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#and I'm too traumatized and demure for all this!

a-strange-inkling · 11 months

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After having their babies, how do Chrissy and Eddie handle the manditory rule of not having sex for 6 wks after giving birth? Based on the NYE fic, I'm gonna guess it's pretty miserable time. 😂

Not well lol after Livvy’s birth, it’s really miserable for Chrissy especially. She experiences that wild hormonal phenomenon of wanting to have another baby immediately after giving birth so she’s pretty keen on sexy times even though she’s still recovering.

Eddie’s on the other end of the spectrum, chivalrous and very traumatized having watched her go through all that kind of pain for so long. So they are 100% listening to the doctor and waiting despite Chrissy’s efforts to seduce him lol

I shouldn’t be snippeting, I’m on hiatus, but I’ve been thinking about this all day…

(rated m below the read more line)

Oh, God help her.

Chrissy stares with her mouth agape, actually drooling as Eddie gently rocks Livvy to sleep in his arms above her, humming and shushing their infant daughter so tenderly she can feel her healing reproductive organs ignite in a blazing fire, her brain screaming internally at the sight.

Gripping the comforter, she writhes in place against the mattress, trying to contain herself. She doesn’t think she’s ever wanted him more as he stands there in just a pair of sweatpants, his lean, corded muscles all curled forward, holding their precious baby safely to his bare chest, swaying her so lovingly.

Something primal and very feral takes over her, making her skin sweat and blood race.

She needs to have him right now!

He must sense her staring because he glances over his shoulder at her warily, his dark eyes all round and innocent, like a baby animal’s. “…You okay?” He whispers in meek confusion.

She has to swallow to answer, or to at least make some sort of noise between her lips “Mmhmmm.”

He frowns, his eyelids lowering as he gives her a scolding, disappointed stare. She bites the corner of her lip. She likes when he’s stern.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he reminds her pointedly, moving carefully toward the bassinet.

“I’m not tired,” she breathes, eyes never leaving him, not for a second.

He tosses her another look, unable to hide his amusement. “…Is this doing something for you? Really?”

She nods with a small whimper as she sits up from her pillow, hugging her knees to her chest for some kind of support. She feels like she is burning internally. “It’s doing everything for me.”

He shakes his head, his loose waves swaying over his bare shoulders as he mutters something under his breath like “unbelievable.”

“She’s asleep?” Chrissy asks him eagerly, eyes sparkling as he gently bends to lay her down.

“Yeah and you should be too,” he hisses sharply, but she can see even in the muted twilight that his neck’s turning bright red.

She drops her chin to her knees, smiling slowly.

“Baby, please don’t look at me like that,” he sighs tiredly when he turns around to face her, having successfully laid Livvy down without waking her.

She blinks up at him demurely, doing that girly, fluttery thing with her lashes she knows he can’t resist. “Like what?”

“Like…” he groans when she leans forward and starts crawling towards him across the bed. She’s just in her silk camisole and underwear. He runs his hands through his hair. “Jesus, don’t do that.”

“But…I just want a kiss.”

“Not right now.” His voice is really, really rough. “Go to bed.”

Chrissy pushes out her lower lip, her eyes growing big and shiny.

“Sweetheart,” he pleads, taking two steps, placing his hands on her shoulders, and squeezing gently. “Don’t do this to me… You’re still like healing and stuff, okay? You just had a baby come out of you two weeks ago…”

“…I want another one,” she confesses quietly, edging closer, ready to pounce.

His eyes widen at that. “Right now?”

She nods, kissing the soft skin just below his belly button. Eddie can’t seem to look away as from her as she slowly rises to her knees, keeping her eyes locked on him, kissing her way up his torso. He makes a deep, desperate noise, but has enough good sense to try and back away. Chrissy snatches his wiry waist with viper-like speed and tows him back to her.

“Chrisssssy,” he reprimands weakly. “This isn’t…you…your hormones are making you crazy.”

Somewhere deep, deep beneath her daze where her last shred of reason dangles for dear life, she does know that, but that’s just not important. “You’re making me crazy.” She counters lowly, hands rising up his back, pulling him closer as she presses her breasts firmly against his chest. “Put a baby in me.”

She watches his eyes roll to the back of his head before he closes them, his whole body trembling with want and restraint. This is all sort of an out of body experience for her, she’s never been particularly sensational at seduction, always too shy and anxious, always letting Eddie take the lead. “Chrissy, honey, you know we can’t do that.”

“Yes we can, I know you want to,” she says excitedly, lifting her gaze over toward the bassinet. “Look at her, Eddie, she’s so beautiful, we have to make more.”

#pray for eddie lol #old haunts snippet #old haunts ask #hellcheer fanfiction #hellcheer #eddie x chrissy #eddissy #munningham #chrissy x eddie #hellcheer fanfic #livvy munson

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mommyashtoreth · 6 days

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what do u think of mommy issues crowley

Tbhhhh I don't really see Crowley as someone particularly Deeply Traumatized (just like Normal Traumatized. We've all been there girl!), especially in a "daddy/mommy issues" sort of sense. If anyone is going to have "mommy issues" related to God, it would most definitely be Aziraphale. Crowley is, at this point, so detached from God that the idea of conceptualizing Them as any sort of parental figure (which is a funny sentence to say about a 6000-year-old demon who also looks fifty) would be quite surreal to her. Meanwhile Aziraphale is like, an adult daughter who's moved out but can't quite shake her parents off her back. She's TRYING to move past it, but that sort of validation is still the only thing she craves. Her "mother" bestowed too much responsibility on her too early in her life and she has never recovered from it. No one ever thinks she has issues because she is demure and bookish and polite, but inside it's tearing her to pieces how much she still wants to please God. This is all part of my ploy to explain why Aziraphale would want Crowley to mommy dom the shit out of her yuristyle, which no one wants to hear about but I'm going to bring up anyway

#like i know crowley gets to be the mommy issues one because she's hot and skinny and everyone kins her #but actually aziraphale deserves conflict outside of 'smol cinnamon roll' too. this is for you angel #christ they're so seren and jez coded. if you don't know what i'm talking about don't worry about it #ask #anon #good omens #gomens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable spouses #ineffable wives #good omens meta

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olderthannetfic · 6 months

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Wish has dragged the "adorkable female hero" criticisms back out of the mud, and I don't disagree with them per se - for me, my main issue is with the fact that so many movies are just incapable of genuine emotion these days and every emotional moment has some sort of crappy "well...THAT just happened" one-liner. But I also feel like peoples' issues with "adorkable" heroes can become quite sexist. One film reviewer I usually like a lot even said "at least Anna and Mirabel have 'reasons' to be awkward because they're sheltered and traumatized," and it doesn't at all sit right with me to argue that the only justification for awkwardness is...trauma? Lots of people are awkward. Do we all need "reasons" to be? What makes Encanto good to me is that Mirabel is awkward but also compassionate and competent, she has a sense of humour but is also a rounded human who is allowed to feel emotions. My criticisms are when "adorkable" heroes aren't allowed to be more than a collection of one-liners and visual gags, not with "adorkable" heroes themselves. It's an issue when peoples' annoyances with "adorkable" heroes end at the point that they're basically just arguing that women heroes NEED to be demure, feminine, modest and serious to be likeable, and...is that the hill we all want to die on? Seriously? And because I'm at it, can we pleaaase stop the facade that old Disney princess movies were subversive bastions of feminist progress. It's not antifeminist to have a fantasy about being rescued by a prince but come on, they weren't intelligent genre deconstructions either. Disney's real era of subversive masterpieces was in the late 80s and then the late 90s/early 00s when Pixar hit the scene, IMO. It's true that Disney isn't as competent as it used to be, but it's not as if "fantasy for fantasy's sake with a straightforward plot, basic to nonexistent morals and themes, and no attempts to deconstruct the genre" is NEW for Disney. That's...most of their old princess movies. And I LIKE the princess movies! None of this is an attempt to shit on them. I know we're all tired of the "it's a movie for children" defense, but I feel like there is some truth to the idea that it's not BAD for a movie to just set out to be a hero versus villain fantasy and not set out to be the next Toy Story, you know? They don't have to have these massively nuanced themes. I'm sure if the old princess movies were released now everyone would complain about them too.

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tathrin · 1 year

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Hi! You know I love your Mirkwood OCs. Can you say a little more about Eregmegil? Backstory? Any secrets? Why does he appear to have become a Gimli fan, after the life you've hinted at?

Oh OH! Eregmegil, yes, I would love to talk about him. I'm entirely normal about the elves of Mirkwood shhh. So, I'm guessing that this is largely in reference to the bit here where he carries Gimli through the trees so that he can get back quickly and find out whether or not Legolas is going to be okay after the orc-kidnapping, because there's no indication given in that story of why exactly it is Eregmegil should go out of his way like that for Gimli, yes?

So, yes: Eregmegil has very strong feelings about people being forcibly separated from somebody they care about, because his whole family was murdered in Doriath in the Second Kinslaying, and he has spent the rest of his life in Green/Mirkwood watching the folks around him lose people they love first in the Last Alliance and then in the long, slow defeat against the creeping Shadow of Dol Guldur. Including Angmeril, Thranduil's wife, who was one of the first elves they lost after the Last Alliance and whose departure was extremely traumatic for the whole forest for a host of reasons.

And it was Thranduil who carried little Eregmegil out of Doriath, having been the only one to hear him crying under his sister's corpse amidst the chaos, and having taken the time and risked his own life and that of his father to pull Eregmegil out and carry him out with them. Little Eregmegil latched-on real hard to Thranduil after that and has basically decided to devote his whole life to Keeping Thranduil Safe now.

But also he has a LOT of feeling about Protective Older Siblings, especially sisters, because his own died trying to protect him from the Fëanorians. So that's why he decides to pry himself away from Thranduil to go look after Rílaerloth for a little, because that's about the only impetus that could make him leave Thranduil when he's not 100% sure that Thranduil is going to be okay.

Hopefully all of those background details will get to come out in Coming Home Under The Trees, which is where I'm doing the bulk of my Mirkwood OC Building, but if you want an advance read of the Gimli-and-Eregmegil-bonding chapter that's going to eventually be included in that story...read on.

*also Eregmegil 100% has one of those oversized anime swords but he's so big no one can quite prove it.

NOTE that this is all rough first draft writing at this point.

Gimli stepped back, his palms raised in surrender. He shook his head at the hands that stretched back towards him. "Nay!" he gasped, his chest heaving in exertion. "Peace, you fiends! I must rest 'ere I fall off my feet."

The elves laughed and returned to their dancing, Legolas pausing just long enough to catch Gimli's eye and raise his brows in a silent question. Gimli nodded—he was fine, perfectly fine! He just needed a moment to breathe, for Mahal's sake!—and Legolas grinned and let himself be pulled back into the merry tumult under the trees.

Gimli brushed sweat-damp curls out of his face and looked around the clearing for a suitable seat. He did not want to go too far from the fire: the night pressed-in dark around the vibrant circle of elvish revelry and while Eryn Lasgalen was a more peaceful place than it had once been, his father's stories about Mirkwood lingered in his mind. Gimli was not keen to go wandering these woods with neither path nor elf to guide him back out of the shadows, not even now that those shadows at last were lightening to match the new name of their lands.

He spotted a likely log lying comfortably within the fire's glow, and Gimli made his way across the grass towards his pending seat with only two interruptions of elves trying to pull him back into the dance. He demurred politely and they shrugged and flitted off to their merriment without him.

The dwarf had to admit that Legolas had not been boasting when he had told Gimli that no one in all of Middle-earth hosted a revel quite as enthusiastically as the elves of Mirkwood. He had scoffed at first, expecting celebrations more in line with the gentle merrymaking he had experienced in Lórien, or the cozy nights of song in Rivendell. What he had found instead was carousing more akin to that which he'd experienced briefly in Rohan, yet somehow more raucous and unflagging. Mirkwood's elves cavorted as though they were going to war with sleep and sorrow both, and each twirl of their dance was a salvo in the battle against solemnity.

Gimli had kept up well, at first; dwarves are experienced revel-makers and they take their celebrations as seriously as they do their crafts or mining. But there comes a point in the night where dwarven celebrations turn from rowdy to melancholic, and in Mirkwood no such slower periods were allowed to dilute the tireless tumult of their festivities. The wine kept flowing, the songs kept rising, and the dancers kept spiraling around the fire as swift as arrows in the wind.

The problem, Gimli had finally determined, was that elves did not know how to appreciate sleep. It was because they did not partake of it properly, he thought, wandering as they did through half-waking dreams rather than sinking fully into slumber like reasonable folk. They did not know how to truly rest, so they simply kept going about their revels long past when all sensible peoples would have taken to their beds—aye, and then woke again without taking nearly enough time for slumber in between!

He was only a few feet away from the log where he intended to rest his feet when he realized that one end of it was already occupied; so still was the elf sitting upon it that, in the shadows at the edge of the clearing his green and brown garb blended almost completely with the foliage around him. Gimli was not sure if his presence would be welcomed or not—anyone sitting solitary at a bacchanal like this was doubtless seeking solitude rather than interruption by a near-stranger—but it would have been impolite to immediately turn aside, so he resolved himself to make a few minutes of polite conversation at least before taking himself off to some other seat and leaving the other to his chosen seclusion.

"Mae govanen," Gimli said with a respectful bow. "Forgive the intrusion," he continued when the elf—Gimli thought he recognized him as one of the guards he had met on his first arrival to the forest, although his head was muzzy enough that he knew it would take him several seconds to place the proper name—gave him a nod in response. He was still dressed in the light molded-leaf jerkin that served Eryn Lasgalen's warriors for armor and sported elegant bracers on his arms, but his sleeves beneath the armor were short enough to expose pale arms that were muscled almost thickly enough to belong to a Man although not, of course, to a Dwarf. His dark hair and white face were striking in the firelight—few of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen were quite so pale, and fewer of them sported such sharp contrast in their coloring—but it was the breadth of his shoulders and the stoutness of his arms that Gimli noticed the most. He was still uncomfortably slim to dwarven eyes, but less so than any other elf that Gimli had met. Had someone chopped his limbs down to a more reasonable length, he could almost have passed for a normal, if unhealthily skinny, person—at least if someone had loaned him a beard!

Realizing he was staring impolitely in his attempt to put a name to the face in front of him, Gimli offered a friendly smile and continued teasingly, "I do not wish to bring merriment with me to where it is unwanted, but if you will allot me a few moments in which to rest my tired feet from the revels you have chosen to eschew, I promise to keep my merry-making to a minimum in the interim and thus refrain from interrupting your repose."

He meant it as a jest, likely to segue into a bit of banter about dwarven endurance or perhaps commiseration about the other's likewise weary toes, but perhaps the elf could not see the grin on Gimli's face beneath his beard for he responded to his words as though they had been spoken in grim seriousness: "It is true, Lord Gimli, I am not much for merriment, but you are welcome to take your rest for as long as you like regardless of however much mirth you might feel or express; your presence brings no distress."

Gimli was taken aback but he hid it well; with another short bow he settled himself upon the lower curve of the fallen branch and stretched his legs out in front of him with a contented sigh.

"My thanks, Master Elf," he said, and finally the name came back to him: Eregmegil, the tallest of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen that Gimli had yet met, although that was not evident while he was seated thus. "You are a most generous host." Gimli glanced sidelong at the elf, but if Eregmegil's pale face evinced any particular feeling it was not distinct enough for Gimli to discern it in the dim shadows at the fire's edge.

As for Gimli, he smiled vaguely as a familiar laugh rose from Legolas's lips above above the nearby tumult, but he made no effort to spot the whirl of his golden hair twirling amid the rest of the cavorting elves. It was enough to know that his friend was happy; enough to sit here in peace and be happy himself.

The dwarf had abandoned his light jest at Eregmegil's words, being much more intrigued by this stoic elf than by his planned banter. "I hope you will not think it over-rude of a curious stranger if I ask why you have come to this revel, then, if you have no care for such things?" He flapped a hand in the general direction of the fire and the frolicking figures circling it. "Surely you would enjoy your evening more elsewhere, if you take no pleasure in such nonsensical cavorting?"

"My king is here, so I am here," Eregmegil said flatly.

Gimli was startled enough that he knew it showed on his face; only the fact that Eregmegil was not looking at him, but rather at the swirl of dancers at the fire, spared him the embarrassment of being seen to give such an impolite reaction. He could not help himself; it was a genuinely startling statement. The elves of Eryn Lasgallen were probably the least conscious of their king's rank as any people in all of Middle-earth, at least any that Gimli had yet met.

Dwarves were not given to standing on unnecessary ceremony themselves, but even at their most casual they were always conscious of their king's status as the king. These elves, by contrast, seemed to treat Thranduil more like a communal father-figure than as a ruler. Legolas and his sister did not even seem to qualify as royalty in the eyes of their people (no wonder, then, that Legolas had been more prone to introduce himself by his land than his lineage!) and while Rílaerloth was at least beneficiary of the respect afforded her as a commander of their warriors, Legolas—despite all of his heroic deeds—seemed to be viewed still as little more than a hapless child by many of his fellows, as though he were the whole forest's little brother rather than Rílaerloth's alone.

This behavior was strange to Gimli, and even after many days spent in company with Eryn Lasgalen's people he was still not used to their casual disregard for rank or ceremony—or so he had thought, until he was confronted by an example of someone acting more according to his expectations. Gimli was intrigued. Thranduil's people regularly showed affection for him, yes, but this was the first time he had seen any of them express the sort of dutiful devotion that beloved kings oft engendered in other lands.

He studied Eregmegil where he sat on the log beside him, but the pale elf's profile was as smooth and emotionless as if he had been carved from white granite.

"Think you that Thranduil requires a guard, then?" Gimli asked. "I thought the threats had been driven from your trees." He could not quite resist the urge to squint into the darkness past Eregemegil's shoulders—broad for an elf, Gimli noted, but still scrawny as a sapling by dwarven standards—although he was certain that the flickers of ominous motion he saw between the black silhouettes of the trees were only the result of his eyes and the flickering firelight playing tricks on him.

He was almost certain, anyway.

"Many of them have been," Eregmegil acknowledged. "The largest are all destroyed, and the rest have been hounded far from our halls, at any rate." His voice was no more coarse than any elf's but there was something to the tone of his words that made them seem more brusque than what Gimli was accustomed to hearing from his friend's people; a flatness that stood in stark contrast to the musical lilt that Gimli had begun to think was an innate part of elvish tongues.

"And yet you stay to guard him?" Gimli observed curiously. "That is admirable devotion."

For a long time Eregmegil stared at him in silence, so that Gimli began to think that he had offended the tall elf. He cast his mind about for a suitable apology, but before he could make one, Eregmegil broke their gaze to look back into the fire instead and said:

"He carried me out of Doriath."

"Doriath?" Gimli repeated, the half-formed phrasing of his repentance dashed instantly from his mind. He knew the name of Doraith, and recognition made his heart sink. "Ahh…"

"It was the Fëanoreans who brought tragedy to Doriath, in my case," Eregmegil said. The glance he slotted sideways at Gimli seemed to shine with a glimmer of momentary amusement at odds with his otherwise impassive mien before he faced forward again, stoic as ever.

Gimli nodded and tried to resist the urge to breathe a telltale sigh of relief.

"I was a child when they came, too small to fight," Eregmegil continued. His bland voice carried a bitter undercurrent. "My sister grabbed me and ran, but they pursued. She tried to fight, but she was no warrior. They dashed her knife from her hand and stabbed her with it. We fell, she curling low to protect me still. They stabbed her again with their long swords—stabbed us both as we lay there, but her body shielded mine and I was cut only along the arm." He gestured to the offending limb and Gimli was startled to see what seemed to be a long, thin scar along the pallid flesh. "She was cut deeper. I lay there, pinned beneath her like a caged bird, and watched as her fae left her eyes. I felt her grow cold in my mind and against my skin as we lingered there in the dark. She died, and I lay there trapped by her dead weight and my own sorrow."

Gimli's breath caught in his chest and strangled whatever insufficient words of sympathy he might have offered. Eregmegil did not seem to notice; he spoke matter-of-factly, although his eyes flashed with dark shadows in the firelight.

"It was Thranduil who pulled me from the ruin of her body," the tall elf continued calmly. "He heard my tears, somehow, even over the clash of battle that echoed through Menegroth's halls. Bleeding, his surviving father dangling half-dead at his side, his hands filled with the bloody swords of his living and dead father both, the Fëanoreans close on his heels, Thranduil still stopped and pulled me from my sister's arms. He set me on his shoulders and carried me, carried both Lord Oropher and myself, out from the ruin of Doriath; somehow still fighting to defend us all despite his burdens and his wounds and his own losses; carried me away from the darkness of our dying home and back into the light of the world beyond."

Gimli did not know if it was some trick of the firelight reflecting off of Eregmegil's grim grey eyes, or a result of the many droughts of heady elvish wine he had quaffed this night, but for a moment he could almost see it: the great halls of lost Menegroth, once a glorious testament to the marvels that could be crafted when elf and dwarf worked hand-in-hand, now incarnadined with blood and darkened with betrayal; its proud torches sputtering or gone out altogether, cut-down by enemy hands; too many fair elvish bodies strewn about the fastness of the Thousand Caves, cut down cruelly by blades of elvish make wielded by elvish hands; and one small child, sobbing into his sister's silent sleeve. Then from the shadows staggered Thranduil, his golden locks stained ruddy with blood, bare blades gleaming in both hands, one arm wrapped tight around his father's waist with Oropher's arm dangling limp across his shoulders, both elves bleeding heavily from many wounds; the elder nearly insensate and the younger wild-eyed and desperate, yet still in enough possession of his senses and his compassion to stop to help a fearful child…

(If the younger Thranduil in Gimli's imagination looked more like his son than like himself, well, what of it?)

He blinked, and the vision vanished, and there was once more only dark trees looming before his eyes. He cleared his throat, and managed to murmur something that expressed his sorrow for Eregmegil's losses without revealing the depths of his horror at such suffering at the hands of those who should have been kith or even kin rather than bloody-handed enemies; dwarves had fought amongst themselves in ages past too, of course, but somehow the level tone of Eregmegil's recitation made Gimli's skin crawl more than any tales of those regrettable conflicts had ever done.

(Maybe it was just that he kept picturing Legolas stumbling down those bloodstained halls rather than his father.)

Eregmegil accepted Gimli's admittedly less-than-eloquent sympathies with an impassive nod. Wishing to draw both his and the elf's thoughts to lighter places, Gimli cleared his throat again and asked, "So, ah, what was next? I confess I do not know the history of this forest as well as I should, but I believe that Thranduil and his father settled somewhere nearby before venturing forth to Greenwood, is that not so?"

"Yes," Eregmegil said. "We fled to Lindon. I was reunited with my surviving relations there. They made a home among the Green-elves and the other refugees who settled in Ossiriand." He was looking at the fire again rather than the dwarf, or perhaps at the dancers; his blank expression was as unreadable as his voice. "But Thranduil and Oropher were not content to live there among so many Noldor, not after the fall of Menegroth. Not after the Kinslaying. And nor was I. They soon left to go east, to find the Silvan elves who still lived there—here," he amended, tilting one palm up to gesture at the forest around them.

There should have been more bitterness in Eregmegil's voice, Gimli thought; bitterness or scorn or something. This cool, too-calm recital made him shiver despite the warmth of the fire.

"Oropher hoped to find somewhere to live in better ways, more elvish ways; the ways in which our people lived before the Valar meddled and the Enemy made war upon us," the elf continued in his passionless way. "My relatives would not leave the new home they sought to craft in Ossiriand, but I already knew then that my place would henceforth be ever at Thranduil's side. I joined with the handful of other Sindar who chose to leave Lindon and seek-out the elves who had never joined the pilgrimage of the Valar; who had never been coaxed to abandon their native lands or customs."

"Were you not still a child?" Gimli asked, surprised. He was no expert on elvish history, of course, but he had been curious enough about Legolas's homeland to question his friend about its founding, and he had thought that he had a better sense of the timeline than this. Had not Oropher left Ossiriand within only a few years? Perhaps Eregmegil had simply been older than Gimli had pictured him in the story of Doriath's destruction; he might have been only a little shy of his majority, like Gimli himself had been when his father had joined Thorin's expedition to Mirkwood all those years ago: Old enough to feel that he was being left behind, but still seen as a child in his people's eyes.

Eregmegil nodded, however. "A child, yes, but not a fool," he said in a dry voice. "I did not ask for permission, and so my relations could not deny me. I left with my lord and came to Greenwood." He looked around at the tall, dark trees that rose into the black night sky far overhead, beyond the heavy leaves, and his grey eyes were as flat as the dullest stone that Gimli had ever carved. He did not smile at the trees. Had Gimli seen any elf in this forest fail to smile at their trees, even the most shadowed and twisted of them? And these trees were bright and merry in comparison to many of their fellows, as though they too shared in the delight of the elves for their firelit revelry.

"And have you been here ever since?" the dwarf asked carefully. "Or are you newly-returned, now that the Shadow has lifted?"

"I left these woods only once, to follow my lord to war in Mordor," Eregmegil replied. "It would take more than Shadow in the trees to tear me from his side. Wherever Thranduil goes I will follow him, even unto the breaking of the world and yet beyond."

Gimli could not help but shiver at the weight of those words. There may have been no oath sworn—or then again there may have been, in days long ago before Gimli's father's father was born to hear it—but there was a surety to Eregmegil's voice that was as unshakable as any vow. He meant what he spoke with every fiber of his elvish fae, and he would damn himself to the Void before he forsook that intent.

"And yes," Eregmegil continued, and once again there seemed to be the faintest flicker of amusement across his grim lips, gone so fast that Gimli could not be sure he had not imagined it, "also to these merry revels that you seem to find so trying."

"I do not find them trying in the least," Gimli protested. "I quite enjoy them, in fact—I am simply tired!" He shifted on the log and scowled petulant. "Well and after all, I am much shorter than the other dancers," the dwarf added, feeling unaccountably as though he needed to justify himself. "I must work twice as hard as them to keep-up with the pace of their cavorting. No wonder I tire before the rest!" he blustered, despite knowing very well that the heart of the problem was not the speed of the dance nor the unseemly length of elvish legs, but rather the fact that elves simply had no proper appreciation for the merits of slumber, strange creatures that they were. Gimli was a stout and hearty dwarf, and justly proud of his strength and endurance; he was simply mortal, that was all, and as such he needed to sometimes refresh himself in ways that these flibbertigibbet elves would never comprehend.

"I stand corrected," Eregmegil murmured, and Gimli was certain this time that he detected a flicker of genuine amusement ghosting briefly across the elf's thin lips.

He harrumphed a grudging acknowledgement of Eregmegil's words and propped his chin in his hands, the better to watch the dancing. His eyes slowly drifted out of focus and he sank into something that was halfway to a doze, content to let his thoughts float as aimlessly and amiably as the blurry figures of the cavorting elves in front of him. As tiring as elvish dancing could be for a mortal participant, there was something restful about watching them too.

"Do not mistake me, Master Dwarf," Eregmegil said after a while, shaking Gimli from his reverie. "I do not dislike the revels of my people." Eregmegil nodded at the fire, and the whirling shapes of the other elves cavorting wildly around it, their lithe forms coming slowly back into focus as Gimli blinked. "I simply prefer to enjoy them from the edges here, where I can find pleasure in their delight without feeling compelled to manifest any of my own."

Eregmegil's gaze slanted back to Gimli, and now the dwarf could see a hollow darkness behind the mirror-like grey eyes that fixed so coolly upon his own. Had it been there all along, unnoticed, or had speaking of the past brought the vacuous shadows to the forefront? Gimli could not say, but no more could he unsee them now. "Whatever joy I once found in dance or in song went out of this world when my sister's spirit fled to the Halls of Mandos," Eregmegil continued flatly. "But it pleases me to see my people's joy, and in this bitter world that is comfort enough for me."

In the months since Legolas first heard the gulls at Pelargir, Gimli had developed a habit of skirting all mention of the Sea. It was thus not difficult for him to restrain the urge to ask why Eregmegil had not sought the healing of the Undying Lands that so many of his people sailed away to find when their spirits fell to the burden of such unendurable grief. He did not need to ask; he already knew the answer. Eregmegil surely knew as well as any elf—and far better than any dwarf, even one named elvellon—that the wounds of his soul could be staunched in fair and distant Valinor. But leaving would mean leaving his king's side, which would be the most grievous wound of all. And so he stayed, and carried the shadow of his losses with him, and endured.

Not for the first time, Gimli thought that the unmeasured lives of the elves was far from the enviable gift that so many mortals seemed to think them. If they had lived solely in joy, then their years unending might be something to covet—but the more time Gimli spent with elves, the more tragedy and sorrow he saw surrounding them. He had never brooded on the inevitability of Mahal's Peace the way so many Men repeatedly shied-away from their own inevitable end, had never feared the inevitability of his own ending; but sitting here at the edge of the firelight with Eregmegil, Gimli thought that rather than simply inevitable, there might be a certain comfort in the knowledge that one day an end would come to him. There would never be a day when he sat, two Ages of the world removed from the deaths of his kin, separated from the joy of his people by the weight of his own grief.

A flash of gold in the firelight caught Gimli's eye and he smiled instinctively at the sight of Legolas whirling like a wild thing in his friends' arms. The dwarf's tired feet ached just from looking at the roister of the dance, but like Eregmegil he was pleased enough simply to watch the unflagging joy of those who spun.

Legolas had described Mirkwood revels as though they were weapons against the darkness that hung over their forests, and Gimli had thought he had understood what his friend meant before, but he realized that it was only now, sitting beside grim and grieving Eregmegil, that he truly grasped the meaning of this defiant cheer.

The elves of Mirkwood—or Greenwood, or Eryn Lasgalen, or whatever else one chose to call this forest; the shadows that had defined it for so long hung over it still, even as they finally began to lessen, whatever name it bore—they were not less cognizant of elvish sorrows than their grander kin; in some ways perhaps they knew those sorrows better, for there was nothing to insulate the simple elves of Mirkwood from their weight, nothing but their own deliberate scorn for the sadness that strove to claim them.

The world wished for them to sigh in sadness? Then they would sing, sing until their voices gave out and dance until their shoes were worn clean through and the very trees around them reverberated with the echoes of their weaponized joy.

#i have a normal amount of feelings about mirkwood elves #eregmegil #mirkwood #greenwood #elves #my stuff #my writing #thranduil #gimli #rilaerloth #angmeril #lotr #legolas

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mayorasmusings · 10 months

Note

So I was randomly surfing tumblr on the persona tag and I’m pleasantly surprised to find someone with Persona 2 on their list. I swear this is rarer than a 4 leaf clover, and the fact you have DDS up there as well. I’m gushing at this rn, truly a rare find.

I also saw your previous post, what would you say were your first impressions on the Cast of IS and what you think about them now? (Anyone really if you only do one but I was super curious)

- ☕️

I'm really happy to read that!

Persona 2 and DDS have a very special place in my heart.

I played DDS before I discovered that there was a game that was banned for homosexuality and Hitler. As an edgy teenager, I burned a copy of P2:IS with the translation patch and played it on my hacked PSone. Those were the times!

But, then I cried buckets, while playing this game, got obsessed with it, discovered how actually queer and traumatized I fucking was - and until this day, I am still in love with it 🥲

But without further ado:

First impression

Maya: bubbly, annoying manic pixie dream girl with a weird outfit making her big tiddies look bigger than they already are, but she has a goddamn pretty face.

Yukino: the butch friend, who shows off her toughness.

Tatsuya: he's too cool for school and is that bad boy every girl is after

Lisa: She's that "I-can-change-him!1"-girl, who goes after a boy who obviously has other things on his mind. She's sweet though.

Eikichi: annoying guy having a rivalry with the bad boy, all the girls are seemingly after.

Jun: he's too sweet for this world. I really feel sorry for him. Especially the way he was manipulated.

Impression now

Maya Amano: I love her very much. She's that fun, loving big sister everyone would want to have. Even if a little insensitive, here and there. Especially when telling that a stuffed animal would laugh at someone expressing their emotions healthily, but I blame it on her dad and the time, this game came out.

Yukino: she has a heart of gold and deserves so much better.

Tatsuya: he's caring, sweet, protective, and like everyone else, has wonderful voice-acting (Takehito Koyasu ❤️). Also, he's quite insecure and vulnerable. I really feel sad for him, having to bear the burden of knowledge in the parallel universe in EP.

Lisa: she's so sweet, caring, smart, and talented. Also, it surprised me, that she uses drugs and prostitutes herself. Her character was an interesting take, on how Westerners view Japanese people and how dehumanizing it can be, to reduce Japanese women to that submissive, demure, and prudish stereotype. Also, interesting to see her dad resembling Steven Seagal in that context.

Eikichi: having a father like this, I don't wonder about anything. He's creative, loving, and has more depth to him than he lets on.

Jun: unchanged. I really love the way he interacts with everyone and how elegant and delicate he is. Though, I do see someone with a barbed tongue, if called for, showing that he also got something from his mom's attitude. Not only from his dad's sweetness. Also, all those TatsuJun-feels 🙈

All in all, it is a very well-written cast I adore and really like to return to. I wish there was an anime or any type of follow-up to where everyone is grown up, but I'm also fine, with being left to my own imagination. Which I will unabashedly share with you.

In my AU, everyone gets to live.

Maya, Shunsuke, and Yukino open up their own little PR agency.

Needless to say that Yukki and Shunsuke are happy together.

Maya starts dating Katsuya at some point and it's quite a chaotic, but loving relationship.

Tatsuya becomes a social worker for homeless young people - being a cop wouldn't really help anyone, he decides. He is a great streetworker, who empathizes with the rather unruly parts of society. At some point, he starts working in a prison, helping the inmates with their problems.

Jun, with the backing of his parents, owns a flower shop. He and Tatsuya are happily married.

Eikichi has a successful band and is still together with Miyabi.

Lisa becomes a cut-throat-businesswoman and works as a boss of a casting-agency for pop-music. Dating hot dudes, she drops, whenever they get too annyoing.

#headcanons #persona 2 #p2is #eikichi mishina #jun kurosu #tatsuya suou #lisa silverman #maya amano #katsuya suou #yukino mayuzumi #shunsuke fujiyama #mine

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redcaplf · 10 months

Text

This is too angry for the MAL forums, but I've got a bone to pick with this week's Ai no Idenshi.

To recap: It's the near future and 10% of the population are "humanoids", either AIs in human-looking chassis or cyborgs, I'm still unsure. Our protagonist is Sudo, a doctor of Humanoid medicine / maintenance, especially of the digital brain.

His patient this week is Yuuta, a young piano prodigy dealing with serious rage issues. He hyperfixates on his piano, lashing out at interruptions and being generally surly and miserable when he's not playing.

Sudo's AI assistant recommends "tuning his emotional system," which Sudo bluntly calls "forcing a change in his personality." The AI demurs, comparing it to how medication or behavioral conditioning help humans with issues of the central nervous system. The process of fine-tuning the emotional mechanisms of a Humanoid just happens to be faster and generally safer than what humans do to achieve the same thing.

Yuuta's mother is concerned, but after a full-on brawl at school, they go through with the treatment. Afterward, Yuuta is much calmer, able to control his emotions and interact with his peers, even make friends. And he still loves piano, though, he thinks his music sounds a little different now.

Sudo is later listening to music; his nurse comments that it's beautiful, and he explains that it's Yuuta, from before his treatment. The tone is melancholy.

[Sidenote: way to completely fail at informed consent, DOCTOR. You explicitly had concerns about how the treatment might impact his music, yet not a word to Yuuta or his mother. WTF]

Now, I'm sure my reaction wasn't intended. This series is sci-fi speculation on lots of ethical quandaries, like "is altering someone's memories justified if it gives them the tools to make their lives better?" Or "is it better to reboot your backed-up memory now before the virus renders you non-functional (and only lose two weeks of time), or continue to make memories as you slowly deteriorate, traumatizing your loved ones, and eventually reboot having lost over a month of time?" "is there a functional difference between a living person and an AI with extensive programming?" And the question posed in Yuuta's case is based on a long-standing belief about the nature of art and artists.

BUT, speaking as a fellow neurodivergent creative who also struggled with emotional regulation and often spiraled into rages as a kid:

FUCK YOU, stop scaring people away from medicine!

Sudo never says it outright, but he's skating right up to the line of "MeDiCaTiOnS KiLl ArTiStS' cReAtIvItY!" and that's just irresponsible. This kid is not happy, and if you think his all-consuming rage is necessary for a good performance of Mendelssohn, maybe you don't deserve to hear it!

The idea that real ART exclusively comes from suffering, that madness/mental illness is a divine gift to creatives is fucking poisonous and has likely killed people. It's certainly perpetuated misery. I don't want to hear it from someone who's ostensibly pledged to Do No Harm.

I don't know what I would have been, had I been diagnosed before college. I do know that therapy and antidepressants have markedly improved my life. They have kept the low moods bearable. If they've kept the highs from reaching their potential, I have neither noticed nor cared. I'll take a reliable 7 over once-in-a-blue-moon 10 any day.

The idea is also just plain wrong. It's hard to do anything creative when your body chemistry keeps you dysfunctional. I think Hannah Gadsby said it best: "We have the sunflowers precisely because Van Gogh medicated."

Also, in light of current workers' issues and writers' strikes: No one should have to sacrifice their life or their well-being to make great art. Happy, healthy people create better art than they do starving and hungry. We should appreciate the artists as much as the art.

#anime #Ai no Idenshi #Gene of AI #Nanette #Hannah Gadsby #writing #art #support the artist #mental illness #I've been writing this for goddamn hours I hope it makes sense

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bkdotblog · 1 year

Text

"RSVPlease," S3 E8

The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City Season 3 Episode 8 Recap

My Title: “Danna...?"

My rating: 2.6 out of 5 my father's obituaries

Support for Lisa Barlow: Very strong

<><><>

AHH! We open the scene with Lisa Barlow's terrifying sons. The family is sitting around their black and white kitchen. Lisa, perhaps sensing the presence of Satan, suggests that a better relationship with God might make their lives "a little easier." The older one demurs: There are many ways to be spiritual, mother. You can meditate, for example, or run your own YA hair gel company.

The youngest one vibrates with malevolent intentions. Lisa's husband is also there. He is the largest of the four but offers the bare minimum in terms of presence.

Lisa, Jen, and Whitney hit the slopes. Must we see winter sports in every episode? Jen and Lisa barely make it down the hill on skis. Whitney is deft on a snowboard. They meet up on some bluff overlooking the most gorgeous mountains God has ever made.

"Heather escorted me from her house the other day," Whitney says, due to Whitney's defending Lisa in their ongoing squabble. Emphasis on escort: Whitney says Heather "physically turned me around." A little dramatic, but that's our girl. So why is Heather offering Whit soprano in the Gay chorus?

Hearing that Whitney came to the defense of her character, Lisa looks like she is going to burst into tears of joy.

All three women share grievances with Heather's behavior as of late. Even Whitney, who doesn't have anything specific to blame Heather for other than not being supportive in her hilling journey. "I just shared with you that I've had all this trauma that I'm working through," Whitney says, "And when I have stirred the pot or been messy, that's how I learned how to behave." The other women are like... OK...

We transition next to Chez Shah, where it appears Jen's husband or the show's fabulous producers are gonna go ahead and host a barbecue for the househusbands. It's a "no-wife zone!" Shah declares. Thanks for letting me know because I am only interested in wife zones, and am too happy to skip this sequence!!

Who the SWEET fuck cares?

Who the FUCK is "Ernesto, Danna's husband"????

????????

OK, let's move on...

In another snow-white kitchen across town, Meredith is making a "little snack" with her sister, niece, and nephew, who are in town from Chicago. There is nothing more important to Meredith than fahmlae, pronounced with a Chicago accent that twinges on Scottish. Meredith's megatwink son Brooks loomed large on the first two seasons of the show but has since been off in New York. And we mustn't Marks' invisible daughter, who may very well be in the room with us right now.

This is how many of them it takes to cut a single lemon:

Meredith recalls herself recalling the traumatic events of her past year — her father dying, her nephew's mental health issues — at the Season Two reunion. But how lovely now that the family can gather together happily to cut a single lemon! Lisa Barlow's God is good.

The children are dismissed from the scene as Meredith commands them to take a place of white bean salad to "Unkie" who is upstairs, and she is alone with her sister Myra, pronounced Meera. The two discuss Myra's son, who last year attempted suicide gruesomely. Meredith has a very purely emotional moment in her confessional.

But the conversation quickly turns to Lisa thank GOD. Apparently their husbands convened at their all-male no homo hang and Lisa's husband shared concerns about Meredith's attacks at Lisa. Meredith of course is on the defensive. For a woman who famously refuses to engage, I think Meredith enjoys when she feels forces are conspiring against her. Or maybe not. I actually don't think about Meredith very much at all, if I'm being Frank N. Honest!

Heather Gay is Bottega Veneta boots on the ground at her first choir rehearsal. At the Gay Choir, everybody who is not a woman wearing luxury Italian-made fashions is a Tom of Finland drawing come to life.

When Good Angie picks up Jen and takes her to rehearse, she gossips about the chatter at a recent spin class: apparently Danna (remember Danna?) said that Jen went off on Bad Angie and was "bullying" her at the choir auditions. If there is one thing that will cause Jen to fly into a rage, it's accusing her of flying of rages.

Danna reveal:

Jen Shah reaction:

(As a side note: I love love love this confessional look on Jen as she is pleading her innocence in a federal fraud trial. "Would a guilty woman wear this?")

Heather is wearing a little cropped green vest over body con dress that I think looks great. Bad Angie, Whitney, and Lisa arrive, all separately. Other people are also there. Everybody sits in a great big circle and the hunky choir director makes a speech.

When everyone stands to do vocal warm ups, Heather takes Lisa aside to, it seems, thank her for coming and salvage what is left of their good feelings toward one another. But then in the confessional, Heather says this:

BK's Take: Heather is quickly losing credibility for me. We mustn't forget: She has admitted to mean-girlhood in the past. And at the risk of applying an overly simplistic and misogynistic behavioral analysis as having "mean girl" energy, Heather is committing the number one act of high school clique leaders since time immemorial: Fault finding with someone's character on the basis of not vibing with them. Despicable!

We reach the cliff before this commercial break when Lisa cuts to the bone of the argument and asks Heather if she likes her. Remember 10 seconds ago, when Heather said she hated her?

She pauses for one hundred years and one full commercial break before she responds:

Uhh... kinda, mama!

BK's Take, Evergreen: Lisa is right!

They go around in a few more circles before addressing the rumors spewed against Lisa at the Garbage Whore Party a few episodes ago. Whitney is brought into the fray -- a crucial misstep in deescalating any sort of conflict, as Whitney is volatile when she's in the process of hilling. While another voice is added to this din, the rest of the choir continues to rehearse mere feet away.

At one point Heather just... walks away! And rejoins the chorus. This is how this particular fight ends: With a song. From the varying pious bellies of the Mormon Church's misfits and outcasts:

(Eagle eyes will notice Lisa Barlow is in her defensive stance)

What is the climate in Salt Lake City? At the beginning of the episode we were on the powder white slopes, and now Jen is meeting Good Angie at a rooftop pool? I hope I don't sound foolish but will anybody explain this to me? Simultaneously, the episode's breakout star DANNA visits Meredith at home, assembling a common formation to this franchise: Doubles screaming matches, where each team is comprised of a housewife and friend-of.

Last ep we had Good Angie and Jen against Bad Angie and kind of Whitney. Now it seems like reigning champs Good Angie and Jen have advanced to their next challenge: Danna and kind of Meredith.

But first, Jen appears in her villainry talking about how the stress of being indicted for fraud has her craving a vacation...

...and I brace myself for some dumb ass budget locale knowing Jen can't leave the country and doesn't have a ton of money anyway, and then she reveals where she will be taking everybody, and are you ready ladies?, grab a big tote and a single carry-on duffle, because las amigas, we are flying down to San Diego town!

It gets worse, because they're staying in Good Angie's friend's house. "And it's close to the beach!" she says, beaming.

BK's Take, Peeved: We the people have had enough of these AirBnb ass vacations. Please take us somewhere where the ladies don't have to share bathrooms — I am begging! Hotels are FINE! Bravo can figure it out. They do it in Potomac all of the time!

Good Angie (who is becoming Mid Angie... she's been put on watch) and Jen decide to break the news to Meredith by FaceTime, assembling a back drop of inflatable palm trees to trick her into thinking they're somewhere tropical. (Like San Diego.)

"For all she knows, we're in Hawaii right now," Good Angie says of their setup:

When Meredith reveals who is with her, Jen's face cracks.

Good Angie lists off the ladies who be going to San Diego — basically the main cast plus herself — before Jen cuts in. "I would invite you Danna, except I heard you were talking shit, girl."

Danna respond plainly that she doesn't like how Jen talks to people. Maybe "bullying" is not the right word, but it seems to me like Danna takes issue with the way Jen can shout down people or escalate an argument very quickly. Jen responds by hanging up and then... stomping out of the pool and yelling?

Poor Jen. Looks like she could use a vacation. Luckily for her, we'll all be together in San Diego soon — friends, lovers, enemies, bloggers, Mid Angie, and Danna...? Thank you for reading! –BK

<><><>

Gay Imagery

I really loved this fit on Hedda. If you are someone feeling alienated by Heather's fake ass behavior this season, please get in touch with my support group.

#heather gay #Lisa barlow #rhoslc #real housewives of salt lake city #real housewives #recap #danna

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thedetectiveofinaba · 3 years

Text

@demure-defiance continued from this ask:

He'd look ever so faintly hurt, for a moment... But then he'd grin, completely forgetting how very much demonic that could look.

"Really, Detective? I'd like to think I'm a better person to work with than just 'non-agonizing'. But, I suppose I have to take what I can get."

The facade of arrogant demonhood fell as fast as his expression did after he said it. A joke that hadn't landed, in his own head- thus, instead, blunt honesty.

"...That was too close. We got lucky, there- gave a lot of people a chance at getting some semblance of a life back, and a lot more that will have the worst of it being trauma and therapy. It's not them going back to whatever they had, quite. But it's better than their alternatives."

“Extremely funny, Reo Takahashi. You know how I am fine with your company for the mutual trust of not kicking the bucket during the rogue missions like this and when I ask your help, not on how you are only ‘non-agonizing’. You’re one of the most useful work associates I have had in a long while and it shows in the speed this task is done.” She knew how he was most likely kidding, but she was as bad as ever in reading the intent between the lines in that moment. While she did get some seconds later how he was only kidding, she’d already been the stoic Shirogane heiress most knew her as.

She sighed and mentioned how instances like this were why she’d want to have other saving graces than her speed and senses in knowing where the god-damned demons were. “I’d like to be known as other than the heiress who has a stroke of luck - demons have found a way to insult that as well. I don’t know if they actually have spouted that slander in your presence. The worst they will have is probably three months of nightmares and then asking their nearest doctor for a professional to deal with that. Trust me, I have seen several people go through the same procedure and all stages of grief in a varying order.”

Then again, at least the worst had been a traumatic afternoon and a showcase how Naoto was able to curse a demon with Hama and mask it as her throwing a hand grenade at it. At least two of the almost dead victims seemed to believe it...

#1/4 angel!au #/the perks of a group verse is that she's awake again & i want to yell on my girl #friendship: tba / mostly demon!reo & 1/4 angel!naoto (demure defiance)#rp thread #rp continuation [let us continue]#continuing thread [let us continue]

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