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#anyway!! this has been my salt!!

moonstonediaz · 1 year

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idk my whole stance on the “will they/won’t they” in regards to buddie canon is just. it’s loud, it’s oddly ironic, that these are the only two main’s on the show that are S I N G L E. still! in season sex six! that their relationship statuses have basically run parallel to each other, that they keep trying and failing to find a romantic partner. so let’s look at the other side of the coin. what’s the other option? introducing yet again brand new love interests for both buck and eddie and having these people be their endgame relationships?

eddie? who has always held his cards close to his chest, is extremely protective over his son and who he gets close to, who has already tried dating the seemingly perfect woman for him and his son?

buck? who’s going to be a harder sell than ever now that he knows not to settle? who’s going to be looking for someone that accepts him just as he is, someone that compliments him perfectly, who accepts his relationships with the firefam, with chris and eddie, without complaint?

if this were season 2, 3, or hell, even season 4, i’d say yeah maybe we have time for all that. but we’re nearing the end of season SIX and there have been no new love interests brought in. and i don’t foresee 911 being a show that runs for 20+ seasons. i mean it could i guess but like. we’re in it. the meat of the sandwich. narratively, i don’t see it making sense for them to spend precious time cultivating new endgame relationships for the two of them. they’d likely have to run them at the same time, parallel to each other. yet again. which would be a tell in its own right that they were actively avoiding buddie canon.

i’m not saying they absolutely won’t do that, i have no idea what their actual plans are. i’m just saying they’re boxing themselves into a corner. a great big rainbow-filled flaming gay corner.

#apparently this has been a hugely controversial topic this week? if my 10 minutes on this app since the episode aired is any indication #it’s easy to catastrophize and create villains of the show runners but at the end of the day we don’t know until we know #they’re also known liars. they’re not going to give any answers wrt buddie canon in an interview with half a season left to go #take whatever they say with a grain of salt #with several grains of salt actually #a lot of y’all see (1) image with (1) woman and think ‘goddamn she’s pregnant with eddie’s baby and their getting married. i’m going to kms’#they’re*#anyway if none of this makes sense it’s bc everyone in my office was just behind me at once and i was trying to rush through this #in short. buddie canon 2k24 #buddie #911 fox #t talks

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long-lost-mcguffin · 7 months

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brazilian/polynesian cole who uses capoeira and haka dance elements in controlling the earth, singing and chanting over the rocks and dirt crumbling. his mother couldn’t teach him properly before she died, but he hopes she’s looking down, smiling and proud of him for incorporating their culture into the fight. lou is SO proud that sometimes he runs right into danger trying to record his son fighting using battle dances

#ninjago #cole brookestone #take this headcanon with a grain of salt because i am white and dont have a whole lot of experience aside of seeing some clips online #i do know that both dances are a form of battle dances #anyway #biffs babbles #this idea has been spinning in my head for at least a month

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xhanisai · 11 months

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I can’t believe I have to say this again.

But like.

Do not leave comments that bash on the actual show whilst ‘complimenting’ my fanworks. It does not make me happy at all IN FACT I really HATE it when people do that.

I create stuff for this fandom because I adore the show with all its flaws and everything. I grew up with the show and I adore the characters so much. So when I receive comments or tags saying stuff like “Ugh if only the writers knew how to write like that” or “You should be in charge of canon cos canon is shit lol”, it just fucks up my mood and it makes me feel grossed out.

There are millions of things out there to write or say to other people about their work without having to bring down canon and what the actual professionals have worked on.

Keep your gripes about the show off my work.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug and chat noir #ml fandom salt #i've been getting too many of this crap for years and some of them just get too personal #like for example in one of my AUs for fun i had marinette be able to speak chinese in a different dialect #and i had someone who praised me for it BUT bashed on the show for making marinette clueless about mandarin #which kinda pissed me off cos like #i have chinese in me but don't speak any of the languages there so does that mean i'm invalid too? lol #and in one of my recent writing i had someone lament that they wished i was writing for the show #like okay i know you mean it in a good way and you're not directly bashing the show #but the reason i can get away with creating and characterising the way i do is because i am working on them all ALONE #with no zag or money or producers getting in the way #and the stuff i create is always aimed to an audience that #is at least 15 years old #anyways if i keep going the tags will be longer than the river thames #my point is #keep your gripes private or off of other people's work #i wanna hear about what you LIKE about what i've created #not what the show has failed to do for you and whining about it

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revvethasmythh · 7 months

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An idle thought, really, but I think it's interesting to see fandom latch on the metaphorical interpretation of things like Laudna's relationship with Delilah as a metaphor for addiction or Imogen's psychic powers as a metaphor for either chronic pain or queerness, but there's much less attachment to or discussion of the characters who explicitly, canonically dealt with exactly those things. By which I mean Scanlan's substance abuse, Veth's alcoholism, and even Ashton's chronic pain (which feels like it was discussed much more before it was confirmed canon, and seems to be brought up mostly just as ship fodder these days). I suppose one could argue the devotion to the metaphorical interpretations lies in the fact that it's an interpretation of canon as opposed to being explicitly so, meaning there's more wiggle room to project a personal interpretation onto it. Explicit canon is more concrete, less malleable to the individual viewer. Still, if we're going to talk about addiction now in a metaphorical sense via Laudna, it leads me to wonder if we will see further discussion of the characters who explicitly dealt with addiction (Veth and Scanlan), as opposed to Laudna's purported allegorical version of it

#take this with a grain of salt because I was not directly involved in the fandom when major things re: veth and scanlan's #substance abuse issues were ongoing for the most part #so if there WAS a wider discussion of this that has happened in fandom I might just not know about it #that said in my experience it has not come up much at all #so even if there was discussion you rarely see it come up in the ongoing reception of the characters #which may just be an effect of WHO those specific characters are #i.e. two consecutive sam pcs (explicitly) vs now a marisha pc (in the metaphorical sense)#because I am familiar with scanlan often being called unfair and veth often being called selfish #but re: laudna many of her decisions (see: killing bor'dor) have the blame shunted onto other characters (orym) to absolve her #of having made those decisions to begin with #neither veth nor scanlan have ever been shown that kind of leniency in the fandom that I know of #particularly as it pertains to their very real struggles with addiction #ANYWAY this is not going into the maintag lol. lmao even #like am I fan of the comparison to addiction? eh. it doesn't quite feel like it fits. like it's not a perfect comparison #but like I'll play ball with it a little I guess since it's been brought up in canon

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punkeropercyjackson · 4 months

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Ciswomen and i are attracted to men in completely different ways.I'm a Percy Jackson selfshipper and one time i was explaining to my ex mutual that i hate the 'skater boy' headcanon because it erases his actual punkness to make him a poser and she said 'Forget skater boy Percy,what about surfer!Percy?With sun kissed and sea salt wavy hair' and i had no clue what she meant.For starters,i headcanon Percy as afrolatino and have since before we'd even met so to me he wouldn't have either of those features to begin with.For seconds,ex bestie,what in the goddamn hell is sea salt wavy hair

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yellowocaballero · 10 months

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At this point you've written at least four different roleswap AUs, so I was wondering if you had any thoughts or takes about how a roleswap AU should be? - someone who's planning on making a roleswap AU

Please don't remind me. I'm embarrassed about this. I know I need to write other things. I don't know why the AU concept is so incredibly fun to write. I can't explain it. Roleswaps are very easy to write and a lot of fun and involve being a freak about everything. Who wouldn't write 10 of those bitches.

But yes, as someone whose roleswap AUs are like 9 out of her 51 fics, I feel qualified to talk about this. These are just my own opinions and takes, and other people might do it differently - if you write roleswaps too, feel free to add in your two cents!!

Before sitting down to write literally anything I always figure out the rules of the story. Writing is little more than a nonstop series of decisions, and if you abide by the rules of your story or characters then your decisions will be coherent and cohesive. By rules I don't mean worldbuilding - I mean the internal logic of the story and the characters. "X character will never explicitly say how he's feeling" or "the leads have to both win and lose every encounter".

I find establishing writing rules for roleswaps especially important - it's figuring out exactly how the roleswap works. Here are the ones that I find important, and kind of the process:

Decide what is swapped. Is it more of a universal swap, personality swap, backstory swap, chronology swap, or alignment swap? No matter which one you choose, all of these things are probably going to change anyway, but there has to be one central point for each character that guides your decisions. Are you actually swapping the narrative role in the story, or are you just changing it? You have to be really precise and have a very good idea of what exactly is swapped, and it has to be consistent throughout the story. It can't just (just) work on what you'd like to see, it has to be exactly the same between characters.

Decide the point of divergence. Sometimes that point is pretty abstract (She's a teenager in the 90s instead of the 20s). Sometimes it's much more specific, just one moment (He developed his superpowers at this moment instead of that). The point doesn't have to be immediately obvious, but you should know it - I did a backstory swap ages ago, and it seemed like a complete change, but like 150k in I dropped that a character dropped out of the police academy instead of completing it and that her entire life changed from there. If the swap is more abstract, then maybe it's just a series of smaller decisions - character A has these seminal points in his story, and I'm swapping him with character B, so here's what character B did during these seminal points instead, and how it changed him and his narrative.

Decide who the character is. This might be more personal, but for me, I think of the character as...there is a central tenet of them, of who they are as a person, that does not change no matter what. That's three or four traits of who they are, that you will not change, and that's what makes their swapped life their own instead of the OG dude's. But there's a lot of traits and behaviors around that core personality that's the result of their environment, backstory, and experiences. That's what should change. It's about figuring out how these essential traits + what is swapped + the point of divergence = an entirely different character and story. The roleswap you'll end up with will be a combination of all of these things: how the essential aspects of a character mix with what's swapped to create an entirely new environment and set of behaviors, which cause a chain reaction to create something new. As a writer, you sit down and say, "I'm keeping these parts of the character, I'm swapping out those parts, this new mix changes these points in their backstory, this results in this new person".

This is more of a guideline, but it's the most important to me: your characters have to be recognizable as the character. The reader shouldn't go, "this OC is making some weird choices". The reader should go, "I don't know how, because he's the exact opposite of his canon self in every possible way, but somehow he still feels like my favorite character". This is why you isolate those basic traits before changing the rest - so long as your character is still who they are deep inside, then they still feel like that character. And that's the fun of the story. You're selling something insane, and the reader is buying it.

It's a lot of really heavy character work. You have to really understand the characters you're writing - the less I get the original character, the more issues I'm perpetually having. I tend to fly fast and loose with characterizations, but when writing roleswaps I have to refer back to canon and the source material a lot ("In canon he did X thing, with his newly different backstory how would that decision change?"). The more you're rooted in canon, then the funkier and more divergent you can get.

Personally, I like to play a fun little game I call: how exactly opposite can I make this character until he stops feeling like this character? I Sometimes my goal in writing is "how deeply can I ruin this story". This is not a good game and people should not play it. I find that the lazier I get about getting in touch with the canon character, about keeping track of the canon decisions, and about following these guidelines, then the more difficult a story is to write. If you structure a story well then it's easy to write, and roleswaps are pretty easy. Thanks for the question!

#my asks #my writing #ok I have no idea how to politely say this #so ill say it in the tags where the rude words live:#if you only think about fanon characterizations when figuring this stuff out #or if you write a characterization based on their role in the relationship dynamic #then youre not gonna be able to do this stuff well #if you write a good guy as a bad guy then you have to #honestly engage with their flaws and their terrible decisions #you can't just swap one archetype for another #and people work so backwards in characterization that. ajksldfjsadf it's 9am too early for salt #sorry I was thinking about my tma roleswap while writing this and #its giving me tma fandom trauma flashbacks #never been in a fandom so completely uninterested in any of its characters. at all. it was insane.#anyway the way im seeing ppl write vash im getting the impression that #people aren't registering that he's the biggest compulsive liar in anime #he is nonstop lies. all of the time. stamp's closer to deflection but. pure lies this man.#i read ppl writing vash and im like MAN you bought what this guy was selling hard huh #anyway roleswap vash has a bridge to sell you and gaslights to girlboss

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zeb-z · 8 months

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ok listen. you're badboyhalo and having the worst week of your life. you're willing and wanting to give anything, anything, to get your kids back. forever, your crush/enemy/friend/date partner?/ president sits you down and asks you to marry him. he's on a drug that makes him manically happy and has an extreme level of brainwashing for federation purposes.

you consider for the briefest moment saying yes, because you're drowning in your grief and hard in bargaining, but it won't do anything to help bring the eggs back, forever doesn't know anything. forever wants the eggs back as much as you do, the real one at least, you know this.

you're surrounded by roses. you ask him what you can do to help him, what he needs, asking the forever that you know is in there somewhere. any other personal feelings aside, he's your friend and he clearly needs help. he asks you to marry him again. he tells you to stop making some noise that he's clearly hearing through auditory hallucination. you just want your kids back, you keep telling him this, until he snaps and starts shooting mines under both of you.

forever is still out of his mind. your kids are still missing. the roses are burning.

bad said no to the proposal, of course he did. that's not forever, the kids are gone, this is no time or place for such a thing even if forever was himself. but I don't think forever asked because he feels "opposite than what he usually feels" under the pills. he's manic and under the influence and half brainwashed - he wants every day to be the best day.

and how heartbreaking is that? that bad is only being proposed to while forever is out of his mind. that forever wants bad to say yes because that would make the day the best day ever for him. that under any other circumstances, on that bench with the roses all around them, it might have been something good?

#idk man like take this with a grain of salt too know but l'm taking a stand against every twt user that's been annoying me with their takes #you can't view all of this under a purely platonic lense because of the way they've been playing their characters. you also can't see it as #oh forever finally proposed!' because he's not! it's a whole fucked situation there's nuance and complications and so many factors #like don't be upset bad said no forever is clearly not himself? and who knows if he would even say yes in the first place?#but also on the opposite side like chill out? they've never been read as purely platonic? it's all fucked yeah don't be weirdly like #idk it's the people who are like that's fucked up and you're fucked up for watching it' with no media literacy. like yeah we're all aware #anyways. my view is that they've got incredibly complicated feelings towards eachother. forever would be happiest marrying bad #bad might not say yes under normal circumstances because again they've got a whole complex situation. he isn't sure of his own feelings on a #good day #idk. I need to write an essay about this and what bads internal monologue or thoughts might have been because #it's like. he's angry at forever. he has feelings for forever. he doesn't want to be with him but he doesn't want him with anyone else #there's a world where he could marry forever and be happy. but not here and not like this. idk #these are my interpretations at least!#either way the whole bench scene was phenomenal well done #z speaks #qsmp #mcyt #bbh #forever #q!bbh #q!forever #reposting this so my organizational tags work ✌️#4halo

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an-actual-attack-helicopter · 4 months

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Is there an official name for Dragon Prince fans? If not, I have some proposals:

Xadians

Zymmers

Aarafans

Elfies

Mages

Dragonlings

Friends of Ethari (for queer fans in reference to the old term “friend of Dorothy”)

Dra…GOATs..? 🤷

Yeahhh no. I ran out.

#the dragon prince #fandoms #I’m so fucking obsessed with tdp #little side tangent for y’all:#I recommended the dragon prince to my teacher (as one does)#and I have been for a while #and today she said she had like two of her college friends recommend it to her #and I was like WHAAAAT?????#so anyway we are taking over the world guys.#therefore we need a motherfucking name.#every fandom worth its salt has a name for its fans.#aarafans

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confetti-cat · 1 year

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Each, All, Everything

Words: 6.5k

Rating: PG

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love, Romantic Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A retelling of Nix, Nought, Nothing.)

The giant’s daughter weeps, and remembers.

—

She remembers the day her father first brought him home.

It was a bit like the times he’d brought home creatures to amuse her while he was on his journeys, away on something he called “business” but she knew was “gathering whatever good of the land he wanted”. Her father had brought back a beautiful pony, once—a small one he could nearly carry in one huge hand. One for her, and not another for his collection of horses he kept in the long stables. She wasn’t as tall as the hills and broad as the cliffs like he was, so she couldn’t carry it easily, but she heaved it up in both arms and tried nonetheless. (And—she thought this was important—stopped trying when it showed fear.) She was gentle to it, and in time, she would only need speak to it and it would come eat from her hand like a tame bird. She’d never been happier.

(The pony had grown fearful of her father. Her father grew angry with anything that wasted his time by cowering or trying to flee him. There was a terrible commotion in the stables one day, and when she sought her pony afterward, she couldn’t find him. Her father told her it was gone, back to the forest, and he’d hear no more of it if she didn’t want beaten.)

(There was a sinking little pit in her stomach that knew. But when she didn’t look for the best in her father, it angered him and saddened her, so she made herself believe him.)

The final little creature he brought one day was so peculiar. It was a human boy, small as the bushes she would sometime uproot for paintbrushes, dressed in fine green like the trees and gold like her mother’s vine-ring she wore. He seemed young, like her. His tuft of brown hair was mussed by the wind, and his dark eyes watched everything around him, wide and unsure and curious.

When he first looked at her from his perch on her father’s shoulder, he stared for a long moment—then lifted a tiny hand in a wave. Suddenly overwhelmed with hope and possibilities (a friend! Surely her father had blessed her with a small friend they could keep and not just a pet!), she lifted her own hand in a little wave and tried to smile welcomingly.

The boy stared for another long moment, then seemed to try a hesitant smile back.

“This,” boomed her father, stooping down in the mist of the morning as he waved away a low cloud with one hand, “is what I rightly bargained for. A prince, very valuable. The King of the South—curse his deceitful aims!—promised him to me.”

“He looks very fancy,” she’d said, eyes wide in wonder. “How did the king come to give him to you, Father?”

“How indeed!” the giant growled, so loud it sent leaves rattling and birds rushing to fly from their trees. He slowly lowered himself to be seated on the weathered cliff behind him and picked up his spark-stone, tossing a few felled trees into their fire-basin and beginning to work at lighting them. “Through lies and deceit from him. When he asked me to carry him across the waters I asked him for Nix, Nought, Nothing in return.”

The little boy shifted, clearly uncomfortable but afraid to move much. Her father scowled, though he meant it as a smile, and bared his yellowed teeth as he laughed.

“Imagine his countenance when he returned to find the son he’d not known he’d had was called Nix, Nought, Nothing! He tried to send servant boys, but I am too keen for such trickery. Their blood is on the hands of the liar who sent them to me.”

Such talk from her father had always unsettled her, even if he said it so forcefully she couldn’t imagine just how it wasn’t right. Judging from the way the boy curled in on himself a little, clinging meekly to her father’s tattered shirt-shoulder, he thought similarly.

“Nix, Nought, Nothing?” She observed the small prince, unsure why disappointment arose in her at the way he seemed hesitant to look at her now. “That is a strange name.”

Her father struck the rocks, the sound of it so loud it echoed down the valley in an odd, uneven manner. He shook his head as he worked, a stained tooth poking out of his lips as he struck it again and again until large sparks began alighting on the wood.

“His mother tarried christening him until the father returned, calling him such instead.” He huffed a chuckle that sounded more like a sneer, seeming to opt to ignore the creature on his shoulder for the time being. “You know the feeling, eh, Bonny girl?”

The boy tentatively looked up at her again.

The fire crackled and began to eat away at the bark and dry pine needles. A soft orange glow began to creep over it, leaving black char as it went. With a sudden, sharp breath by her father, a large flame leapt into the air.

“It is good that she did so. He is Nix, Nought, Nothing—and that he will remain.”

—

Nix Nought Nothing grew to be a fine boy. Her father treated him as well as he did the prized horses he’d taken from knights and heroes—which was to say that the boy was given decent food and a dry place to sleep and the richest-looking clothes a tailor could be terrified into giving them, which was as well as her father treated anything.

Never a day went by that she was not thankful and with joy in her heart at having a friend so near.

They spent many days while her father was away exploring the forest—Nix would collect small rocks and unusual leaves and robin’s-eggs and butterflies, and she would lift him into high trees to look for nests, and sometimes stand in the rivers and splash the waterfalls at him just to laugh brightly at his gawking and laughing and sputtering.

Some days she wished she was more of a proper giant. She wasn’t large enough for it to be very comfortable giving him rides on her shoulder once he’d grown. She was hesitant to look any less strong, however, so she braided her golden curls to keep them from brushing him off and simply kept her head tilted away from him as they walked through the forests together.

He could sit quite easily and talk by her ear as they adventured. Perhaps she would never admit it, but she liked that. Most of the time.

“I’m getting your shoulder wet,” he protested, still sopping wet from the waterfall. He kept shifting around, trying to sit differently and avoid blotching her blue dress with more water than he already had. “I hope you’re noticing this inconveniences you too?”

“Yes,” Bonny laughed. “You’re right. I hope there’s still enough sun to dry us along the way back. Father won’t be pleased otherwise.”

“Exactly. Perhaps you should have thought that through before drenching me!” he huffed, but she could hear the grin in his tone even if she couldn’t quite turn her head to see it. He flicked his arm toward her and sent little droplets of water scattering across the side of her face.

Her shoulders jerked up involuntarily as the eye closest to him shut and she tried to crane her neck even further away, chuckling. Nix made a noise like he’d swallowed whatever words were on his tongue, clutching to her shoulder and hair to steady himself.

“You’d probably be best not trying to get me while I’m giving you a ride?” Bonny suggested, unable to help a wry smile.

“Yes. Agreed. Apologies.” His words came so stilted and readily that she had to purse her lips to keep in a laugh. As soon as he relaxed, his voice grew a tad incredulous. “Though—wait, I can’t exactly do anything once I’m down. Are you trying to escape my well-earned retaliation?”

“I would never,” she assured him, no longer trying to hide her smile. “I’ll put you in a tree when we get back and you can splash me all you like.”

Somehow, his voice was amused and skeptical and unimpressed by the notion all at once.

“Really? You’d do that?” he asked, sounding as if he were stifling a smirk.

She shrugged—gently, of course, but with a little inward sense of mischievousness—and he yelped again at the movement.

“Well, it would take a lot of water to get a giant wet,” she reasoned. “I doubt you’ll do much. But yes, for you, I would brave it.”

He chuckled, and she ventured a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Bonny and brave,” he said, looking up at her with a little smile and those dark eyes glimmering with light. “You are a marvel.”

It would probably be very noticeable to him if she swallowed awkwardly and glanced away a bit in embarrassment. She tried not to do that, and instead gave him a crooked little smile in return.

“Hm,” was all she could say. “And what about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m Nothing.” The jest was terrible, and would still be terrible even if she hadn’t heard it numerous times. “But you are truly a gem among girls.”

If by gem he meant a giantess who still had to enlist his help disentangling birds from her hair, then perhaps. She snorted.

“I don’t know how you would know. You don’t know any other girls.”

“Why would I need to?” His face was innocent, but his eyes were sparkling with mirth and mischief. “You’re the size of forty of them.”

The noise that erupted from her was so abrupt and embarrassingly like a snort it sent the branches trembling. She plucked him off her shoulder and set him gently on the ground so she could swat at him as gently as she could—careful not to strike him with the leaf-motifs on her ring—though it still knocked him off his feet and into the grass. He was laughing too hard to seem to mind, and she couldn’t stifle her laughs either.

“Well, you are really something,” she teased, unable to help her wide smile as she tried futilely to cast him a disapproving look.

That quieted him. He pushed himself to sit upright in the grass, and looked out at the woods ahead for a long moment.

“You think?” Nix asked quietly.

She smiled down at him.

“Yes,” she laughed softly. “Of course.” When he looked up at her, brown eyes curious, she held his gaze and hoped he could see just how glad she was to know him. “Everything, even.”

A small smile grew on his own face, lopsided and warm. He ducked his head a bit and looked away from her again, and embarrassment started to fill her—but it was worth it.

It often weighed on her heart to say that more than she did. She supposed she was the type of person who liked to show such things rather than say them.

She had a cramp in one of her shoulders from trying to carry him smoothly, but the weight on the other one—and on his—seemed far lighter.

—

She remembered the day her father came home livid.

She couldn’t figure out what had happened. Had he been wounded? Insulted? Tricked? He wouldn’t say.

He just raged. The trees bent under his wrath as he stamped them down, carving a new path through the forest. He picked up boulders and flung them at cliffsides, the noise of the impacts like thunder as showers of shattered stone flew in all directions.

She was tending to the garden a ways off—huge vines and stalks entwined their ways up poles and hill-high arbors made from towering pines, where she liked to work and admire how the sunset made the leaves glow gold—and suddenly had a sharp, sinking feeling.

Nix was still at his little shelter-house at their encampment. Her father was there.

Dread washed over her.

“Riddle me this, boy,” her father boomed, in the voice he only used when he wanted an excuse to strike something. “What is thick like glass and thin as air, cold but warm, ugly but fair? Fills the air yet never fills it, never exists but that all things will it?”

There was silence for a long moment.

...Silence. The answer was silence. Her father was trying to trick him into speaking.

Her hands curled around the bucket handle so weakly it was a surprise she didn’t drop it. Her father could crush him if he felt he had the slightest excuse.

Hush, hush, hush, her mind pleaded. Her hands shook. For your life and mine, hush—

There continued to be silence for a moment—and then, Nix must have answered. (Perhaps in jest. He tended to joke when uncertain. That would have been a mistake.)

There came the indescribable sound of a tree being ripped from its roots, and the deafening thunder of it being thrown and smashing down trees and structures.

Her whole body tensed horribly, and all she could see in her mind’s eye was nightmares.

No, she thought weakly.

Her father kept shouting. But not just shouting, addressing. Asking scathing rhetorical questions. She felt faint with relief, because her father had never wasted words on the dead.

I should have brought him with me. The thought flooded her body and left room for nothing else but dread and regret. I could have prevented this.

The stables were long and broad and old. Once, they had housed armies’ steeds and chariots. Now, they were run-down and reinforced so nothing could escape out the doors. The roof was broken off like a lid on hinges at intervals so her father could reach in to arrange and feed his horses.

Her father had seen no reason to keep the stalls clean. When one was so packed with bedding it had decomposed to soil at the floor level, the horse was moved to the next unused stall. There were so many stalls that she barely remembered, sometimes, that there were other ways of addressing the problem.

“The stable has not been cleaned in seven years,” her father boomed. “You will clean it tomorrow, or I will eat you in my stew.”

She couldn’t hear Nix’s response, but she could feel his dread.

Her father stormed away, more violently than any storm, and slowly, after the echoes of his steps faded, silence again began to hang in the air.

That night, it was hard to sleep. The next morning, it was hard to think.

She did the only thing she could think to do in such a nervous state. She brought her friend breakfast. His favorite breakfast—a roast leg of venison and a little knife he could use to cut off what he wanted of it, and fried turkey-eggs, and a modest chunk of soft brown bread.

When she arrived with it, he was still mucking out the first stall. There were hundreds ahead of him. He was only halfway to the floor of the first.

“I can’t eat,” Nix murmured, almost too quietly to hear and with too much misery to bear. “I can’t stop. But thank you.”

The pile outside the door he’d opened up was already growing too large. Of every pitchfork-full he threw out, some began to tumble back in. He was growing frustrated, and out of breath.

Why would her father raise a boy, a prince, only to eat him now? Her father was cunning; surely he’d had other plans for him. Or perhaps he really was kept like the horses, as a trophy or prize taken from the human kingdoms that giants so hated.

Was this his fate? Worked beyond reason, only to be killed?

Pity—or something stronger, perhaps, that she couldn’t name—stirred in her heart. A heat filled her veins, burning with sadness and a desire to set right. Would the world be worthwhile without this one small person in it?

No.

This wouldn’t end this way.

She called to the birds of the air and all the creatures of the forest. Her heart-song was sad and pure—so when she pleaded with them, to please hear, please come and carry away straw and earth and care for what has been neglected, they listened.

The stable was clean by the time the first stars appeared. When she set Nix gently on her shoulder afterward, he hugged the side of her head and laughed in weary relief for a long while.

—

She remembered the lake, and the tree.

“Shame on the wit who helped you,” her father had boomed. He’d inspected the stable by the light of his torch—a ship’s mast he’d wrapped the sails around the top of and drenched in oil—and found every last piece of dirt and straw gone. Had he known it was her, that she could do such a thing? She couldn’t tell. “But I have a worse task for you tomorrow.”

The lake nearest them was miles long, and miles wide, and so deep that even her father could not ford it.

“You will drain it dry by nightfall, or I will have you in my stew.”

The next morning, soon as her father had gone away past the hills, she came to the edge of the lake. She could hear the splashing before she saw it.

Nix stood knee-deep in the water, a large wooden bucket in his hands, struggling to heave the water out and into a trench he’d dug beside the shore.

When she neared him and knelt down in the sand, scanning the water and the trench and the distant, distant shoreline opposite them, Nix fell still for a moment. She looked at him, hoping he could see the apology in her eyes.

“Can I help?” she asked.

He shook his head miserably.

“Thank you. But even if we both worked all day, we couldn’t get it dry before nightfall.” He gave her a wry, sad smile, full of pain. “The birds and the creatures can’t carry buckets, I’m afraid.”

It was true. They could not take away the water.

But perhaps other things could.

She stood and drew a deep breath, and called to the fish of the rivers and lake, and to the deep places of the earth to please hear, please open your mouths and drain the lake dry.

With a tumult that shook the earth beneath them all, they did. The chasm it left in the land was great and terrible, but it was dry.

Her father was livid to see it.

“I’ve a worse job for you tomorrow,” he’d thundered at Nix as the twilight began to darken. “There is a tree that has grown from before your kind walked this land. It is many miles high, with no branches until you reach the top. Fetch me the seven eggs from the bird’s nest in its boughs, and break none, or I will eat you before the day is out.”

She found Nix at dawn the next day at the foot of the tree, staring up it with an expression more wearied than she’d ever seen before. She looked up the tree as well. It seemed to stretch up nearly to the clouds, its trunk wide and strong with not a foothold in sight. At the top, its leaves shone a faint gold in the sunlight.

“He is wrong to ask you these things,” Bonny said softly. Her words hung in the air like the sunbeams seemed to hang about the tree. There was something special about this place, some old power with roots that ran deep. “I’m very sorry for it.”

“You needn’t be,” Nix assured her. His countenance was grey, but he tried to smile. “But thank you. You’re very kind.”

She looked up the tree again. Uncertainty filled her, because this was an old tree—a strong one. Even if it could hear her, it had no obligation to listen. “Will you try?”

He laughed humorlessly. “What choice do I have?”

None. He had none.

He could not escape for long on his own—he could not be gone fast enough or hide safely enough for her father not to sniff him out. The destruction that would follow him would be far more than he would wish on the forests and villages and cities about them.

She, however, bit her lip.

She slipped the gold vine-ring off her hand, and rolled it so that it spiraled between her fingers. It was finely crafted, made to look like it was a young vine wrapping its way partly up her finger.

“This is all I have of my mother,” she said quietly. “But it will serve you better.”

Before he could speak—she knew him well enough to know that he would bid her to stop, to not lose something precious on his account (as if he weren’t?)—she whispered a birdlike song, and pleaded with the gold and the tree and the old good in the world to help them.

When she tossed the ring at the base of the tree (was it shameful that she had to quell a sadness that tried to creep into her heart?), it writhed. One end of it rooted into the ground, and suddenly it was no longer gold, but yellow-green—and the vine grew, and grew, curling around the tree as it stretched upward until it was nearly out of sight.

Nix stared at her with wide eyes and an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it made her ears warm.

She smiled slightly and stepped back, tilting her head at the vine.

“Well?” she said. He was still staring at her with that look—some mix of awestruck and like he was trying to draw together words—and it made her fold her arms lightly and smile as she looked away. She quickly looked back to him, hoping faintly that her embarrassment wasn’t obvious. “You’d best hurry. That’s still a long way up.”

He seemed to give up finding words for the moment. Nix glanced up the tree, now decked with a spiral of thick, knobby vine that looked nearby like uneven stairs.

“Give me a boost?” he asked with a bright grin. “To speed it up.”

She laughed and gently scooped him up in both hands. “A boost, or just a boost?”

He beamed at her. “As high as you can get me,” he declared, waving an arm dramatically.

She laughed and shook her head. ”Absolutely not. Ready?”

Nix nodded, and she smiled thinly and poured all her focus into a spot a good distance up the tree. With a very gentle but swift motion, she tossed him upward a bit—and he landed on his feet on the vine, one shoulder against the bark, clutching to the tree for support as he laughed.

“A marvel!” he shouted down to her as he climbed. “Never forget that!”

The sun was nearly setting when he descended with the eggs bundled in his handkerchief. He was glowing.

He triumphantly hopped down the last few feet to the ground.

A moment after he landed, a soft crack sounded. He froze.

Slowly, he drew the bundle more securely into his arms against him and looked down. There, by his foot, was a little speckled egg, half-broken in the grass.

She put a hand over her mouth. Nix clutched the rest and stared.

A grievous pain and numbness slowly filled her heart, and she knew it was filling his too.

His shoulders began to shake, and his eyes were glassy.

“Well,” he laughed weakly. ”...That’s it. That’s... that was my chance.” The distress that overtook him was like a dark wave, and it threatened to cover her too. He only shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for—for helping me.”

For everything, she didn’t give him a chance to add. He was looking at her with the eyes of one who might say that. She couldn’t afford to be overcome with the notion of saying goodbye now.

“No,” she said. Her voice was quiet, at first, but it grew more resolute. “It won’t end this way.”

He blinked up at her, still clutching the other eggs to his chest. She looked down at him, then across the stretch of forest to their home.

Without a word, she gently picked him up and set him on her shoulder. Her jaw tensed as she strode quickly through well-worn paths of the forest, walking as fast as a horse could run.

Once home, she set him down. He was still looking at her questioningly. Her heart beat faster in her chest, and she hoped he couldn’t see the anxiousness rising in her and battling with the excitement.

“I will not let him have you,” she announced firmly. The trees and hills all around were witness to her promise. “Grab what you need. We’ll leave together in the hour.”

—

She‘d barely had time to fix her hair, grab her water flask, and decide it would be best this time of year to go south.

Her father’s footsteps boomed closer across the land.

—

They fled.

They ran, and ran, and struggled and strove, and she called for the help of anything she could think of that would have mercy on them.

Her comb grew into thorns, her hairpin into a hedge of jagged spires. Neither stopped him. Her dress’s hem was in tatters and sweat poured from her brow when they were finally safe.

Her flask lay behind them, cast down and broken, its magic used up.

Her father—her father—lay stretched out motionless in the flooded plain behind them, never to rise again.

—

There was a tiny spark of hope they had that they clung to. A hope of a future, of restoration, of amending the past and pursuing peace—of a life worth living, perhaps far, far away from things worth leaving behind.

(“I’ll go to the castle,” he’d said, his voice brimming with nerves and hope and uncertainty and sadness and an eager warmth. It made her heart try to mirror all those emotions alongside him. “I can tell my mother and father who I am. I’d still recognize them, even if they don’t know me. They’ll take us in, I’m sure of it.”)

He set out into the maze of village streets, assuring her he’d ask for directions and be back promptly. She stayed back by the well at the edge of the town so not to alarm anyone, too exhausted to go another step, but full of hope for him. She would wait until he returned.

(And wait. And wait. And wait and wait and wait and dread—)

The castle gardener came to draw water, and—as if she weren’t as tall as the small trees under the huge one she sat against—struck up a conversation with her about the mysterious boy who’d fallen unconscious across the threshold of the castle, asleep as if cursed to never wake up.

(The spark didn’t last long.)

—

She remembered when he could move.

“Please,” she whispered, as soft as her voice would go. “Please, if you can hear me. Wake up.”

(“Oh, dearest,” the gardener’s frail wife had murmured to her when the kind gardener brought her home to partake of a bit of supper. “I’m afraid they won’t let you in as you are. Would you let me sing you a catch as you eat?”)

The gardener’s wife was frailer by the end of it, but her heart-song could change things, like her own. Instead of towering at the heights of the houses, she was now six feet tall by human reckoning, and still thankful the castle had high halls and tall doors.

(Their daughter, a fair maiden with a shadow about her, had watched from the doorway.)

Nix Nought Nothing lay nearly motionless in the cushioned chair the castle servants had placed him in. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was in a deep sleep.

He was still smaller than she was, but not by much. He seemed so large, or close. She could see details she’d never noticed before—his freckles, the definition of his eyelashes, the scuffs and loose threads in his tunic.

The way his head hung as if he could no longer support it.

She held him gently—oddly, now, with both her hands so small on his arms and an uncertainty of what to do now—and wept over him. She sung through her tears, her heart pleading with his very soul, but to no avail. He did not wake up.

He didn’t hear her—likely couldn’t hear her. All around him, the air was sharp and still and dead. Cursed.

Still, her heart pleaded with her, now. Try, try. Don’t stop speaking to him. Remember? He never stopped trying.

“You joke that you are nothing," she said, with every drop of earnestness in her being. "But I tell you, you are all I had, and all I had ever wished for.”

There was power in names. She knew that. But was his even a proper name? It really wasn’t—though it was all he had.

It was all she had as well. She had exhausted everything else close to her. There was nothing left to call on, to plead with, but him.

“Nix Nought Nothing,” she said softly. “Awaken, please.”

Her voice, no longer so resonant and deep with giant’s-breath, sounded foreign in her ears. It was mournful and soft like the doves of the rocks, and grieved like the groan of the earth when it split.

“I cleaned the stable, I lave the lake, and clomb the tree, all for the love of thee,” she said, her voice thickening with tears. A drop of saltwater fell and landed on his tunic, creating another of many small blotches. “And will you not awaken and speak to me?”

Nothing.

—

She didn’t remember being shown out of the room. Her vision was too blurred, and her mind was too distraught and overwhelmed. The next thing she could focus on enough to recall was that she was now seated on a stiff chair in the hall. Someone had been kind enough to set a cup of water on the little table beside her.

The towering doors creaked softly behind her, and at last, someone new entered. She looked over her shoulder, barely able to see through the dry burning left behind by her tears.

A man and a woman stood in the door. They were dressed in fine robes, and looked like nobles.

"What is the matter, dear?" the woman asked, looking over her appearance with eyes soft with pity. She came close, and her presence was like cool balm, gentle and comforting. "Why do you weep?"

The gold roses woven in the green of the woman's dress swam in her vision as she dropped her gaze, unsure what to say. These people seemed kind. But were they? Would they send her out from here, unable to return to him?

They would be right to do so. She was a stranger here, and Nix could not vouch for her like he'd planned.

"No matter what I do," she finally said softly, "I cannot get Nix Nought Nothing to awaken and speak to me."

In one moment, only the woman stood there—in the next, the man was beside her. The air was suddenly still and heavy like glass, and it felt as though there was a thread drawn taut between them all for a moment.

"Nix Nought Nothing?" they asked in unison, their voices full of something tense and heavy and sharp. When she looked up, nearly fearful at the sudden change in their tone, their faces were slack and pale.

Something stirred in her heart. Look. What do you see?

Green and gold. Their wide eyes were a familiar warm brown.

—

Now, things are changing.

According to the servant who'd been keeping an eye on him, all from the kingdom had been offered reward if they could wake the sleeping stranger, and the the gardener's daughter had succeeded. It was a mystery how it had happened—by whom had he been cursed? Her father? Then why could she not wake him, but a maiden from the castle-town here could?—but now, with the King and Queen hovering beside her and unable to stay still for anticipation, no one cared.

The gardener's daughter was fetched, and bid to sing the unspelling catch for the prince. (Prince. He was a prince, while she was a ruffian's daughter. She kept forgetting, when she was with him.) It was a haunting one that grated on her ears, as selfishly-written magics often did—and as if bitterness still crept at the girl's heart at the sight of all who were here, she left as soon as it was finished.

Nix Nought Nothing awoke—he awoke! He opened his eyes and sat up and looked at her as if seeing the sunrise after a year of darkness, and how her heart leaps high into her throat at the sight—and true to form, only blinks a few times at her as he seems to take her in before coming to terms with it.

"You look a bit different," he remarks, tilting his head slightly. "Or did I grow?"

She chokes on a snort.

"Hush," is all she can say. What had been an attempt at an unimpressed expression melts into a wavering smile. "Are you done napping now?"

He opens his mouth to retort, but a grin creeps onto his face before he can. He snickers. "Have I slept that long?"

"Nigh a week," the Queen says—and when Nix turns his head and sees her, his eyes grow wide. The Queen's smile grows broad and wavers with emotion, and the King's eyes are crinkled at the edges, and shining. "It has been a long time."

Her own father had never shown love like this—like the way Nix tries to leap from his chair at the same moment his parents rush to hold him, all of them laughing and sobbing and shouting exclamations of love and excitement and I-thought-I-would-never-see-you-agains. So much joy rolls off of them that she thinks she could have stood there watching forever and been content.

The first thing he does, after the first surge of this, is turn and introduce her to his parents, who had barely finished hugging him and kissing him and calling him their own dear son.

"This is the one who helped me," Nix says, already gesturing to her in excitement as he looks from her to his parents. "She sacrificed much to save me from the giant. Her kindness is brilliant and she blesses all who know her."

She tries not to look embarrassed at the glowing praise as Nix comes and stands beside her as he recounts their blur of a tale to his parents.

"Ah! She is bonny and brave," says the King. By the end of Nix's stories of their escapes, they're smiling warmly at her with such pride that she dips her head and smiles.

Nix Nought Nothing glances sideways up at her and raises a brow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

"I've tried to tell her that," he agrees. "I don't think she's ever believed me."

She purses her lips and glances down at him. "I'll believe it the day you believe you are not nothing."

"Alright." Simple as that, he folds his arms and raises a brow at her. "I believe it. Fair trade?"

"Fair enough," she decides, with a crooked little smile. He beams, as if she's done something worth being proud of, and looks to his parents, who indeed look proud of them both.

"We would welcome you as our daughter," the King declares heartily, and both the Queen and Nix brighten, which makes her too embarrassedly fixated on the thought of family? Starting anew? to register what comes next. "Surely, you should be married!"

Nix looks at her, arms still folded, his eyes twinkling. There's something hopeful in his eyes that makes her certain this diminutive new heart of hers has skipped a few beats.

"Should we? Surely?" he asks, as if this is a normal thing to be discussing.

She works her jaw and swallows a few times, unable to help how obviously awkward she still likely looks. A flush tickles her face, and the queen seems to put a hand over her mouth to smile behind it.

"I... don't... suppose... I would mind," she manages, and—with those bright eyes so affectionate, and on her—Nix starts snickering at her expression. It's rude, but so, so warm she can't mind. She only discovers how broadly she's smiling when she tries to purse her lips and glare at him but is unable to. "Oh, go back to sleep!" she chides, too gleeful inside to truly mind, even as she makes a motion as if throwing one of the chair-cushions at him.

"Never!" he declares, pretending to dodge the invisible pillow. He makes broad gestures that she presumes are meant to emphasize how serious he is about this. When he stands straight and tall and sets his shoulders, she thinks that the boy she's explored the forest with really does look like a prince. "I have my family and my love all together in safety at last. We have much to speak of, and much time yet to spend with each other." He's a prince, but of course, he's also still himself. He immediately gets a mischievous glimmer in his eyes and puts a hand to his chest nobly as he does what he's done for as long as she's known him—jokes, when his emotions rise. "I shall never adhere to a bedtime as long as I live!"

My love, her heart still repeats every time it beats—as payback, likely, for her calling it diminutive. My love, my love, my love.

She doesn't let it out, for she doesn't know what it will do. But the words weave a song within her, so vibrant and effervescent and strong, brighter and clearer than any she's had before.

"I am glad to see you are certainly still my dear son," the Queen says, her own eyes twinkling. "I'm certain you both need fed well after such a journey. Come, perhaps you both can tell us more of it as supper is prepared."

They fall into an easy tumble of conversation and rejoicing and genial planning, and her heart is so light she thinks it must be plotting to escape her chest.

On the week's end from when she brought him here, Nix Nought Nothing and his family welcomes her into their home. It feels natural. It feels warm, and homey, and so pleasant and right that she often has to stop tears of weary joy from welling up as she considers it all.

Once upon a time, she thought she'd known happiness well enough without him. She had known what it was like to be without a friend, and without love.

Now, it’s hard to remember it.

#inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale retelling challenge #each all everything #theme: philia #theme: eros #story: complete #Nix Nought Nothing #fairy tale retelling #And there we have it!! A THING that is now FINISHED #Some changes have been made from the original fairytale #such as: no one’s losing their toes like that on my watch!!#please note that having everyone keep their toes actually improves the story #by letting the characters be happier thanks to having toes #you’re welcome #edit: I forgot it was fingers AND toes #oof??#this is an extremities-safe zone #Bonny and Nix #There are some parts of this I’m not sure are the best they could be BUT it’s FINISHED and that was my main goal!#(I don't finish things I start writing near often enough; so whoo! Small victory!)#wait a minute did I include all four types of love??#I DID #that's hilarious that was not intentional #at the discretion of the contest runner to include; as doing all four sounds a bit extra:#theme: storge #theme: agape #This was supposed to be a friendship/romantic love combination that would surprise no one who has read my writing #imagine my own (retrospectively unwarranted) surprise when it turned into an excuse for me to write all the kinds of love??#Anyway this was so much fun to write! I hope you enjoy! <3 #salt and light

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angorwhosebabyisthis · 6 months

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there really needs to be a name for the trope where a piece of media makes a very obvious fantasy stand-in for an irl marginalized group--or just straight up people from an irl marginalized group--so they can conflate them with their oppressors, whether directly or with sly innuendo and imagery to evoke it. this is never used as an opportunity to explore lateral violence, let alone done so with sensitivity; it's bait dangled in front of an audience who's just aware enough of political movements, structures, and ideologies to go Ideology Very Bad and instantly shut off any examination of the messaging behind it.

(which is, often as not, either shifting the blame to marginalized people so the audience can hate demographics they're already comfortable with hating instead of grappling with the discomfort of real privilege being called out or held accountable, 'so the horrific and violent bigotry leveled at that group irl is totally justified and we should Do More of That Actually,' or both.)

like. i keep seeing this over and over and over. don't get me started on how SF/F media in particular seems completely unable to restrain itself from having at least one black character in a setting that breathes anywhere near fantasy racism say and do just the most ungodly racist shit ever. every time, jesus fuck, it's awful.

this trope is not at all limited to racism or antisemitism--it shows up for pretty much any marginalized group you can think of, BOY i have rants in me about a lot of portrayals of abuse survivors in various media i'm into--but it seems to pop up most blatantly and obviously for those. and fascism in general, which, i HIGHLY recommend these excellent essays for a more articulate and in-depth analysis of than i could give in a paragraph of one post. they're fantastic go read them and come back. especially the second one.

more specifically, it's a special favorite of these fucking people to evoke this with nazism. so the closest term i've got to what i'm describing is naziwashing, which i think is still useful as a descriptor of a subset of that phenomenon but again does not nearly cover all of it. so i'm a bit stumped.

#tagging #sdmi #mystery incorporated #scooby-doo mystery incorporated #professor pericles #in this one because i have OPINIONS about that in a reblog but this is a general trope thing and pericles is very much fandom-specific #i also want to be clear that this is not an invitation to bring Certain Current Issues into it on this post #they are in some ways very much relevant to this and a lot of other media crit i've talked about before; and maybe i'll discuss that someday #but there's a time and place and i am super not going to make that about fandoms right now #for now this specific trope has been on my mind a lot for years but especially since i started revisiting sdmi recently #and have finally been really registering the ways in which i am incredibly pissed off about how both the show and fandom treat him #anyway.#nazi mention cw #racism cw #antisemitism cw #anti-survivor mention cw #queerphobia cw #antiblack racism cw #the salt files #the crit files #sdmi tag

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gentil-minou · 2 years

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Dang, I didn't realize you stopped writing ML analysis because some dweebs were raining on your parade and making fun of it. You wrote some of the best stuff looking at ML and I'm sorry jerks ruined that for you. Both you and this fandom have been robbed of something great because some people just can't let other enjoy things.

i mean there are a lot of reasons, both personal and fandom related. My work is very demanding, I had some traumatic shit that happened a few months ago I'm still processing, and my interests in fandoms go up and down over time, like right now it's pretty clear to see i'm more active in other fandoms besides ML.

But honestly the awful way the fans have been acting towards this season, not just in the way they rain on everyone's parade but also the way the bible and leaks have spread so far and wide. While that isn't the fandom's fault persay it's still awful. the fun of theorizing is gone when a bunch of people know what's going to happen, so naturally i just kinda stopped (then all the broadcasting bs that always bothers me ugh)

But I think the one thing this fandom hasn't seemed to realize is that it takes a lot of effort to write about this show, especially if you're an adult or a student who has other things going on. It's easy to leave a comment that hates on the analyses they write, and it's also easy for it to feel like a personal attack.

Think of it this way, so many people relate to Adrien and Mari, in so many ways. They can see themselves in them, even their faults and mistakes mean something. It feels incredibly validating for someone to be able to see that.

Take my Adrien has depression posts for example. Because I've had depression since I was younger than him and did a lot of the same masking behaviors he does, it meant so much to me. Here was a character who seemed to be going through what I was at the time and still struggle with today. It was so wonderful to see on screen because it felt like I was finally being seen. Or another example would be Mari's anxiety and ADHD which I also relate to so much, especially when it causes her to make some mistakes or handle things in the wrong way. It's classing anxiety-avoidance cycles, and seeing it on screen made me feel like I wasn't so alone. And I am sure so many other people felt the same way

And then there are people who go and say awful things about these characters on a post where you express those feelings. How Adrien is being a whiney baby or whatever bs they say, how his actions are a sign of him being selfish instead of all of the trauma and neglect he's experienced. Or how Mari's complex thinking patterns and behavior are relegated down to her being a stalker or a mary sue or what have you, once again completely ignoring the core complexity of her character as just a normal girl who was forced essentially to be a superhero. The pressures of which would be tremendous on anyone let alone someone with clear ND traits and traumatic experiences.

And people insult those fictional characters, so quickly and easily, without realizing the very real damage they are doing to the very real people who see themselves in them. I've talked so much about why I love sentiadrien because i can see some of my struggles in that storyline, and then to have people say that no it doesn't matter because my experiences aren't as important? that it's invalid because there's only one right way to experience trauma? that im wrong for finding solace in it? it's awful, and it puts me down.

i shouldnt be feeling invalidated when im watching my comfort show, i shouldn't spend days writing very careful posts only to get them shat on by insensitive comments. as much as i want to ignore them and focus on the good i do and the fun i get from it, it still feels like a stab through the chest every time.

and then there are the people who say i'm an awful therapist because they don't agree with my analyses. that's the worst, and while i won't go into details about why this particular statement brings me so much pain, i just need folks to understand that it's genuinely one of the worst insults i've ever had. and if everytime i write something i have second guess myself, and then second guess if i even have the skill and talent for the field i'm in, it just becomes a horrible spiral. people make these comments like they're the easiest thing in the world to say and it just boggles my mind, because although they may have forgotten their stupid little tag i certainly haven't. i hold them deep in that dark part of my brain where the whispers are loudest and hardest to control.

ultimately, the last few months i wanted to remind myself why i like this show and this website in the first place, and that i'm doing it for me. life is hard enough, if i can't have fun in the one place i can control then what's the point? so i will control my own experiences within this fandom, even if other's want to rain on it

#idk i still might write stuff as the episodes come out and i watch them #but im not going to make it into a second job like i was doing before basically #where i'd go home from work and immediately go back on a comp to do more work #or lose sleep because i was so anxious over things #im having fun right now and while i miss theorizing and analyzing and getting that validation my mental health has been a lot better for it #so yeah #sorry for going on a rant i've just been very blegh lately #the shadowban thing is also no fun but hopefull that gets fixed soon #anyways #ml fandom salt #bushy rambles #asked and answered #sayse

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FashionEdits

illyagnatyuk93

Untitled

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Smash Is Dead

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What Doesn't kill me might make me kill you.