happened to her, only that she left the estate after my birth. Not that I blame her, considering how my father feels about my presence, but…” He shrugged. “Clearly, I did not come by my powers through House Vescovi, but perhaps I can find more answers from her.”

“That makes sense. No doubt there are many questions that only she might have the knowledge to answer. I understand completely. But…”

Dark eyes flashed up to meet hers, warm and familiar, and she barely resisted the urge to reach for him. “But, will you return, someday?”

For what seemed like a lifetime, he said nothing, his eyes serious, and she held her breath until he sighed, long and sibilant. “I do not know. But if my Queen commands it, then… yes. Someday.”

“She does.” She drew a deep breath, straightening and giving him her most proper smile. “Well, in that case, I look forward to meeting your replacement, and I wish you all of the best in your investigation. We shall, all of us, look forward to your return.”

“As do I.” She inclined her head in dismissal as he bowed again, deep and formal, though before he turned away, he met her gaze once more. “And Caterina? Thank you.”

In the silence, she watched him retreat, steps quick and assured through the halls that he knew much better than she did, even after a month of living within the castle, before letting out a shaky breath she did not know she had been holding. “No, Kayden. Thank you.”

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“You care for him. The Crown Shield, I mean.”

In the privacy of their chambers, away from prying ears, she turned to King Fabian. Her new husband stood in the doorway, bright blue eyes steady as he watched her, clear and sympathetic and utterly lacking in disapproval.

“How…?”

He laughed, stepping nearer. “It is not exactly a difficult conclusion to draw. I rather suspected it from the moment he accompanied you to find me. Of course, it is not until more recently that I might call it confirmed.” When she gave him a questioning look, he grinned, cheerful and boyish. “Now, I mean. He seems a good man—must be, since you and Lord Hunter have such faith in him—and from all I’ve heard, he is an excellent Crown Shield.”

“Was.” It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, and she smiled, carefully holding her hands still before she could fidget. “He has decided to pass his position on to another.”

“Oh? Is there any particular reason for it? If he is afraid of incurring my wrath, tell him that I harbor no ill-will towards him with regards to your relationship. Or perhaps I can tell him myself, if that would be more reassuring.”

She shook her head. “It is not that. I have no intentions of betraying the oath we made to each other and Cordonia, regardless. I fear that my pursuing anything would risk instability to the kingdom. Particularly with my reputation as it already is.”

“And his being previously accused of the murder of Queen Kendra certainly cannot help matters.”

“Precisely. I am afraid it is only your sterling reputation that has kept the kingdom in check, and will have to continue to do so.” When he laughed, she grinned, her heart lightening, ever so slightly. “At any rate, our former Crown Shield has elected to retire and pursue his own interests.”

“I am truly sorry that you two have been put into this situation.”

“But you certainly chose this direction for yourself and would have done so again were an entire kingdom’s peace not on the line?” She laughed, shaking her head. “No, we all did what we had to do. You have brought the peace that Cordonia needed, and I shall do my utmost to maintain it, just as Kayden will. Besides, there are worse fates than being married to a friend. At least among the nobility, marriage is often more a tool for political gain than a joining of like minds and hearts.”

When she glanced up, it was to find Fabian making a face, though to his credit, it was more mild than she rather suspected he felt, and she couldn’t help but chuckle. “That was lesson number two. Lesson number three is that there are always eyes on you. I do not think members of the court would take kindly to being looked at as though you ate a particularly sour apple.” She paused, letting a look of contemplation cross her face, though it did nothing to quell her amusement. “Or perhaps contemplating Cyrus’ endless requests for visitations?”

When his expression turned even more horrified, her laughter morphed into a most unladylike cackle, though judging by his own amused expression, he hardly seemed to mind, crossed arms notwithstanding.

“Dare I ask what lesson number one was, then?”

“Oh, I thought I already told you. Whenever you are facing any nerves, simply imagine the entire court in their smallclothes.”

That time, it was not she who doubled over in laughter, fairly leaning on the bed to maintain any semblance of remaining upright. She grinned, sitting beside him and watching as the tension left his shoulders for what was likely the first time since he had awoken that morning.

After a moment, he finally sobered, though he was still chortling as he turned back to face her. “I should hope that the other nobles are not aware of your… irreverence.”

“I expect I would be run out of the country should they find out. Or, I suppose, in some cases, never hear the end of it.”

“Perhaps, but I assure you that it is something the people might like to know. In fact, had they known, they might have been less likely to march against you.”

“Well, I shall keep that in mind in case I manage to incur the ire of our kingdom once more, then. I doubt there will be a second chance to maintain the people’s trust in me through a political match.”

He chuckled but his eyes were serious. “Perhaps not but they would also be fools to mistrust you without cause in light of all you have sacrificed for them.”

“And you. You did not ask for the crown. You were an artist, open and spirited, free to pursue your own wishes, to love whomever. And now you have allied yourself to me, stepping into the role placed upon you by a bloodline you knew nothing about until you took a stranger at her word.”

“I took the Queen at her word, a far safer leap of trust.”

She waved her hand airily. “Details, my king. But, to speak plainly, you have wed yourself to me, sacrificing any choice you may have had in the matter, and while you are free to have whatever relations you wish, the fact remains that it can only ever be in private. I have no doubt that this is not what you had anticipated for yourself and I apologize for that.”

“There is no need. I made the offer of marriage knowing what it would entail, and like you, I have no intention of doing anything which might threaten what we have given for it. Besides, it is as you say. I would either have to marry you or someone else for political gain. At least this way I can be sure of having an ally and friend.”

She smiled. “Partners, then.”

He took her outstretched hand, managing to keep a solemn expression just long enough to give it a solid shake before a wry grin curled his mouth. “I don’t know if a week ago, I would ever have dreamed of making a vow between a husband and wife like such.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer we seal it with a kiss, then?”

When he laughed again, shaking his head, she grinned, throwing herself back against the bed with a sigh. Oh, he was not wrong in that she still cared for Kayden fiercely and the thought of building a life without him, after so many daydreams of what they would do together, stung, but she did what she had to do.

And if Cordonia could have peace, if her life with Fabian could have the friendship and laughter of the moment, then perhaps it would be worth it in the end.

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When the people of Cordonia speak of King Fabian, it is with reverence and respect. Raised among commoners, having studied and pursued art as a career, unaware of his heritage until his kingdom was in peril, the People’s King delivered harmony to a land torn by strife and conflict since the death of Queen Kendra, brought about peace and prosperity, social changes and moves towards equality that ushered Cordonia into a new age. While scholars debate the details, it is held by many Cordonians that his rule still holds the record as the one plagued by the fewest number of internal conflicts and infighting, that the mourning bells tolled for a full week following his eventual death, and that the respect the Cordonian crown still holds amongst her people is in no small part due to his enduring legacy.

Fewer scholars and citizens alike mention his wife and queen, and fewer still discuss her role in Cordonian history beyond the scandal that suffused her early reputation. Following her scant month as sole queen, won through the vote at one of the most chaotic summits in recorded history and plagued by the threat of civil war throughout, Queen Caterina, once of House Aster, faded into the background soon after becoming co-ruler with her husband. Even the most vicious of rumors surrounding her dissipated in time, and as her husband’s reign continued, her role became that of a supporter, speaking on his behalf and caring for their children, turning from usurper queen to the non-threatening positions of dutiful wife and doting mother.

Those who have devoted true effort towards understanding her, however… The stories they tell are far different. While King Fabian carried out the decisions that brought support and benefits to the common people, he was not alone in their inception or planning. It was she who helped bring about peace with neighboring countries, whose quiet manners but strong will granted her husband the stability and courage to move forward with his goals. It was she who fielded questions and attention those days he needed to step back, to paint or wander the country, who kept his gentleness and spirit alive. It was she who raised their children to believe in stability and equality and above else, peace.

Those who know speak of Queen Caterina as a woman of principle and courage, of patience and understanding. A selfless hero who gave and sacrificed whatever was required, for her king and her country.

#the royal masquerade #play choices #choices #kayden vescovi #fabian rhys #Tina writes stuff.#Tina plays Choices.

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therangersmistress · 5 years

Text

My first go at this thing called writing.

Ok, so, I’ve been reading fanfiction for probably too long considering my age (what can you do?) and I’ve finally decided to try writing my own. I apologise if it’s terrible, but I really enjoyed this. I could’ve written more, and it ends kind of abruptly I know, but I’m dead tired and kind of anxious to get this out there before I keep going with it. Let me know what you think, and if anyone wants to send me asks, please do! :-)

Characters: Bill Skarsgård/Female Reader

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You hadn’t planned on coming. Your main concern when the invitation arrived had been more how much time had managed to pass without you realising than anything else. Ten years. Ten whole years since you graduated, since you left this town for good, left him. And now you’d somehow been roped into going home, all for a little high school reunion. Who even goes to those anymore? Well, you supposed, apparently fools like you.

When you were younger, you’d had this silly notion that one day, when you’d see everyone again, you’d be that woman.

The beautiful woman, with the amazing career and committed partner–the one you see in films. But that wasn’t your reality. Sure, you had a decent job. Your boss was a bit of a dick and the hours could prove tedious but it was something, and it put a cosy roof over your head. You had friends, family you loved, you’d grown into yourself. No longer were you the gangly, coltish looking girl in too-short trousers, a fact of which the men in your life were aware. You just couldn’t help the nagging feeling that something was missing, nor could you admit to the small part of you that whispered it was him.

As you trudged hesitantly up the path to your alma mater, the redbrick entrance looming over you like a warning, all you could do was curse your friend for forcing you into this.

It had taken some heavy bribery, and not a small amount of guilt tripping, but eventually you’d caved when faced with the sad, concerned-eyes of your closest friend. It was a look you’d been getting a lot lately.

Supposedly this trip would be good for you, bring closure. Yet you weren’t so sure. As you stopped at the foot of the entrance’ steps, you closed your eyes, letting out a deep puff of air. This was it. This was the moment you’d been waiting for. The gnawing pit of anxiety you’d felt in the months since you received your invite was almost worse than the sudden realisation that you couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t you breathe! It wasn’t like he would even come to this. No, surely not. Not with who he is now. And the rest in there, well, it’s not that you particularly disliked them, although sure there are a few arseholes you’d rather not see again, it’s just that you’d tried so hard to put this town behind you after everything that had happened, to move on, that being here felt like rubbing salt into your already deep wounds.

You also really didn’t want to see Paulina fucking Engberg’s smug face say “I told-you-so”.

You were jolted out of your impending hysteria by the sound of partygoers. Looking around, you realised the noise had come from inside. Going off of the full carpark, the night air otherwise still and quiet, you assumed you must be the last person to arrive.

“Fuck. I’m late. OK... Stop stalling. You can do this. I’m almost certain he won’t be in there but even if he is, you can fucking do this.”

You took one last moment of peace before the mayhem, straightening out your midi dress, before glaring at the garish blue and yellow banner ahead and marching inside.

Welcome back indeed.

The first thing you noticed was the music.

Why is it that every DJ at every prom, wedding, and apparently high school reunion, plays the same god-awful pop music?

Hovering by the doors to the gym, you glanced around as subtly as you could for any familiar faces, namely one in particular. With your third pan around the room you decided it was all clear and made a swift beeline for the drinks table. You weren’t above accepting help where given, and this kind of night called for it. With a hefty swig of champagne in you, and a careful eye on the crowd, you ambled over to the main table, spotting a stack of labels and pens placed out. Scribbling down your name, you couldn’t quite swallow the chuckle at the irony of having to remind people who you are, at an event that’s sole purpose is to reminisce in shared memories.

Sighing, you resigned yourself to at least attempting conversation with someone, deciding to stick it out for a couple of hours out of courtesy and then getting the hell out of here. You had a lovely bed awaiting you in a hotel downtown after all, and you figured you’d treat yourself to some room service and perhaps a drink or two more as a reward for showing.

After several intensely awkward introductions with old classmates and teachers, you had the uncomfortable realisation that almost everyone here had a plus one but you. You knew you should have brought someone, but after the third friend had denied availability you’d decided that perhaps it would be best to come alone anyway, just in case he did show. Better to keep that train wreck from as fewer eyes as possible.

As the person before you (Megan was it? No Maxine. Perhaps these name tags were good for something) finished their long boasting account of their marriage and how many children they had (“Oh do you want to see a picture? Here. Aren’t they so sweet? You know we always thought you and...”), you could stomach it no longer.

Whipping out your phone (thank god for dresses with pockets), you excused yourself, claiming you needed to make a call, then bolted towards the back door–but not before snatching two flutes of champagne from a startled waiter. Just the quiet of the closed hallway was enough to calm you somewhat as you breathed deeply in and out.

Feeling more relaxed, you decided to head home, your fluffy down comforter calling you, when from the corner of your eye you spotted an old display case shucked up against the wall. Curious, you found a collection of framed photos from across the years. Placing your drinks to the side, you leaned in for a closer look. Basketball, volleyball, football, it was all there. And at the very back, one you hadn’t seen in years. In the middle of a group of boys, he stood. Impossibly tall, impossibly beautiful, even then. With his floppy hair and his big earnest eyes, not to mention that smile, he was the picture of youth. And he was yours.

Not anymore, you thought.

So focused on your reminiscing, you didn’t notice until you caught those same eyes in the reflective glass, that you were no longer alone. Your breath caught in your chest, as you choked out the name you hadn’t spoken aloud in years.

“Bill?”

“I thought I’d find you somewhere around here.”

He leaned down towards you, his breath ghosting over your ear forcing you to shudder.

You stumbled around, heart racing, almost smacking right into his chest before he caught you, his large warm hand stretched over your shoulder. “Woah, easy there”, he chuckled.

God, you forgot what his presence did to you.

You weren’t a hugely tall woman by any means, but it was still a rare occurrence that a man could truly make you feel small. And did he get even more attractive?

As your eyes drifted from his slicked back hair to his sharp angular jaw, his slightly receding hairline that reminded you fondly of his father, you thought he might’ve. The years had certainly done him well, even the faint lines pinching the corner of his eyes suited him.

“Bill”, his name the only thing you seemed capable of saying.

Your mind felt like it had dropped through your throat and into your stomach. It was like being parched, like missing something for so long that when it’s right there in front of you again, you can’t believe it.

“Hello sweetheart. It’s been awhile.”

Some awful sound halfway between a scoff and a snort found its way out of your mouth before you could stop it. Blushing, you tried to recover from your mortification.

“Just a bit, yeah.”

“How’ve you been?” he asked, as he stared at you as intensely as he did ten years ago.

Bill had this way of making you feel like you were the only thing that mattered when he looked at you. It was those Swedish values of his, or maybe just those huge bug eyes you used to tease him for.

“Umm”, you stumbled nervously. You’d prepared yourself mentally for this moment, knowing it was a possibility, yet everything you’d thought you would say had left you.

“I’ve been good thanks, works been good, everything’s umm good. And you?”

Oh god. What the fuck was wrong with you?

“Everything’s good here too”, he said with no little amount of amusement at your loss for words. It had never been a problem when you were younger. If you remembered right, it was quite the opposite, Bill finding many a creative way to silence your constant talking.

Great, so not the time to think about that perfect, fucking full mouth of his.

Ripping your mind back to the present, you realised you’d been staring precisely where your thoughts were for some time now, Bill’s expression far too warm and kind for your comfort.

He had no right to look at you like that. Not after all this time.

Realising he still had his hand on you, thumb softly rubbing your upper arm, you staggered away, searching for those cursed drinks of yours.

Sculling down the rest of the champagne, back faced to him, you scrambled for something to say.

“So, I hear the acting is going well?”

Bill, still so modest, looked down, “it is, thank you. I’ve just finished filming actually, so I’m happy to be home for a bit.”

He paused. “Are you here for long?”

As you went to deny, you couldn’t help but be shocked by the hope you could see in his eyes, hesitant as it was.

You didn’t want to think too much on it, hope was a dangerous thing after all, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious. That treacherous part of you that had held onto his memory all these years roared in agreement. It was getting harder and harder to quieten it these days and this just might break your resolve.

“I’m not sure yet, I hadn’t planned to stay past tonight, but I suppose it could be nice to see the town again.”

Smiling, he walked over to you, every step giving you a better look at his tall frame. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, legs for absolute days. That suit must cost a fucking fortune, you thought.

He snatched the second glass from the table, gulping it down, his Adam’s apple throbbing so enticingly, you wanted to suck your own mark onto it. Licking a drop of champagne off the corner of his lip, he smirked, “I’m so glad”.

Shit, you thought. You don’t know if this is the closure she meant.

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Awesome people I’d kill to have read this:

@lihikainanea

@dreamtherapy

@ill-skillsgard

@skrsgardspams

@elisabethwise

@bae-roman

@inkblotgalaxies

#sigh #Adam's apples though #stay tuned for smutty goodness #bill skarsgard drabbles #right place wrong time #part one

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