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creepy-crowleys · 1 year

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((

F4. How clean are they overall with home upkeep?

L1. How have your characters changed since you created them?

L2. What do you consider the biggest themes in your character, if any?

))

Big Ol’ Honkin’ OC Question List

F4. How clean are they overall with home upkeep?

((She generally stays on top of upkeep - housework is a kind of relaxing thing for her and something she uses to occupy herself when she's feeling stressed. She has a fair amount of 'clutter' though. She likes things. Mementos, keepsakes, curios, books and notes and half-finished jigsaw puzzles on the dining room table, cultivated mushrooms in one of the cabinets, bones, fangs, and feathers from things slain, etc.

Everything stays clean and dusted and she mostly knows where it all is if she needs anything, but it could come off messy to someone who prefers a more pristine space.))

L1. How have your characters changed since you created them?

((The big thing that changed for Crowley is that she ended up becoming a genuinely decent, caring person. Her original incarnation was more of a surface level nice, but even more loosely moralled and mostly unconcerned with the well-being of the people she was technically helping. Her insistence that she was only going out of her way to help survivors because it would make them more cooperative was more her honest thought process than just her attempting to justify herself to her superiors.

And to some degree, pieces of that characterization are still there! She is still pointedly aware that being friendly and helpful earns favors, whether that's necessarily the end goal or not, and she still occasionally gets caught up in the science and theory of a thing and has to catch herself on the impact and implications of it.

But this blog was originally set up as a Let's Play, and over the course of trying to show off as much of the content as I could, she did end up coming to care for the people she was working around, who by and large treated her more kindly than she had been led to expect.

Then as she began interacting more and forming more connections with people on tumblr, she got into her head that she wanted to be better for those people. As badly as things with Katsu ended, adopting him was a major turning point for Crowley in solidifying who she wanted to be, away from those initial plans. He - and a bit later, Nata - were major catalysts in her deciding that she needed help in getting her life under control and getting to where she is now.

She's in a better place now than she's ever been. Her situation still kind of sucks, she's under immense pressure from many sides, she still has bad days where she spirals or impulse control fails her. But she is getting help. She's on an actual long-term medication that is working for her, she's in regular contact with a therapist who helps her work through the difficult things and offer suggestions on better ways to manage her symptoms, she has her own home filled with things she likes and surrounded by a community that likes her.

She's putting in the hard work to improve herself and become someone she'd like to be around, and I'd like to think it's paying off. :p

Which kind of leads into...))

L2. What do you consider the biggest themes in your character, if any?

((I've really gotten attached to the growth and healing arc she's gone/been going through. It's been a rough few years since I started planning and writing her and this blog and... Eventually it got to a point where I needed something hopeful and optimistic to keep going on.

There are lines in the game, here and there, about how even in the dark times, people still care about things, there is still music and dancing, and friends and cake. How even if you're losing hope, it's still worth fighting to give the next generation a chance to pick up the mantle once they're strong enough to do so. They're kind of important for me to keep in mind anyway, eheh...))

#.RECEIVE #.FROM THE HANDLER #ldgsfk #.meme

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servicetopkaradanvers · 3 years

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I'm not sure if this is exactly the right place to say this, but I don't know if there is. And you're a smart person and critical thinker who has talked about this before. If this is totally weird, you can just delete it ofc. I've never properly watched Supergirl but I started reading fanfic around the time my mental health got real bad so it was a comfort thing I didn't bring too much thought to. I really identify with Lena and in the past, part of me has understood her actions-

and I know that they're wrong. The anti-alien rhetoric is obviously an allegory for racism or homophobia. She's violated people's basic human rights. And I'm scared that I'm a bad person because sometimes, I kind of get it. Which is insane because i'm a lesbian enby of color, i mean i get targeted by most of the -ist/ism actions. And I'm also too tired to think about things critically all the time. Supercorp was my comfort fic, content thing-

I knew it was problematic (the whole James thing makes me sick to my stomach, scared and sad) but I didn't know that Lena as a character was written that way. The metaphors never really clicked in my head because I never thought about it, but now I feel absolutely horrible about myself because I like and identify with Lena. I'm not really sure how to move on from here- I'm just tired. I wish there could be just one thing, one piece of media that wasn't prejudiced (granted sg is not the place to go if you want decent rep and the like) and all of those things I said earlier. Its just me somehow trying to justify how I felt and empathized with something I shouldn't have. So yeah, sorry that was really long. I hope you have a lovely day- sorry for the spam

FIRST of all, you’re fine, babe! Both in sending me this and in enjoying The Bad Media. That’s my thesis here: You’re fine. With this in mind, let’s unpack this big ol suitcase:

We’re living in a fandom moment where more than ever before, we’re thinking about the ideas we consume in fiction and how they may or may not affect us. This is a net positive! Fiction is not reality, but it undeniably impacts it, so for this and many other reasons, we should always think critically about what resonates with us and why. Does this mean dissecting every facet of something to find all the ways it might fall in line with oppressive power structures? Absolutely not.

You, as an individual, do not owe anyone an explanation for why you enjoy anything. Period. How you relate to a given character or why you like them is nobody's business but your own.

Supergirl, as a piece of media, is singularly awful in its lackluster lipservice to progressivism while simultaneously refusing to deliver any progressive themes. Socially and politically, it is a useless liberal wet dream. Kara is an immigrant from a dead culture working as the muscle for a secret FBI offshoot with zero accountability for all of the other aliens in diaspora she has rounded up and dumped into a cell without trial. Alex is allegedly a lesbian, but the key points of her endgame relationship are constantly deemed not important enough to get screen time, which is made even more absurd when examined from the angle that this series is marketed directly toward LGBT people. An embarrassing percentage of villains on this show are women of color, which is particularly loud when there are only 2 women in the main cast who aren't white. And "main" is extremely generous, given that Kelly is just there to Give Advice Good and everything M'gann says and does is as dry as toast.

My point here is that the whole show is rotted to its roots, and whatever quietly libertarian or even fascism-enabling bullshit they push onto Lena in a given week is par for the crusty, shitty course. Kara deciding that she's ok with the alien detection device because "there are bad aliens" is a lovely (read: awful) microcosm of why this show sucks so fucking hard. "People are entitled to their opinions" is for debates on whether pineapple goes on pizza, not for whether we should casually out, endanger, and disenfranchise our [insert minority metaphor here] because some of them are mean.

But what I would love for this fandom to wrap its head around, and what I hope you understand, anon, is that just because it happens on the show, doesn't mean we have to give a rat's ass about it. What the hell is The Canon, anyway? Especially in the case for Supergirl, which can't even get its own continuity right. Especially for an IP that has been rebooted dozens of times before and will be rebooted again in the future. We can just decide that Lena realized the horrible injustices she enabled through her position of power. We can even decide that they just didn't happen at all! This is all fake. It's not set in stone. Who came up with it, anyway? A network with a list of buzzwords they want included and a couple of D-tier showrunners cranking down caffeine to meet an absurdly tight deadline. It's not special. I can guarantee that you care about it infinitely more than they do, and you haven't even watched the damn show.

On a more personal level, people who are hurt, depressed, or traumatized have always and will always look for themselves in fiction. Myself included! And despite what lofty platitudes there may be on the matter, suffering does not make us kind. It does not make us better. Sometimes it's just suffering. Often it pulls us further from who we are meant to be. Often it just makes us "worse."

Trauma has made Lena emotionally brittle. A lifetime of manipulation and abuse has taught her to compartmentalize herself and lock her feelings behind a maze of doors. When she does let love in, she accepts it so wild and vulnerable that she can't see the red flags behind the rosy lenses. She latches so hard onto people she deems virtuous that she holds them to a standard none could fulfill. Her pain has to go somewhere, so it oozes out of her, into Non Nocere, into the post-reveal rift. She's a powder keg, and Kara spent 4 years shoveling more gunpowder onto the pile while holding the match between her teeth.

And despite these fatal flaws that make perfect sense through the eyes of Lena's trauma, she is so full of love. Like Kara, her suffering did not make her kind. She is kind in spite of her suffering. These are the characters we are drawn to when we're hurting. Lena’s trauma is an inextricable part of her, but it is not all of her, and neither are her mistakes.

There truly is not and never will be a piece of media that is absolutely innocent of the harmful structures thrust upon us by society, because we ourselves also participate in that society whether we are critical of it or not, whether we strive to change it or not. I'm flawed. You're flawed. Bettering ourselves is not a journey toward an ultimate destination of perfection. It is a garden we nurture in an endless labor of love because the joy that comes from seeing it flourish and change vastly outweighs the work we put into it and the weeds popping up around its unkempt edges. This is a lesson Lena herself could probably stand to internalize. Probably with lots and lots of therapy. Lots. And lots.

So, to circle back to the start of this? You're fine. You recognized the logic in a traumatized character's mistakes because our own gravest errors more often than not stem from the ways we have been harmed in the past. It's what makes Lena (or, at the very least, the many adaptations of Lena that exist in this fandom) a good character. She is, to her core, characterized proof that a crumbling foundation and poisonous soil do not define us. Which is why watching her heal and grow and learn a healthier kind of love is so, so wonderful.

In closing, I think it's worth mentioning that being critical of media does not mean that we stop enjoying the parts of it we like. There is a lot of gold to be pulled from the steaming pile of shit that is CW Supergirl, and that's why we're all here in the first place. So I really hope you can continue to enjoy it in whatever way makes you smile <3

#Anonymous #lena

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omgbigfluffwriting · 3 years

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Harry Potter and The Wrong Potion

Chapter 2:

26 weeks

Hermione was shocked. Lately, Draco had been *almost* courteous to her, dropping ‘Mudblood’ for her given name. She wondered if Spencer had anything to do with that. “You okay, Hermione?” Draco asked.

“Not that I'm complaining, but what happened to ‘Mudblood’?” Hermione asked. Draco flushed.

“Dobby gave me a lecture a few weeks ago about being nicer to the mother of my children. I can't believe I was lectured by a house elf!” Draco groaned. Hermione laughed. She couldn't believe Dobby lectured Draco either. “Do you think Potter put him up to it?”

“I don't think so but I won't put it past Harry or my brother.” Hermione admitted.

---

Spencer stroked his girlfriend’s rounded belly. “I know Draco ‘spiked’ the Wiggenweld potion,” he said. His own was nestled against her back. “He seems to have an issue with Hermione and I.”

“He never had brains to the extent of yours and Mione’s.” Y/N mumbled. Spencer chuckled. “Second year, she managed to brew a polyjuice potion. I only found out because I went looking for her on McGonagall's request. She should have been in Ravenclaw.”

“Maybe,” he replied. “Next time, I'm not doing this again.” It was her turn to chuckle.

“We’ll see. We may not want any more kids beyond these two.” Spencer smirked as he caressed her swollen belly.

“I probably could convince you to have more.” He mumbled. She laughed as he tickled her.

---

“Hermione, I can't get rid of them...” Draco sobbed. “And the Dark Lord...” Hermione knew what Draco left unsaid. Voldemort would not allow Draco to carry her children to term. “You’re the most gifted witch in our year... there's got to be something you can do.” Hermione blinked. Was Draco Malfoy asking for her help?

“Malfoy, are you really asking me for help?” Draco fervently nodded. “What would you do to save our children?”

“Bloody anything, Granger!” he snapped.

“Even marry filthy little ol’ me?” Hermione jokingly asked. Draco knelt.

“Even that.” he confirmed. Hermione gasped. “Father and Mother will be furious anyway but I don't care. I want all four of our children together...”

Hermione absentmindedly rubbed her abdomen, then took out her wand. “Graviditate evanescet.” she said. Draco gasped as his figure returned to normal and Hermione used her wand on her belly, adding, “infans graviditate augere.” Her belly swelled to the natural size of one who was pregnant with quads. She almost lost her balance but Draco caught her.

“Thank you Granger!” he declared as he lifted her up, twirled her around and kissed her on the cheek, setting her down. “Keep them safe.”

“I will... And Malfoy?” he looked down at her. “Keep yourself safe.” he nodded and took off.

Spencer came in, staring at Malfoy who was now back to normal. Then he looked at Hermione and stared. “Did Malfoy have an abortion?” He asked. Hermione glared at her brother.

“No, I'm now pregnant with his quads.” Hermione quietly snapped. She felt irritable with her increased girth. “I transferred the triplets to me, Spencer.”

“You did?" Hermione nodded.

“I think it’s safer if Voldemort thinks he had a miscarriage.” Hermione answered as she placed her hand on her belly.

---

Malfoy returned to Hermione reading. “Hey how are you feeling?” he asked solicitously.

“Sore.” she admitted as he sat down next to her “Do you...” Draco shook his head.

“They’re better off with you than me right now. Besides...” he took her hand. “I think I like you pregnant.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Hermione, I meant it when I said you were the brightest witch in our year... I'm also aware that I'm starting to sound like Potter and Weasley in some aspects... not that I'm happy or proud of it.” Hermione snorted.

“Ron and Harry haven't called me mudblood.” Hermione offered. “I also haven't felt the need to punch either of their noses.” Draco gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“Good, we can keep things diplomatic and civilized,” he said.

“What's your point, Malfoy?” Hermione asked.

“I didn't want to get mushy but...” Draco paused, thinking. Should he admit he was in love with Hermione? Some part of him had been trying to deny the fact that he’d been in love with her since the day she’d punched him in the nose.

“Hold that thought, one of our children is intent on using my bladder as a trampoline.” Hermione replied with a small smile as she got up.

Draco shot her belly an annoyed look. Here he was trying to confess to their mother that he was in love with her and his children decided to interrupt. Well, this gave him time to think. Would it be best to just blurt it out, like Potter and Weasley would do or to just...show her?

Before he had decided on how he was to do it, Lucius Malfoy appeared. “I heard that Granger is having my grandchildren?!” Draco's father barked.

“Don’t worry Father, that mudblood and her bastard whelps will be finished off within a day or two. I know how to honor the Malfoy name.” Draco replied, acting the dutiful son but secretly shaking with fear and anger inside. However, Hermione - his dear, darling Hermione - had heard everything.

“Good. Those brats will sully our name and standing with the Dark Lord. May I ask how she got that way?” Draco closed his eyes briefly as he hoped Hermione could forgive him. “You didn't have sex with her, did you?” his father asked as he slapped him

Draco scoffed. His eyes were pure rage while he stared at his blurred reflection on the floor. He closed his eyes again while swallowing all that wrath inside his chest. “Father... Do you really believe that I’m truly capable of feeling any desire for that filthy whore? Not even if I wished to do that only for the fun to ruin her, I'd never risk the exact chance of what is happening, to mingle our pure family blood with that mudblood and generate such abomination.”

Hermione felt her heart sinking inside her chest as if part of her soul was being ripped out. She felt the heavy air surrounding her while she was blinded by tears that couldn't stop welling from her eyes. There was not one inch of movement inside her from the babies which made her worry about their overhearing Draco's words.

“Thank Slytherin I was wrong, then.” Lucius shot back. He turned to leave, adding, “Take care of it, or I will and you will be next after them.” As soon as the portrait slammed shut, Draco heard footsteps running away.

"Shit... Hermione, wait!" He shouted as soon as he realized she overheard everything.

“That’s it, I'm leaving Hogwarts tonight, taking them far away from your evil influence. I don't want them to know you, and I'll do all in my power to stop them from ever meeting you. ” Draco paled. "And!" she said in a way to not only punch him in the stomach but also stab him in the chest. "Guess what? Your and your father's worst nightmare is about to happen. I indeed will stain your cursed family's name with these children and I'll raise them as I was raised. Among muggles, like me and my family!" She emphasized with tears of rage sprinkling from her eyes, her face red as her blood was boiling inside her veins for how she felt betrayed and stupid about believing him, and worst, falling in love with him, although she won't admit that even to herself. "We will vanish, disappear and you will never ever find us."

Draco paled. He had fucked up royally. “Can’t you see that I did that for you and our children? You don’t know me at all, you still think I'm an awful person. I've changed Hermione. I want you and our children!” He tried to argue desperately, losing all his words with the growing panic of losing the love of his life and the fruits of it.

"Do you really believe you can fool me again, at all?! How dare you?! It's insulting! Or haven't you learned what your bloody mouth had said earlier today that I'm the most smart and intelligent of our year, but to be sincere everyone knows it! How stupid are you to believe I'm the one who can be fooled? You're fooling yourself. If I ever seemed to believe you could change, it is because I was trying for the sake of the children, to find something good in you for them. It was an attempt to give you a chance. But I always knew the truth. Well that and of course, the hormones. Probably it was the good from me in my children that made them want me to find something worthy in you to justify the part of you in them."

“Her...” he tried.

"Sure, act as the coward you always were. Going out in the right way. You don't even have the balls to face your deeds! Easy to in the end, let your father take the blame for your death, because you can't do it yourself! That's so typical of you, right? How could I expect anything different?!" By that time she was yelling out of her lungs.

The truth is, she was desperate, for many obvious reasons but the worst, she was furious because somehow, deep down, she indeed would care if he died and how dared he blackmail her like that?

“Hermi...” He tried again.

"Go ahead and do it! That will be just the cherry on the top of this cake! Then I can tell your children that you never really cared at all about them! Not even to fucking act as the least regular villain and chase them down till the end of the world, just to maybe turn them to your stupid dark side. You can't even do that?" She stopped.

She was trying, she really was, after all the hits, he should react. Shouldn't he? But she was starting to feel totally hopeless while her voice was toning down. Suddenly she feels dizzy and her hand tries to find a tree in time so she can hold herself on it. She was about to faint. Draco stopped, stomped up to and kissed her.

Hermione was already feeling breathless and with the kiss she felt like all the air was drained from her. She kissed back for a few seconds before she realized what was going on. She then opened her eyes wide and pushed him away a bit in a try to understand what was happening and catch some oxygen. "What are you doing?" She speaks almost voiceless.

“I was trying to tell you earlier that I love you when our children and my father so rudely interrupted me. What I told him was not the truth. The truth is that I am so madly, no, deeply in love with you, Hermione Granger.”

She felt her eyes burning. She was sure they were red. She opened her mouth a bit, stuttered, closed it. She didn't know what to say while staring at him. First because her mind was completely empty, not only for the dizziness she felt like fainting or all the recent overwhelming occurrences since the troublesome potion was altered and by who, but now it was all centered on the words he, Draco Malfoy - and how many times she repeated his name now in her head to make it at least tangible to her understanding - himself just pronounced, announced and confessed. “You…” She totally couldn't believe it, and even if she did, she shouldn't, right? But... she saw no lies in his eyes. “You cannot... Why?”

She started to lean back to the tree, trying to find a rational, logical explanation to justify the reason why he was saying that. But of course couldn't it be just the most simple answer, that in fact, he indeed just meant exactly what he said. “It's because of the children.” She suddenly realizes while saying it as a whisper and her eyes looked down on the grass. She smirks a bit. “Right.”

“No.” Draco shook his head. “I’ve been in love with you since the day you punched me in the face.” Hermione blinked and nearly screamed when she saw Lucius Malfoy standing behind Draco.

“You lied to me.” He lifted his wand but Hermione was faster.

“Expelliarmus!” she called out. Draco caught his father's wand.

“That’s enough!” A new voice called out. It was Minerva McGonagall with Severus Snape behind her. “Malfoy, Granger, inside your common room now.” They both hurried back into the common room.

“I love you Hermione.” Draco repeated.

“I love you too Draco.” Hermione said in return. “My room or yours?”

“Why?” Draco asked.

“Call me a prude if you like, but there is no way I'm having four kids with a man I've never slept with.”

“Mine.” Draco decided.

---

Draco couldn't believe it. In exchange for half of his father's fortune, Draco was never to contact his parents again. ‘Having Hermione and our children will be worth my parents' silence...’ he thought fiercely as he held Hermione in his arms, feeling his children kick. He was lucky Hermione forgave him. Perhaps now he could enjoy being pregnant without Voldemort finding out...

“Don't even think about recreating that potion disaster.” Hermione said with a smirk.

“I was hoping if I recreated it, it would be drinkable.” Draco said simply.

“Why?” Hermione asked. Draco shrugged.

There was plenty of time to tell Hermione about it. What he wanted to make was a cross between the fertility and polyjuice potions to create an insta - preggo potion.

But first, he needed to apologize to the one person besides Hermione that could help him accomplish his goal plus give him his blessing to marry Hermione.

#fanfiction #criminal minds #harry potter #dr. spencer reid x reader #draco/hermione #crossover

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hearteyes-for-killmonger · 5 years

Text

In My Mind x 04

*Re-uploading because I've edited these to flow a little bit better. Thank you for your patience!

All the things one has forgotten

scream for help in dreams.

~Elias Canetti

---

“So your plan is to use humiliation as a tool for blackmail? Uh uh, no.”

His eyebrows arch in challenge.

“I said no!”

You stare at Erik from your position on his couch and shake your head. His place is beautiful and spacious, the top floor of some building. If you had this, you’d be ecstatic. However, you can’t really enjoy the aesthetics as you’re exhausted from the back and forth of fussing with this guy. You’ve been going toe to toe with him over the same issue for the past twenty minutes and he is not taking no for an answer.

“You ain’t gotta do anything that’s gonna cloud ya innocence, you just gotta ride with me and try to focus in on him, that’s it. Then just tell me what you see.”

“For WHAT?”

He swore he was slick, but for what good purpose could he want to invade the privacy of someone else’s dreams?

“Nia, do you know what this muhfucka does all day? He kills niggas for a fuckin PAYCHECK! He’s the police chief and I’m bout sick of this shit happening to our people, ain’t you? Or do your MORALS detract from your compassion?”

Guilt. That’s his tactic.

“Don’t try to manipulate me into being your weapon. That’s not fair and you know it.”

“Babygirl, LIFE ain’t fair. It’s SHIT! Because the people who could do shit to help it, don’t do shit.”

That’s you apparently. Somehow this is becoming your fault.

“It’s not like I’m a kill him, I’m just gone give him some initiative to leave our people alone. I’m keeping the streets safe, something we both know people like him don’t give a damn about.”

His finger lifts your chin and his eyes are full of sincerity. You pull your face away from his hand. He’s sincere in his passion, but not his intentions, you can feel it.. an intense bloodlust.

“Nigga, I’m not dumb. You’re gonna kill him and then you’re gonna try and justify it saying he deserved it.. and he probably does! But what happens after that? You get another one in his place and this continues.”

“You ain’t sayin shit I don’t know. I told you, we just gone shake him up a bit. Wouldn’t you want someone to step in for you and yours?”

You eye him. It’s really late and you’re tired, but you know you can’t complain. This is a man who hardly sleeps because he’s seen too much to keep his eyes closed.. literally and figuratively.

“What’s the use of having power if you don’t use it to benefit your people?”

Ol’ super woke ass.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you say and he’s all ears. “I’ll try it. IF.. we go to sleep tonight and you actually sleep.”

Hesitantly, he takes your hand and guides you into his bedroom. Now it’s your turn to look about. The room is dark and masculine like you expected. It's fairly impersonal. There are no real personal touches. Other than a-

“Hey, that’s the journal from your dream,” you point out the worn leather journal on the nightstand. In his dream it was full of symbols that he seemed to understand. The journal obviously held strong purpose and direction for him.

He looks from the journal to you and collects it smoothly, moving it away from you. He doesn’t want you near it. Pressing your lips in a tight line you follow him with your eyes as he exits the room reappearing without the journal.

“You’re aware I’ve already seen some of what’s in there, I just can’t read it,” you deadpan. He pulls his shirt off and there are the little marks he showed you some of before. You knew you’d felt stabbing over your entire torso and now, bit by bit, you're beginning to understand what these marks really represent.

You walk back to the living room space to give him some privacy. He looked like he was ready to strip on the spot whether you stayed or left, gathering his things to shower. A minute later you hear another door close. So a minute or so after that, you determine that he must actually be in the shower. Time to explore. Popping your head back in his bedroom, he's gone. You don’t know where he put that journal so you can’t sneak and look at it.

Back in the living room you quickly walk through noting the dark paneled walls with white accents matching the dark floor, broken up by floor to ceiling glass windows. The glass is thick, you can tell. The outside sky, black. Very dark and semi-gloomy, befitting of a villain’s lair. This is the penthouse.

The living room looks like it can seat twenty with its large white couches and arm chairs. The open kitchen maintains the black theme with its wall of black drawers and trap doors hiding appliances. There's the black island with black bar stools.. liquor in sight. It’s all impersonal, yet sleek.

The only character you can see is in the traditional African masks crafted in wood or iron and the paintings alternating and strategically lining the walls that aren’t black panels.

Then there’s the bookcase and the game system. You go to the bookcase. There's The New Jim Crow. Assata. Emmett Till. Mechanical Engineering. Xhosa, Russian, and German dictionaries. Taxes and financial literacy, law books.. steep, pretty steep. Picking up the Xhosa dictionary you flip through it. The symbols match what you saw in the journal and you decide that if you ever get the chance, you’re decoding that worn out journal. You put the dictionary back like you found it and walk further into his home. He has a ridiculous amount of space.. and money aparently.

Your sixth sense tingles and you dash silently back to the living room, making sure to breathe and act normal. A few minutes later Erik rounds the corner waving you back towards him. You follow him back into the bedroom and he hands you a t-shirt.

“Shower’s all yours. Sleep in this, we’ll get you some clothes tomorrow.”

—

The steaming cascade was restorative. You silently rejoiced under the stream. Many people underestimate the wonders of a hot waterfall and privacy, but not you. You were thankful. The bathroom was so large it could’ve been a spa room or a multi-stalled toilet. You towel off and put the t-shirt on. It goes just past your butt, modest enough if you don’t bend over. Your energy saps you all of a sudden and you double over on the sink feeling your exhaustion. You just want to sleep.

You walk back to the bedroom and Erik is in the bed, eyes closed. No wonder. It’s partially your own exhaustion and partially the pull.

You slide underneath the comforter and top sheet fighting the urge to cuddle him for your own comfort. Your arms feel empty and wanting. You turn your back to him to counteract that feeling and slip under a veil of p i t c h b l a c k...

Ghanaian ceremonial mask used for religious and mythical purposes. Benin mask of Queen Mother Idia. She has a beaded headress and her scarification is like yours, something these white people will never understand but like to pretend they’re the experts on. So, how is it they ended up with OUR shit? The FUCKIN British Empire. And here go this pilgrim looking broad, like clockwork. Drink up, bitch.

“Good morning! How can I help you?”

Fake ass. You been watching me like this shit ain’t all encased in glass. If I were a normal citizen how would I get into the shit, Karen?

“I’m just checking out the artifacts.. They tell me you’re the expert.”

“You could say that.”

Uhuh, that coffee real good ain’t it, Susan?

“They’re beautiful.. Where’s this one from?" Of course, she answers. Knowing every fuckin thing. "Forreal?” You stall her.

Dumbass.

“And what about this one?… Now, tell me about this one.”

“Also from Benin, 7th century. Fula tribe, I believe.”

You 'believe'... Time to end this.

“Nah. It was taken by British soldiers in Benin, but it’s from Wakanda.. and it’s made of vibranium.”

THERE'S the realization in her eyes. Too late though. You fight a smile, but it wins.

“Don’t worry, I’m a take it off your hands.”

“These items aren’t for sale!”

The damn irony. All this knowledge of history and she ignores the fact that they NEVER were for sale.

“How you think your ancestors got these? You think they paid a fair price? Or did they take it like they took everything else? You got all this security watching me since I came in, but you not checking for what you put in your body… CALL A DOCTOR!”

Her body drops to the ground and a team of men in yellow reflective gear charge in. Gunshots and more useless bodies hit the floor. This is what you’ve been waiting for. One shooter, a white man with a grey bald fade and tattoo on the back of his head, lets a guy go and you think of going after him until he caps him mid-run.

“Why you ain’t just shoot him right here,” you question.

“Because it’s better to leave the crime scene more spread out. Makes us look like amateurs.”

Nigga what the fuck? It’s okay I’m bout done with your ass anyway. Just get me and Lynda to Wakanda.

Jetplane. Black girl. Intense feelings. You love her. She’d die for you. For the vision. She’s the Bonnie to your Clyde, all you need and the future queen of Wakanda. She’s beside you like a queen should be, holding her own.

“Drop us off in Wakanda.”

The grey haired man declines but somehow you knew he would. There’s a gun in your hand and you raise it to shoot the pilot. You should’ve shot the grey haired man first. Now he has your world in his hands and there’s a gun to her head.

“Baba?”

The mulitated body of your father soaked and lying in a pool of crimson. You wrap yourself around him trying to bring him back, every tear a prayer. You’d give anything.

“I’m sorry, Erik,” she pleads. No “Don’t kill me” or “Save me” just “I’m sorry.” She knew this could happen, but you’d miscalculated.

“If that happens, shoot me and KILL him. No matter what, keep going,” she’d told you when you were planning the takeover of Wakanda. You were so confident when you kissed her that it would never come to that. The gun stalls in your hand for the briefest of seconds and then you remember…

Everybody dies.. It's just life around here. None of you are exempt.

“It’s okay,” you say sending her a bullet as cleanly and painlessly as you can. Her body drops and the grey haired man is next.

Everybody leaves. Everybody dies. It's just how it is.

You’re numb.

A whirl of color and a throne room.

"IS THIS YOUR KING?!" The question burns in your throat as you look at the faces.

Blood. Sweat. Ritual combat on top of a high waterfall and you almost bust your ass grabbing that nigga and tossing him to his death. Bombs are exploding. Fire rises and releases its choking smoke. The stench of decay fogs the air. Blood and dirt.

“SHOOT HIM, STEVENS!”

I’LL KILL THAT SMILING MUHFUCKA!

The screams of fear. A crowd of Wakandans blind to the world’s suffering. To your suffering. You swing and keep swinging and you bring it all down, but it gets back up.

A knife jabs and plunges deeply into you but it doesn’t hurt as much as the realization that you’ve failed.

Everything is gone. And for what? You tried your best. Your whole life and it wasn’t good enough. All your life to get here and it’s where you die.

“I should’ve taken you back long ago,” a familiar voice cuts in. You've missed him more than life. “Instead we are both abandoned here.”

Baba.. the lost tribe. But are we truly lost?

“Well, maybe your home’s the one that’s lost that’s why they can’t find us.”

You pull the knife from your body and collapse only to wake up in a lab. A little black girl with braids in two buns like Princess Leia.. standing beside the nigga who killed you staring intently.

“Erik?… Erik… It’s Nia.”

Nia?

“I’ve been here. I saw it all.”

Nia

“Erik, you didn’t fail. We know about Wakanda today because of your sacrifice. They are reaching out to blacks in Cali, and now I understand why. Even if the world doesn’t know, THEY know. I know. And YOU know. You’re a hero. An antihero, but a hero nonetheless.”

Don’t patronize me

“I’m dead serious.”

I’m waking up now

“Wait-” Your eyes flutter open slowly and adapt to the light coming through the window. That dream was.. insane. To think that this is his life. You wouldn’t have made it through all of that. You turn over and almost have a heart attack. His face is close and his eyes stare into yours, filtered in calm. Though awkward, this is progress from the last time he woke up.

“Good morning,” he mumbles in a deep voice that goes directly through you. Keep it together, Nia. You’re self-conscious of your breath so you stay silent. Humor lights his eyes and they squint adorably. Not a word you’d normally attribute to this man.

“What your hair look like under that lacefront?” He smirks.

Annnnd he ruined it.

Other Chapters:

#erik killmonger #original #killmonger #erik stevens #erik killmonger fanfiction

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kururisa · 7 years

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I found you because you don't look biased for this question. Why do fans still think Sakura isn't Sarada's mom after it was -c o n f i r m e d- Sakura is Sarada's mom? Ignore this ask if you're an anti-Sakura.

I can’t speak for everyone (as I’ve been purposefully avoiding most controversial, ship-warring posts) but I do have a theory based in my personal experience with Gaiden, and hopefully it’s fulfilling enough to justify the lengths you went through to find me of all people to talk about this~?

If I’m beating a dead horse with this response, I’m terribly sorry OTL

The typical way to write a story is to have a problem, journey through the obstacles, and reach a solution, right? Gaara is kidnapped, Naruto and the gang fight through the baddies, and in the end Gaara is saved. Sasuke wants Itachi dead, he grows his power, and they have a showdown in which Itachi dies. Naruto’s no stranger to the good ol’ [Problem–>Punch Problem–>Problem Solved] structure of storytelling. Some arcs deviate from or subvert this structure, but it’s Naruto’s go-to.

… And then there’s Gaiden, unique among even the deviant/subversive arcs in the extent to which it SPRINTS in the opposite direction. Sure, we still punch some baddies along the way, but its solution to the problem… is that there was no problem. Sarada sees some vital piece missing from her family dynamic, we fight lab-created Uchihas, and it turns out nothing was missing after all.

“Wait,” I hear you thinking, “that sounds crazy familiar. Don’t a lot of movies where the kid questions their family end with their family having been just what they needed all along?” Yes. Yes, that’s pretty common, and I don’t doubt Gaiden had this in mind when writing Sarada’s story. But, if that’s the case, they missed the step that makes those stories feel impactful—change. The family stays the same, but the way they operate changes. They have deeper bonds, they spend more time together…

Sarada meets her dad, but how do they change going forward? Does Sasuke contact her more often? Do they get to know each other? Sarada finds proof that Sakura wasn’t lying to her, but is anything noticeably different between them? How much more does Sakura do to keep Sarada in the loop now?

What are the differences between Gaiden happening and not happening?

If your answer was “Kabuto has a small Uchiha army now and that’s hella suspicious given the last thing he did with an army,” we’ve encountered the same issue with Gaiden’s ending: The solution to Sarada’s problem wasn’t satisfying. There’s no catharsis in returning to her status quo. Nothing feels different enough to have warranted a whole JOURNEY. Sakura and Sasuke are Sarada’s parents who barely see each other. Cool… we knew that.

Personally, the biggest takeaway I got from the whole arc is that they finally have a real family portrait. Which is, you know… cool. I mean, I don’t know that Sarada had to question her mom and her mom break the house down and her father pull a sword on her to get there, but… neat. ‘Kay.

Contrast this to what would have changed if KARIN was her mom. If Sakura was picked to care for a child whose parents were too busy and in too much danger to raise her themselves. Or if Sakura was a surrogate mother who went overboard in erasing Karin from Sarada’s knowledge out of a twisted obsession with being Sasuke’s only love. Or if Sasuke was polyamorous, and their connection to Orochimaru allowed Karin and Sakura BOTH to be Sarada’s mom through genetic engineering. How much cooler would Shin have been if he was a foil to Sarada’s own lab-created origins?? (And, hey, she and Mitsuki would have something in common!)

All in all, the expectations for Gaiden—the juicy, glorious questions it presents— were more tantalizing than its answers. “Because we have you” may be vindicating for hardcore SS fans, but for many others, it’s… meh. Big ideas, big possibilities, sterile conclusion. That’s my take on it, anyway.

!!!WAIT WAIT TL;DR CROWD!!!

I myself am a-okay with how Gaiden turned out, but also understand how the bland, unproductive journey there could leave fans feeling dissatisfied. It’s hard to swallow that… that’s really it. That’s the end. Unless you read Gaiden for SS pairing validation (which is fair, that’s fine), Sarada’s quest ending where it started could feel like a ripoff.

#hateful commenters will be blocked #discussion good war bad #i like sasusaku and sasukarin and sasunaru and i'm a big 'free-love' hippie okay #gaiden #sarada #sasuke #sakura #naruto #karin #naruto-critical #totally ignoring the sweet innocent anime-only fans who dont know mamakura was confirmed

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sagebodisattva · 5 years

Text

Severe Condemnation of Mediocrity

Yeah, it's a shame to have to say this, but somebody's got to do it. Not only for your own good, but also just to go on record as someone in the masses that finally said what needed to be said, concerning the pervasive permeation of rampant vapidity that has saturated the human consciousness. So, you know, the ole roll up the sleeves dirty job requirement thing.

The most shallow superficial individuals with the lowest intelligence concern themselves with people and gossip, the moderately shallow superficial ones with average intelligence concern themselves with places and events, but the truly wise conceptually deep ones with the highest intelligence concern themselves with concepts and ideas. I say this because sometimes people ask me:

“Sage, how come you never do videos about people or current events?”

And, I have to tell you, the reason is simple; because that kind of content is trite, shallow, superficial, air headed, mediocrity, that only appeals to the lowest common denominator; which means, of course, the majority; of which, I have absolutely no interest in appeasing, nor to whom, the appetite of which, I will not be catering to. I am here to wake people up from delusion, not to enable sleeping lemmings to get more comfortable in their delusion by serving up predictable cheesy junk food entertainment that telegraphs all its intentions, so as to be more easily consumed by lazy sedentary brains, that love to get banged over the head with sophomoric catchy unchallenging candy coated tripe, so as to mask the inner quiet desperation with some fake outward appearance of arrogant clever self satisfaction, which upholds a contrived self image as being one who is among those who fit in, and are accepted into some smug group, that imagines itself to be just so great, because it attracts so many others of the same type, of which, you can be sure, is a whole lotta people.

This is the essence of mediocrity, and it's not anything to applaud, condone, encourage or feed into. Mediocrity is the death knell of artistry and creativity, and is a omen of bloated decadence and the rapid decay of intelligence, wisdom, philosophy and mindfulness. We should be careful when maintaining standards of quality to not reward mediocrity, for this only gives it more motivation to repeat itself, which is what it's best at, for one of the great hallmarks of mediocrity is the constant rehash and regurgitation of anything that was previously popular; and in this regard, mediocrity knows no decency, or shame. It will beat a dead horse into a pulp, and then take the pulp and make it into a smoothie, and after you throw that up, it will take the vomit and incorporate it into an energy drink.

This is the degraded state of mainstream pop culture, which began it's gradual degenerative descent into insipid superficiality in 1980, and has gotten regressively worse and worse upon each passing decade. Things got so lame that, after 1999, we even lost our creativity in the clothing styles that usually reflects the particular flavor of bubblegum that represents the pop culture zeitgeist of a decade, which you would think would be the bread and butter. Have you noticed that? If you look at the 50's, 60's, 70's. 80's and 90's, each decade has it's own unique style, but does anything really come to mind when you think about 2000 to 2009? What about 2010 to today? Anything? I can't really think of anything, other then just a mish mash rehash of past styles. There's no more distinct style accompanying the decades anymore. Everything now is either just streamlined brand names and commercial logos, or a x-factor, hipster, socio-historical grab bag of random appropriation, or just the usual formal business attire. Not that I really care all that much, but it is a demonstration of the decline of creativity via the saturation and satiation of mediocrity on the masses, which dilutes, or dries up completely, the wellspring of primary source content and original expression.

And you know that the mediocrity has reached epic proportions, with the reality shows the way they are nowadays, along with all the various parades of side shows freaks, drama queens and attention whores. It's gotten so bad, that they even do FAKE reality shows now. That's right. TV is gonna go to great lengths to indulge your need for sniffing other people's dirty underwear, and providing you with a role model archetype you can identify with, so that you may properly vicariously indulge in all the attention whoring and drama pornography, even if it mean it has to stage events to appear real. Sound familiar? This is seems to be related to a theme we find present here in this reality. This gusto for lies and fakery. Much of the time you even know it's a lie, but you love it anyway. We love fake people and fake personalities, because we are not self accepting people. We hide our pure natures behind the superficial facades of luxury, plastic surgery and extravagant lifestyles. And we keep ourselves happily sedated in this shallow fluff by consuming large amounts of prescription drugs and mainstream popular culture. And, isn't it curious that the biological definition of culture is: the cultivation of bacteria, tissue cells, etc., in an artificial medium containing nutrients. Artificial. Got the drift? And so, who is the most popular bacterium of the day? All the sheep want to know.

Yes, sheep. As in, sheeple. It's always been kind of a cool way to refer to the adherents of mediocre conformity, but I always had my own little pejorative label that I liked much better than the sheeple, which has grown into a bit of a cliche. I have always called them, the Ones. I call them the ones because they are the ones that all agree, and they are also called the ones because they are all like little metaphorical number 1's, uniformly basic, all running around in giant packs of identical meaning and purpose. What are all the ones watching? What are all the ones listening to? What does the latest poll by all the ones reveal? Which contestant have all the ones voted off the show? Because, you must be like all the ones. All the ones agree on this. Don't find yourself in opposition to all the ones. All the ones might pass a new law to crush your individuality. Cause you must be like all the ones. You must be like all the ones and (X8)....

So, to appeal to all the ones must mean that you are successful, right? To be celebrated by the lowest common denominator has become the measure of greatness. When all the clones love you, you know you have achieved something magnificent. You are now a popular mainstream product of pop culture mediocrity. Congratulations! Obviously, your appeal must be a reflection of good taste, because all the ones approve of what you are doing. You are normal, non-threatening, and unchallenging to the ones sensibilities, and thereby fit for mass consumption, and other such facilities. Because you know how bubble gum logic works, if it's popular, then that must mean that it's the best. That it's better then all the alternatives. That it's top shelf, crème de la crème, right? Yeah. And that's why fast food cheeseburgers are so much better then filet mignon. This is why junk food is so much better then gourmet cuisine. Are we to believe this? Come now. It's not better, it's just cheaper. Easier. Flashier. It's mediocre. Which, at best, just means supremely average.

How does something like that sound to you? You are so stupendously average. Quite Ordinary. Unremarkable. Standard. Normal. Typical. Regular. Are these descriptors getting you horny yet? No. Popular doesn't mean better. It means mediocre. Which, from the perspective of the refined aesthetics of a creative discerning mind, means complete and utter artistic failure. You got that? Under most circumstances, with few exceptions, popularity means epic fail. Artistically, popularity isn't indicative of success, but of a failure that is obscured by a sort of ironic condescending mocking lionization. Behind all the applause and smiling faces is the secret desire to see your downfall. This is why so many artists who were lauded and celebrated and pushed to the heights of praise and attention are promptly kicked and dragged through the dirt the second they are down. The media and paparazzi just love that, don't they. Like buzzards and vultures circling a fresh corpse. That's why they celebrate you so hard when you're on the way up. It's fresh meat. A future meal. Another mediocre subject for them to rip apart and play in the innards.

You feel bad when you see this happen to someone like Marlon Brando, but not so bad when you see it happen to anyone in this new crop of snarky millennials, who knew or blew their way to the top because it was always their dream to have the lifestyle of an artist. You dig that? The lifestyle. Actual artistry is a glossed over afterthought. They don't have much talent, but talent doesn't matter if you have a really good looking superficial appearance! Don't worry about talent, we got teleprompters and auto tune for that. What we'll loosely call your so called body of work, is really just generic filler to justify the lifestyle of a pop star, which is more important and incidentally, the subject of a new reality TV show, where the lifestyle is the feature showcase of the show! And have you seen one of these shows? They are expositions that provoke misanthropy, which is why they are best avoided; for they inspire the desire for bloodsport. They make you root in favor of the media vultures, and even want to assist them, by sharpening their talons and feeding them cocaine. Give you some privacy? Please. You got what you signed up for, so don't sneer and push the photographers, lest you get thrown to the lions. Yeah. I'm in favor of bringing back the colosseum games wherein reality TV stars and their ilk must engage in gladiator battles to the death. Now that would be something to celebrate!

And speaking of celebrating, the crypto semantics of which brings us the word "celebrity", it's amazing how mediocrity, which works so little and contributes works of such little value, feels it needs to be praised and awarded on a regular basis. You know... The type of mediocrity that is so average and so propped up by nepotistic handicapped assistance that it just simply deserves to be showered by various awards granted from itself to itself!! There's nothing better in the whole wide world then mediocrity patting itself on the back and bestowing itself mediocrity awards. A reward for a job well done, right? And they call this professionalism, which is a real slap to the intelligence. More like professional mediocrity.

But do you know what the real kick to the kidneys is? If you look up the word mediocrity in the dictionary, it's lists as a related synonym: amateur. And this is a common misconception and misassociation, as, obviously most people don't understand the meaning of the word, as it's often wrongly used to indicate a meaning of one being green or unskilled or of lame creative abilities, as we have often heard it spoken in response to displays of buffoonery to "knock it off and stop acting so amateur"... amateur doesn't mean unskilled. It means someone who does something out of a love for doing it, as opposed to the professional, who does something out of a love of profit, which automatically means it just has to be better, right? Making an amateur mistake means that you haven't been thoroughly trained on how to produce to the cookie cutter standard. You aren't formula enough. You need to become more predictable, less thoughtful and cater to someone else's standards. That's funny, considering so many of the styles and techniques that come naturally to the amateur are often later adopted and replicated by the so called professionals. The amateur has heart. The professional wants money. And that's exactly why the quality of all these mainstream projects has gone so low. The motive of profit almost always necessarily equates into a decline in quality and substance. And this truth pervades all arenas of human achievement. Ask yourself, what kind of doctor would you like treating you, or operating on you, one that loved what he was doing, or one that was just doing it just because he loves the paycheck? And what kind of politician would you want representing you, one that loves and serves the people? Or one that will use the office to benefit himself and his corporate pimps? Profit is a recipe that poisons the well. But with art it's even more of a factor that will determine quality. When you are pushing out content for profit you have basically become a pimp who is prostituting an art form, which drastically cheapens everything, despite the million dollar budget, and that's really an unfortunate shame.

And it’s really all quite depressing; which is why I’m done talking about it now... but, uh, yeah it kinda had to be said and uh, I had to say to say it. It was really not really pleasant. But I, you know, had to really deconstruct it. Chop it up, and slice it the other way... into little cubes. Can’t have that. Too much. Too much facade; it has to be chopped. You know? It’s bad enough there’s a facade; but a facade on steroids? No, it has to be chopped, sorry.

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