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feanorianethicsdepartment · 3 years

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Alright, I read your recent post and need to know - what is your interpretation of Maglor’s relationship with the twins?

askjdhslkjag my biggest self-inflicted problem in this fandom is that my take on maglor, elrond, and elros' relationship is so intensely detailed and specific i am forever tormented by none of the fic i read ever quite getting it right (from my perspective; i’ve read plenty of fic that presents a good interpretation on their own terms, it’s just never mine.) it’s simultaneously way darker than the fluffy kidnap dads stuff and nowhere near as black-and-white awful as the anti-fëanorian crowd likes to paint it, it’s messy and complicated and surrounded by darkness, and yet there’s also a sincere connection within it which mostly serves to make all those complications worse. angry teenage elrond is angry for a great many reasons, and the circumstances around him being raised by kinslayers account for at least half of them. there’s lots of complexity here, and i don’t see it in fic nearly as often as i’d like

(warning: the post... feathers? i already have an internet friend called faeiri this could be awkward - anyway, the post she’s talking about includes the line ‘everyone is wrong about kidnap dads except me.’ this post follows on from that in being as much a commentary about why various popular interpretations of both how the kidnapdoption went and the way people subsequently characterise the twins just don’t work for me as it is a setting out of my own ideas. i’m not really interested in getting into discourse here, i’m just trying to get my thoughts down. i’ve read fic with these interpretations before that i’ve liked, even, don’t take this as a Condemnation, aight? also this turned out long as hell, so i’m putting it under a cut)

i can never buy entirely fluffy depictions of kidnap dads

which isn’t to say i don’t read them! sometimes all i want is something sweet, for these kids to get to be happy for once. it’s not like i think their time with the fëanorians was completely devoid of laughter

it’s just. the pet names, the special days out, the home-cooked meals, it can get so treacly it stops feeling like the characters they are in the situation they’re in and turns into Generic Found Family #272

it soaks out all the complexity - which is the thing i am here for - and acts like oh, these kids were never in any danger, they were perfectly happy being abducted by the people who murdered everyone they knew, there’s nothing possibly questionable about this relationship at all

and... yeah. that’s not the characters i know. that’s not the context i know they belong to

i just can’t forget the circumstances that led them to meet

rivers of blood, the air filled with screams, a town ablaze, a woman choosing to die. every interaction the three of them have is going to proceed from that nightmare

(sidenote: i tend to hold it was maglor that raised the twins, with maedhros looming ominously in the background not really getting involved. it’s mostly personal preference, i’ve been in and out of the fandom since before this kidnap dads thing blew up and when i joined that was a perfectly standard reading)

(also the cave thing was a dumb idea, old man, if only because it implies beleriand had streams safe enough for children to play in at that point. the way it separates the twins from the third kinslaying is also something i don’t particularly vibe with)

probably my least favourite angle i’ve seen on the situation (edged out only by ‘maglor was actively abusive towards the twins’ which no no no no no no no no NO) is the idea that maglor (and/or maedhros, append as necessary) took the twins specifically to raise them

like, i get where it’s coming from, but it makes maglor come off as really creepy

(i have read fics where it is indeed played off as really creepy, but that’s not a maglor i have any interest in reading about)

(’mags 100% bad’ is just as facile a take to me as ‘mags 100% good’)

even if you’re saying maglor took them in because they had no one left to take care of them - i highly doubt they were the only children the fëanorians orphaned at sirion. idk, it always makes maglor seem much less sympathetic than i think it’s meant to

i prefer to think of it as more... organic? something that evolved, not something that was preordained. them growing closer gradually, the twins finding an adult who might maybe be on their side, maglor becoming invested in them almost by accident

and then the twins are so comfortable with the second scariest monster in amon ereb they frequently sass him off and maglor’s gotten so used to not hurting them he’s not even thinking about it any more. no one’s quite sure how it happened, but they’ve made a Connection

‘wait aren’t they a murderous warlord of questionable mental stability and a pair of terrified small children who’ve lost everyone they ever knew? isn’t that kinda fucked up?’ yup! that’s the point! complexity!

another idea i don’t like is the idea that maglor was an objectively better parent to the twins than eärendil or elwing

other people have talked about this already, i won’t rehash the whole thing. i will say that while i don’t think elwing was a perfect parent - someone so young, in such a horrible situation, i wouldn’t blame her for screwing up - i do think she (and eärendil) did the best by them they possibly could

this is one of the few things they have in common with maglor

something i come across now and again is the idea that sure, elwing and eärendil weren’t abusive or horrible or anything, but they were a couple of basically-teenagers with so many other responsibilities, there was only so much they could do. maglor, on the other hand, is an experienced adult who could take much better care of the twins

and...

first off, it’s not like mags doesn’t have a job. he’s a warlord, he has a fortress to help run, military shit to handle, lots of other stuff that needs to get done to stop everyone from starving or getting eaten by orcs. i feel like sirion had enough of a government there was plenty of opportunity for elwing to take days off and play with her kids, but in the fëanorian camp nobody really has the time to chase after a couple of toddlers, least of all one of the last points on the command network. they just don’t have the people any more

(seriously, the twins getting a formal education with tutors and classes and shit is a weirdly specific pet peeve of mine. this is a band of renegades, not a royal household; if there’s anyone left with those kinds of skills they almost certainly have more important things to do)

more than that, though - well, a quick glance through my late stage fëanorians tag should tell you a lot about what i think maglor’s mental state is like at this point. he is so accustomed to violence death means nothing to him, he’s lost most of his capacity for genuinely positive emotion to an endless century of defeat and despair, he hates everything in the universe, especially himself, he’s only able to keep functioning through a truly astounding amount of denial, and he covers it all up with a layer of snark and feigned apathy, which he defends aggressively because he’s subconsciously realised that if it breaks he’ll have absolutely nothing left

(maedhros, for the record, is... i’d say more stable, but at a lower point. maglor may interact with the world mostly through cold stares and mocking laughter, but at least his mind is firmly rooted in the present)

(on the other hand, at least maedhros lets himself be aware of what they are and where their road will lead)

which... this doesn’t mean maglor doesn’t try to be kind to the twins, or rein in his worst impulses around them

there’s just so little of him left but the weapon

he stalks through the halls like a portent of death and gets into hours-long screaming matches with maedhros and has definitely killed people in front of the twins

not even as, like, a deliberate attempt to scare them, but because when you solve most of your problems by stabbing them it’s pretty much a given that people who spend a lot of time around you are going to see you do it at least once

and sometimes, he curls up in an empty hallway, and weeps

... suffice it to say i don’t think elwing’s the more preoccupied, or the less mentally ill, parent here

just. in general, the fëanorians aren’t cackling boogeymen, but they’re not particularly nice either

no one has the energy left for that. not these isolated and weary soldiers at the end of a long losing war and the beginning of the end of the world. they don’t really bother to guard the kids against them escaping. where else are they going to go?

the sheer despair that must have been in the fëanorian camp after sirion, the knowledge that the cause cannot be fulfilled, that they are utterly forsaken, that they’re really just waiting to die -

it can’t have been a happy place to grow up in, under the shadow of loss and grief and deeds unrepentable, and the slow march of inevitable defeat

they would have had a better childhood if they stayed in sirion, raised by people who knew how to hope

but that isn’t the childhood they had. and despite everything i’ve said, i don’t think that childhood was an entirely awful one

yeah, see, this is where the other side of my self-inflicted fandom catch-22 comes in. just as much of the pro-kidnap dads stuff comes off as overly saccharine and simplified to me, i find much of the anti-kidnap dads stuff equally simplistic in the opposite direction

the idea that maglor and the fëanorians never meant anything to elros and elrond, that they had no effect on the people they became at all, that it was just a horrible thing that happened when they were children, easily thrown in the rear-view mirror...

that’s even more impossible to me than the idea that life with the fëanorians was 100% fluffy and nice

like, i’ve seen the take that elros and elrond hated the fëanorians from start to finish. they were perfect little sindarin princes, loyal to their people and the memory of doriath, spurning every scrap of kindness offered to them and knowing just what to say to twist the knife into the kinslayers’ wounds

... dude. they were six. hell, given their peredhelness, mentally they could easily have been younger

what six year old has a firm grasp of their ethnic identity? what six year old is fully aware of their place in history? what six year old would understand the politics that led to their situation?

don’t get me wrong, i can see hatred in there. but something else that doesn’t get acknowledged alongside it often enough is the fear

some of the stuff i’ve read feels like it gives the kids too much power in the situation. they’re perfectly happy to talk back to and belittle the people who burned down their hometown and killed everyone they ever knew, like miniature adults who don’t feel threatened at all

and, like, six. i can see them going for insults as a defensive measure, but it is defensive. it’s covering up fear, not coming from secure disdain

(and a lot of those insults sound, again, like things an adult who’s already familiar with the fëanorians would say, not a scared child who’s lost almost everything. why would a six year old raised by sindar and gondolindrim know what the noldolantë is, let alone what it means to maglor?)

(... i’m just ranting about this one fic that’s been ruffling my feathers for five years straight now, aren’t i)

i mean, i write elrond as the world’s angriest teenager, who snipes at maglor pretty much constantly, but the thing about angry teenage elrond is that he’s angry teenage elrond

he’s spent long enough with the fëanorians he has a pretty secure position within the camp, and he knows that maglor won’t hurt him from a decade and change of maglor not, in fact, hurting him

but as a small and terrified child abducted by the monsters his mother had nightmares about? he fluctuated wildly between ‘randomly guessing at things to say that wouldn’t get him killed’ ‘screaming at maglor to go away in words rarely more complicated than that’ 'desperately trying not to do or say anything in the hopes of not being noticed’ and ‘hiding’

(and i don’t think the twins were never in any danger from the fëanorians, either. quite besides the point that before they started orbiting maglor nobody was really sure what to do with them... well, they wouldn’t be the first children of thingol’s line the minions took revenge on)

(fortunately for them, maglor did, in fact, take them under his wing. by this point even their own followers are shit scared of the last two sons of fëanor, nobody’s going to mess with their stuff and risk getting mauled. tactically, it was a pretty good decision for a couple of toddlers)

more to the point, i feel like a child that young, in a situation that horrible, wouldn’t reject any kindness they were offered, any soothing touch in a universe of terror

in a world full of big scary monsters, the best way to survive is to get the biggest scariest monster possible to protect you. that’s how elros rationalises it when they’re, like, eight, mentally, but at the time they were just latching on to the only person around them who seemed to care about them

that’s how it started, on their end. two very young very scared children lost in a neverending nightmare clinging tightly to the lone outstretched pair of hands

as for maglor...

i’ve called mags evil before, but i see that as more of a... technical term? he is evil because he did the murder, he remains evil because he won’t stop doing the murder. hot take: murder bad

but that doesn’t make him, like, a moustache-twirling saturday morning cartoon villain. he is deeply unhappy with the position he’s in and the person he’s become, and he’s always trying not to take that final step over the edge

it’s not that i can’t see a maglor who is abusive or manipulative or who sees the twins more as objects than people. it’s just that that characterisation is one i am profoundly uninterested in. i do occasionally read fic with it, but it never enters my own headcanons

horrible people can do good things!! kinslayers can do good things!! the fallen are capable of humanity!! people can do both good and evil things at the same time, because people are complicated!! maglor is not psychologically incapable of actually taking pity on these kids!!!!

it’s... again, complexity. the fëanorians straddle the line between black and white, which is a lot less sharp in the legendarium than it’s sometimes characterised as. it’s what draws me to their characters so much, why i have so many stupid headcanons about them. pretending they fall firmly on either side of the line is my real fandom pet peeve

and, like, this moment? this sincere connection between a bloodstained warlord and two children who will grow up to be great and kind in equal measure? i may not entirely like the direction the fandom’s taken it recently, but that beat, that relationship, it still gets me

so no, i don’t think elrond and elros’ years with the fëanorians were an endless cavalcade of abuse and misery. i think there was love there, despite the darkness all around them

an old, tired monster, and the two tiny children it protects

maglor never hurts the twins, not ever, not once. his claws are sharp and his fangs are keen, if he so much as swatted them he’d rip them in half. instead he folds down the razor edges of his being, interacting with them ever so carefully. he has nightmares of suddenly tearing into their skin

seriously, the power differential between them is so great, maglor so much as raising his voice would break any trust they have in this horribly dangerous creature. fics where he does corporal punishment always get the side-eye from me

the mood of their relationship is... i find it hard to put into words. melancholy, maybe, like a sunny afternoon a few days before the end of the world. three people who’ve lost so much finding what respite they can in each other as the world slowly crumbles around them

there are times when it feels like the three of them exist in a world of their own, marked out by the edges of the firelight. maglor telling stories of the stars, elros giving relaxed irreverent commentary, elrond getting a few moments to just be, all their troubles kept at bay

they are the last two lights in a world sunk into darkness, the last two living beings he does not on some level hate. he will tear his own heart out before he sees them in pain

he teaches them to ride, he teaches them to read, he gives them everything he still has left. the twins should never have been in this situation, maglor probably isn’t entirely fit to take care of them, but it is what it is, and they take what love they can

(maglor depends on the twins emotionally a bit more than any adult should rely on any child. he’s still very much the caretaker in their relationship, but that relationship is the only one he has left that’s not stained by a century of rage and grief. he’s obsessed with them, maedhros tells him frequently. maglor’s standard response to this is to try to gouge maedhros’ eyes out)

(that particular darker side to their relationship, where maglor’s attachment to the twins turns into a desperate possessiveness - that’s not something i think i’ve ever seen in fic. which is a shame, it feels much closer to my own characterisation than the standard ways this relationship gets maleficised. darker, in a different way than usual. horribly compelling in its plausibility)

however you want to read it, i don’t think you can deny this is a relationship that defines elrond and elros’ childhood. they were raised in the woods by a pack of kinslayers, the text is quite clear on this

but i’ve seen a lot of talk about how elros and elrond are only sirion’s children. they are completely 100% sindarin, they love and forgive eärendil and elwing thoroughly and without question, they identify with doriath over - even gondolin, let alone tirion. the fëanorians - the people who raised them - had zero effect on the people they grew into and the selves they created

and that, more than anything else, i find utterly unbelievable

look, i get what this is a reaction to. a lot of the kidnap dads stuff paints the fëanorians as elrond and elros’ ‘real’ family, and i’ve already talked about what i think of the idea that maglor-and-possibly-also-maedhros were better parents than eärendil and elwing. i think it’s reductive and overly optimistic and just a little too neat

but to say instead that elrond and elros held no great love in their hearts for maglor, no lingering affinity with the fëanorians, no influence on their identity from the people they grew up around, none at all? that after it happened they just left it behind and resumed being the same people they were in sirion?

that strikes me as just as much an oversimplification. it sands down all the potential rough edges of their identity, all that inconvenient complexity that stops them from fitting into any well-defined box, and replaces it with a nice safe simple self-conception i find just as flat and boring as declaring them 100% fëanorian

we can quibble over who they call ‘father’ (i personally find that whole debate kinda petty) but denying that it was actually maglor who was the closest thing they knew to a parent for most of their childhoods, and that that would, in fact, affect the way they thought of themselves and their family, elides so many interesting possibilities out of existence

(i’m not even going to get into the most braindead take i have ever heard on the subject, namely that because their time with the fëanorians was such a small fraction of elrond’s total lifespan it was like being kidnapped for two weeks as a toddler and had no greater significance than that. do you not understand what childhood is????)

like, i tend to think of elrond as a child as being very loudly not-a-fëanorian. elros is more willing to go with the flow - hey, if the creepy kinslayer wants kids, elros is happy to play into that in order to not be murdered - but elrond is very firm that he’s not happy to be here and he doesn’t belong with them

(this is after they get over their initial terror, of course, when they’ve realised they won’t be fed to the orcs for the tiniest slight. even so, elrond only really gets shirty about it around people he’s comfortable with, whose reactions he can reasonably guess at. naturally, the first person he does it to is maglor)

elros calls maglor their father exactly once, when they’re... maybe early preteens? this is because elrond hears him do it and immediately loses his shit. they have a dad, elrond says, in tears, and a mum, and any day now their real parents are going to come to pick them up and take them home

... right?

it gets harder to believe as the years roll on, as their memories of sirion fade, as they find their own places within the host, as maglor watches over them as they grow. elrond still mentally sets himself apart from the fëanorians, but it’s more of an effort every year. life in the fëanorian camp is the only one he’s ever really known. he can barely remember his mother’s voice

then the war of wrath starts, and the fëanorian host drifts closer to the army of valinor, and the twins come into contact with non-fëanorians for the first time in forever, and it becomes clear just how obviously fëanorian elrond is. he always insisted he wasn’t like the kinslayers at all, but he dresses like them, talks like them, fights like them

the myth cycles the edain tell are almost completely unfamiliar to him, he barely remembers the shape of the songs of lost doriath. even these sarcastic commentary and subversive reinterpretations he made of maglor’s stories - those were still maglor’s stories! he’s been trying to guess at the person he was meant to be, but it’s growing nightmarishly blatant how little elrond ever knew about him

instead, the people he was born to are as alien to him as the orcs of morgoth. he is a fëanorian, through and through

... yeah, elrond (and/or elros) having an absolutely massive identity crisis upon being reintroduced to his quote-unquote ‘true kin’ is another angle i’d love to see in fic that i don’t think i’ve ever come across. all those potential grey areas around who they are and who they’re supposed to be sound utterly fascinating, and i think it’s the complexity i hate to see elided over the most

i really, really doubt they could effortlessly slot back into being eärendil and elwing’s children. not when they’ve been surrounded by, lived alongside, been raised by the people who were supposed to enemies for most of their lives

they just don’t fit into that box any more. they can’t

speaking of eärendil and elwing, while i do agree that they both (especially elwing) get a lot more flak than they deserve, i don’t agree that therefore elrond and elros were never the slightest bit mad at them and fully forgave them for everything with no reservations

because, well, they were left behind. elwing had no other choice, but they were still left behind; it led to the world being saved, but they were still left behind. all the best intentions in the universe don’t erase the weeks and months and years of waiting, of a hope that grew thinner and frailer until it finally quietly broke

that’s a real hurt, and a real grievance. even if the twins rationally understand that their parents were making the best out of their terrible situation, you can’t logic away emotions like that. it’s perfectly possible for them to know they have no reason to resent eärendil or elwing, and yet still harbour that bitterness and pain

(i did write a thing once where elrond loudly rejects eärendil as his father in favour of maglor, but something i didn’t add in that i probably should have is that elrond later regretted doing that)

(not like, several centuries later, when he’d grown old and wise. two hours later, when he’d calmed down. but he was still legitimately angry at eärendil, because the one thing angry teenage elrond was not lacking in was reasons to be mad at the adults around him, and before he could figure out if he had anything less furious to say the hosts of the valar left middle-earth behind)

(it’s another element to the tragedy of the whole thing. in that particular story, which is mostly aiming for maximum pain, the only thing elrond’s birth parents know about their son for thousands of years is that he hates them)

(and he doesn’t, not really. you can’t hate someone you’ve never known)

not that i think they couldn’t ever make up with their parents! fics where elrond and his birth parents work past all the things that lie between them and form a functional familial bond despite it all give me life. i just don’t like the idea that there’s nothing difficult for them to work past

i don’t like the idea that elrond and elros would naturally, effortlessly identify with the mother they last saw when they were six and the people they only vaguely remember. i can see them doing it as a political move, i can see them going for it as a deliberate personal choice, but i can’t seeing it being immediate and automatic and easy

no matter how great a pair of heroes eärendil and elwing are, that doesn’t change the fact that to elrond and elros, they’re at most a few scattered memories and a collection of far-off stories. and so long as the twins stay in middle-earth, they’re never going to draw any closer

compared to the dynamic, multifaceted, personal, and deep bonds they have with the fëanorians - who, and i know i keep saying this but i think it gets tossed aside way more casually than it should, are the people who actually raised them, their birth parents must feel like a distant idea

and that’s why i can never buy interpretations of elrond as 100% sindarin, a pure son of doriath, with no messy grey areas or awkward jagged edges to his identity. given everything we know about his life, it seems almost cartoonishly simplistic

honestly it seems like a narrative a bunch of old doriathrin nobles trying to manouevre elrond into being high king of the sindar or something would propagate. it's neat and nice and tidy, something that’d be much more convenient for everyone if elrond did feel that way

but i just don’t see how he can. this narrative is easy and simple in a way real people never are, it ignores all the forces pulling him apart. elrond being uncomplicatedly sindarin with the life he lives and the people he's close to - that doesn’t make any sense to me

which isn’t to say i think he’s 100% noldorin, from either a gondolindrim or a fëanorian perspective. (i find it a little more believable, given, again, who he grew up around and who he hangs out with, but it’s still a bit too reductive for my tastes.) it’s also not to say i couldn’t believe an elrond who made an active choice to emphasise his sindarin heritage

it’s not how i think of him, but it works. i don’t have a problem with other people interpreting the complexities of the twins’ identities differently

i just have a problem with people acting like it doesn’t exist

in general i think there’s a lot untapped potential that gets left behind when you declare the twins, separately or together, as All One Thing

they’re descended from half the noble houses of beleriand, and they have deep personal ties to most of the rest. they belong to all of the free peoples even the dwarves, somehow, probably and i feel like that was kind of the old man’s point? so many peoples meet in them, to say they wholly belong to any one species is probably an oversimplification

they sit at a crossroads of potential identities, and rather than narrowing down their worldviews to one single path, they take the hard road and choose all of them. that’s what you need to do, if you want to change the world

and, to bring this back to my ostensible topic, in my estimation at least this mélange of possible selves does include them as fëanorians! it’s not overpowering, but it’s certainly there, and the adults they grow into long after they’ve left the host still bear influence from their childhood

nothing super obvious, nothing that wouldn’t stand out if you didn’t know what to look for, but there’s something almost incandescent in how fiercely elros reaches out for his dreams

there’s something almost defiant in elrond’s drive to be as kind as summer

as for who they publically claim as their family... honestly, it depends. while it’s usually more tactically prudent for elros to connect himself to his various human ancestors, on occasion he does find a use for his free in with the elf mafia, and elrond, code switcher par excellence, is famously the son of whoever is most politically convenient at the moment, which is rarely, but not never, maglor

(in the privacy of their own minds, well, eärendil and elwing may have been the parents elros was supposed to have, but maglor was the parent he actually had, and elros doesn’t particularly care to mope over what might have been. elrond, for his part, figures that after all the shit maglor has put him through, the least that bastard owes him is a father)

but honestly? i think before any of their mountain of identities, before thinking of themselves as sindarin or gondolindel or hadorian or haladin or fëanorian or anything, elrond and elros identify as themselves

they are peredhil, they are númenóreans, they are whoever they make themselves to be. that’s how elrond finally resolved his identity, figured out who he was and found something past the pain and the rage

he wasn’t doriathrin, or gondolindrin, or falathrin, or fëanorian, or whatever else. he was elrond, no more and no less

and that person, elrond, could be whatever he chose to be

... elros came to a similar conclusion, with much less sturm und drang that he’s willing to admit. being able to go ‘hey, i can’t possibly be biased towards any one of your cultures, because i’m descended from all of you and i was raised by murderelves’ makes it a lot easier to unite people around your personal banner, turns out

the stories other people tried to force on them shattered into pieces, and the peredhel twins were free to shape themselves into anything they could dream of

and as the new world struggles alive, these lost children of an Age of death begin to bloom into their full glorious selves -

i just. i love the poetry of that. despite every single shadow that hangs over their past, despite all the clashing notes pulling them apart, they harmonise it all into a greater, kinder theme, determined to make their world a better place in whatever way they can

they fail, of course, but so do all things. the inevitable march of entropy doesn’t diminish the long millennia they (and their descendants) held onto the light

and their growing up in the fëanorian host definitely had a huge effect on the noble lords they became. you can see it in elros’ loud ambition to create a land of happiness and hope, elrond’s quiet resolve to heal all the hurts inflicted by this marred reality

it wasn’t a perfect time by any means, but neither was it a nightmare. it was what it was, a desperate existence at the edge of a knife where, nevertheless, they were loved

even after years upon decades upon centuries have passed, it’s hard for the wise king and the honourable sage to separate out and identify all the conflicting emotions swirling around their childhood. they never knew eärendil or elwing, true, but they also never really knew maglor

not as equals, not as adults, not as people who could truly understand him. he disappeared into the fog of history, leaving only childhood memories of razor-sharp, gentle hands

it’s messy and it’s complicated and getting any real closure would be like shoving their way through a thornbush with bare hands even if elrond could find the shithead, and yet at the core of it all, there is light. not the brightest of lights, maybe, but an enduring one

that contrast, above all, that note of warmth amidst the shadows, is what fascinates me so much about their relationship. three screwed up people in a screwed up world, finding a little peace with each other

and the fact that somehow, it does have a good ending - the children grow up magnificent and compassionate and just, they become exemplars of all their peoples, lodestars of the new world born out of the ashes of the old - that makes it seem to me like this relationship must have contained some fragment of happiness

but, fuck, all the darkness that surrounds that love, all the tangled-up emotions its existence necessitates, all the prefabricated self-identities it can never slot into - nothing about it is simple, nothing about it is easy, and i find that utterly enthralling. especially how, despite everything, that flickering light never goes out

well, i don’t think it does, anyway. my take on this relationship is both complicated enough no one else ever quite gets it right and well-defined enough every single ‘error’ in other people’s interpretations sticks out like a kinslayer in rivendell

it is an entirely self-inflicted problem, i will admit. other people are allowed to interpret those complexities differently from me, and it’s entirely my own fault i lack the :waves hands around nebulously: to write my own hypothetical fic on the subject at a pace faster than glacial

still, though. i do wish there was more fic out there that engaged with these complexities. a lot of the common fandom interpretations of this relationship just sweep it all away

#ask #my terrible headcanons #elros #elrond #maglor #elwing #earendil #feanorians #niphredilien #yellow feathered faerie #putting your old url in the tags for archival purposes #post nyanyannya askbox clearout #ironically it turned out almost as long as the songfic that clogged up my askbox in the first place #and it is DONE #fuck this took forever to write #stayed up late just to get it out the door so i don't have to think about it any more #this is a long ramble and i'm pretty sure the end is just me repeating myself ad nausem sorry #i'll admit to a certain pro-feanorian bias in my interpretation #but i also don't want elros and elrond to just. live in a neverending horrorshow for decades #the silm's cruel enough we don't need that #narratively i feel like elrond being All Of The Elves is a good mirror for elros being All Of The Humans #but it didn't really fit the angle i was going for #bleck #let's see how many followers i lose for this

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beskarhearts · 3 years

Text

Tangled (Javier Peña x reader)

Pairing: Javier Peña x gn!reader

Word count: over

Warnings: lots of cursing (reader has the mouth of a sailor), a little ~steaminess~, mentions of canon typical violence/getting shot, sexual tension

Summary: You and Peña were no strangers to being at each others throats but this argument went a little different than any other had.

Notes: This was cliche and self indulgent but I loved it and I hope you do too. Let me know your thoughts and opinions!! (also probably not going to turn this into a series but it isn't impossible ig)

________________

You charged towards the file room, feeling every ounce of your body flooded with anger as Murphy trailed after you, pitifully trying the stop the damage that was just about to occur.

"It didn't come from a bad place!"

You sporadically came to a halt, turning on your heels and pointing a finger right in Murphy's face, who had nearly crashed into you at your sudden movement. "Don't you dare try to justify this!"

Murphy's face was crumpled into a hesitant type of acceptance, still following you as you continued walking towards the file room, your anger radiating even in each harsh step you took. Once you reached the door, you slammed it open and nearly crashed it into Murphy as you threw it shut again, your eyes trained on the man you were directing every angry, foul thought at.

"Javier Peña, you fucking asshole!" you yelled, your pointer finger now directed at him as he turned to face you. You felt even angrier when he appeared to look at you tiredly at first, face twisted into an expression that perfectly read 'What now?' It didn't change until he registered your rigid body language and the way your face was a shade darker and your brows that were scrunched up.

Then his face dropped slightly and he looked over your shoulder at Murphy, who looked like a kicked puppy with the way he seemed to cower behind you. "You told her?"

Murphy winced slightly, trying to shrug away his concerns but his voice coming out empathetic. "She kind of interrogated me."

"Yeah. Y'know, because interrogations are part of the job!" you spat, eyes shooting venom at the brown-eyed DEA agent that stood in front of you.

He dropped the file he had held in his hand back in a box, placing his newly unoccupied hands on his hips and sending you a plain look. "Listen, it was nothing-"

"You know what else is part of my job, Peña?" you interrupted, allowing him no room to throw around pitiful remarks and false explanations of why what he did was okay. "Let me tell you since you have clearly forgotten: part of my job is catching the bad guys. Meaning I am fully capable of being on the field and getting my hands dirty!"

You took in a deep breath, your whole body feeling like it was on fire from the rage coursing through your veins. Peña let out a small sigh, rubbing at his face and his mustache as he looked at you through half-lidded eyes. "I know."

You let out an agitated huff, throwing your hands up and looking over at Murphy, as if saying 'get a load of this guy'. You turned back to the DEA agent, clasping your hands together. "Let me get this clear then. You are aware that is part of my job. And that this fucking case has become my whole entire life. Yet you neglect to notify me that tomorrow you are going to arrest one of these motherfuckers and don't put me on the God damn team!"

You probably should of quieted down. Surely people could hear you outside the thin walls of the room you were in but you paid no attention to that. Hell, let them gather outside the door and listen to how much of an asshole Javier fucking Peña was. It wasn't like they hadn't heard you two bicker and yell at each other before - it was practically a daily occurrence. You were always at each others throats and the smallest thing could tick you guys off but today was different. Today your anger was completely justified and directed at the exact right person.

"Why don't we all calm down and talk this over calmly?" Steve gently tried to suggest, always the voice of reason during times like these. Sometimes you would entertain his ideas but today was not one of those days.

"Fuck off, Murphy!" you snapped.

Peña redirected his attention to the blond-haired agent. "Give me a minute."

"Oh, you are going to try to magically explain this one away?" you ridiculed as Murphy left the room quietly, shutting the door gently and leaving you two alone.

Javier looked back at you, looking calm as ever and unaffected in every way. It only made your blood bubble even more and as he spoke, you felt your whole body clench up. "You need to calm down."

You hissed at that comment, literally hissed. "Oh, fuck off! You have no right to tell me to calm down. If somebody did this to you, you'd be tearing into their ass and acting like a bitch."

Javier couldn't argue that point, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that not only was it true, but there was no way he could convince you it wasn't. It also was probably the worst thing to say in this given situation, always was something that tipped you off.

"I mean, the fucking audacity you have is unbelievable. Truly impressive." you started to ramble, still sending a deadly glare his way. "You think you are hot shit because you are Javier Peña and you are a DEA agent and the fucking man whore of Columbia. But I am just as good as you, Peña. Hell, I am probably fucking better!"

"You are right."

You froze as you heard his agreement, biting your lip as you tried to detect whether or not that was meant to be some sarcastic play to rile you up. But it appeared genuine which only confused you further. "Then why am I being excluded from extremely important events?"

"It's dangerous." Peña answered plainly, adding no additional details as if that was enough.

You scoffed, tilting your head at him. "No shit, Peña. No offense but no one becomes a DEA agent because it is a safe, secure job. So that doesn't explain why I wasn't included in this."

Peña shook his head, leaning against the rack of files as he looked back at you. You wanted to force him to look away, his stare making you uncomfortable but there was no way you were backing down. "It does. This one is particularly dangerous and I don't want you involved."

Your eyes widened as you took in this new information. "Oh, so you think I can't handle myself?"

"I never said that-"

"I can handle myself, Peña. I am a fucking adult and not to sound cocky, but a hell of a fucking agent. I am capable and I am strong!"

"I know."

"And I can handle this mission."

"I know."

"Then why the fuck did I have to find out from Murphy that I am not joining you guys tomorrow?" you yelled, feeling your body become slightly fatigued from all the anger but you still stood straight and tall.

"Because you care too much and you'll get yourself killed if that means nailing these guys." Peña said plainly. No hint of emotion or manipulation. Just an honest answer to an honest question.

You found yourself for the first time not feeling angry but slight bamboozled. It felt like the rug had been pulled under your feet. You were standing across fucking Javier Peña, who you were pretty sure had never seen take a single day off. "That is the most hypocritical thing I've ever heard."

Peña nodded. "Okay."

You rolled your eyes, feeling once again angry by the dismissal. "Well fuck off because I spoke to everybody and I am on the team tomorrow."

You began to turn towards the exit when the man firmly stated, "No."

You turned back around, an eyebrow raised. "Excuse the fuck outta me?"

"I'm in charge tomorrow and you aren't on." Peña said, a sliver of annoyance eeking out of his words as he looked back at you with a stern glare.

"Fuck off. If I want to go, I'll go." you fired back, arms crossing over your chest defiantly.

Peña stepped closer to you until he was a couple feet away, his voice lowering to a menacingly deep level. "I don't want you on tomorrow."

Your eyes were practically shooting bullets in his direction. "I know you don't fucking like me Peña, but stop acting like a school boy and get your head out of your ass."

"Maybe you are the one with your head up your ass, agent." Peña cooly said.

You tried to ignore the way he was looking at you (and the way you could smell his aftershave from here) and put your hands on your hips. "Fuck you, Peña. You don't want me on tomorrow because I am a better agent than you, you selfish prick."

"That isn't it." Peña said with a chuckle, shaking his head as if you were saying the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

"It fucking is, isn't it? You don't want me strolling into your operation and doing the job better than you. Can't have your huge fucking ego tarnished by me!"

"That is not the reason why!" Peña shouted back, feeling himself lose his temper slightly.

This was the Peña you were used to, the one you egged on and led into a battle of cruel words and hateful glares. "Oh, fuck off. That is absolutely why!"

"Maybe, just fucking maybe-" Peña cut himself off, his chest now heaving as he copied your pose, hands on his hips and body stood straight.

You couldn't help the small grin that grew on your face. "What is it, Peña? Say it. Don't punk out now when things were just getting interesting."

"You are a child." Peña spat back.

You chuckled harshly. "Look in the mirror before you start throwing insults around, Peña. Now what were you going to say?"

Peña stared back at you, your eyes locked together in a visceral manner. "I don't want you to fucking die."

You couldn't help the throaty laugh that erupted from your very core, your head thrown back as you looked away from him for the first time to try to gather your composure. "Oh, fucking please! Spare me. You have never given a shit for me!"

Peña shook his head, looking slightly deflated as he looked away from you. "Fuck off."

"Oh, don't act like that. I am just supposed to stand here and believe that this whole time you've secretly cared about my safety and you don't have me on the operation tomorrow in order to keep me safe?"

Peña looked back up at you and you nearly wavered from the look in his eyes. You couldn't handle it if it were the truth, which the look he gave you said it was, so you continued on doing what you did best. "I don't need anybody to protect me. Certainly not you, Javier Peña."

"I'm not trying to protect you."

You lifted up a hand emphatically. "So you didn't not put me on this because you don't want me to die?"

"Fucking hell, you are so frustrating." Peña yelled back, face red and eyes throwing daggers as he stepped even closer to you.

You didn't dare take a single step back. You would show no fear or weakness. "And you are such a walk in the park? I forgot about how the man-whore of Columbia was always just a pleasant-"

You were cut off by Peña lunging forward and for a split second you thought 'Oh, shit. I'm gonna have to kick Peña's ass.' That was until you felt a pair of rough, chapped lips press into yours mercilessly and a pair of calloused hands grab at the side of your face.

You stood still for a solid few seconds, your brain seeming to short-circuit until it slowly registered the undeniable truth of the situation: Javier Peña was fucking kissing you.

Well then push him off of you!

Except you didn't. For all intents and purposes, you should have. You should of shoved him off of you, yelled at him for trying to pull his 'sex god' card on you, and maybe even delivered a striking slap to his face, just for dramatic effect. But you didn't. You stood there completely still until eventually your hands reached for the collar of his jacket, roughly pulling him in until he was pressed so tightly to you that you didn't think there was an centimeter of distance between the two of you.

You felt him turn you, pushing you back until your back hit the same file cabinet he had been leaning against earlier. Your lips finally caught up with the rest of you, lips fighting dominantly against each other in a frantic battle. It probably wasn't the prettiest kiss but holy shit, you couldn't think of a time you had been kissed like this. The kiss was so striking but also so passionate, both of you fighting each other in the most deliriously addictive way. You couldn't ignore the smallest voice in the back of your brain asking you why you hadn't done this way earlier.

Eventually your tongues danced against each other, begging for even the smallest taste of each other like you were both addicts craving even the slightest taste from the bottle. His hands drifted away from your face to your hips, clutching them roughly and tightly but not hurting you in any way. Just gripping hard enough for you to feel them and feel the emotion.

Eventually, after what felt simultaneously likes hours but also mere seconds, Peña pulled away and holy fuck, how did he look so good? His lips were puffed and red, slightly wet from the sloppiness of the kiss. His eyes were hooded and looking at you in a way he had before but you had never been able to place, always mistaking the lustiness for hatred (and hold up, had it just been lust this whole time?). His jacket was still clutched tightly in your hands and you should of let go. Anyone could walk in and see him standing up against you on a shelf with your faces red and chests heaving but you couldn't even bother to care, your brain still reeling and your body betraying you, yearning for more.

"I'm going tomorrow." you said, still slightly out of breath.

Peña sighed, his warm breath fanning over you and smelling slightly of mint gum and stale cigarettes. "I know you are."

You nodded, glad to see his slow acceptance creep in. You slowly released the jacket, looking at how it had crinkled from how tightly you had pulled him to you. He backed up slowly, one small step at a time as his eyes still traced each others faces.

Part of you wanted to reach out and kiss him again, fight with him again in the most delicious way but the door opened and you both turned to see the tall, blond-haired agent you had both become closer with than you initially thought possible.

"Have you guys killed each other?" he asked, trying to joke but also hesitant to with how foul your mood had been.

You desperately pulled away from the shelf and shook your head, though not to answer him but in some desperate attempt to try to shake away the evidence of what just happened (despite the fact that it was imprinted on your mind). "No. I'm going tomorrow."

Murphy shared a weary look with Peña who just gave a short nod and began to walk towards the exit. "She comes. If she gets shot, its not my problem."

You and Murphy both watched him slip past, moving out of the room and down the hall, away from you. Murphy twisted his head to look back at you, shaking his head. "Based off his behavior, I'd say that went well." he sarcastically mumbled.

You tried to chuckle but it sounded fake and hollow, your mind too preoccupied. "Yeah. Super well."

Murphy gave a roll of the eyes, used to the two of you being frustrated with the other as he slipped away from the doorway. You followed him as you made your way out of the room, the room where you still comprehend what exactly had happened in it. "You must of really went after each other this time."

You nearly choked at Murphy's quip, your mind taking a moment to realize he was speaking rhetorically about your arguing. He had no way to know the violent dance your lips had done or the way you both had perfectly expressed arousal and hatred with your tongues alone.

You just hummed, pushing past Murphy to head to your desk so you could work and just forget what had happened. Forget it because it meant nothing.

#javier peña #javier pena #narcos #narcos netflix #javier peña x reader #javier pena x reader #javier peña x gn!reader #javier pena x gn!reader #javier peña x f!reader #javier pena x f!reader #javier peña imagine #javier pena imagine #javier peña one shot #javier pena one shot #javier peña blurb #javier pena blurb #narcos imagine #javier peña fanfiction

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bondsmagii · 3 years

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I think kinks can be brought about by horror media but it’s not necessarily just horror but can be any media tbh. When I was little I never really watched horror, really the only horror I consumed was stories shared around playgrounds and the summaries on the backs of my dads horror DVDs. But when I was little I was fascinated with the concept of being kidnapped, before I knew what sex was or anything like that. Like my interest wasn’t sexual, the idea was just satisfying to me and made me feel calm even. Not to go into too much detail but now that’s developed into a CNC kink where I’m the “victim” so to speak. I know it didn’t come from horror, didn’t come from any trauma I can recall. I think sometimes we see something happen on a show that we don’t necessarily find scary even and our brains just run with it. I think this may be even more likely if something is in media we favour a lot, you may begin to associate seeing certain actions with strong positive emotions which may develop into a conditioned response that may turn sexual at some point

that's a good point, yeah. humans are really wired for positive reinforcement, and if we find something we really, really like, that's associated with feelings of happiness or safety? wires can be crossed, just like how I was saying re: fear and adrenaline getting crossed over with arousal. if somebody is watching their favourite show and it's got a lot of blood in it, for example, this might translate into them being into blood sexually. it's just a case of the positive feelings not caring about the fact that the "trigger" for them, so to speak, has some dark elements. (in this, the "trigger" being the show the person enjoys, but it manifests in the blood, because there's lots of violence and blood in the show and that's the thing that sticks in the mind.) it all sounds very convoluted, but it does make a certain amount of sense.

plus not to mention that all of these things are pure fantasy. they exist outside of the real world; real life doesn't apply to them. with that in mind, none of these dangerous situations are never truly dangerous, nobody is being harmed, and the person never feels actually threatened. the scenario exists only in a very small, controlled environment, and is incredibly removed from the real thing. this is what blows my mind about people seeing darker kinks and immediately kicking off about how terrible a person must be for having them: it's so removed from real life that I struggle to compare the two. a kink for something dark is to the real thing what a cartoon lion is to the real lion: harmless, made safe, and in absolutely no way the same thing at all. right from the foundations, one lion is drawn by a human onto a piece of paper in 2D, and the other is a real honest-to-god living lion. the two are not comparable at all, similar only in their most basic things (outline and colouring), and it's the same thing going on here. the general concept is the same (someone is being kidnapped, someone is being tied up, etc) but nothing of the real danger, threat, or cruelty is involved. I can understand why some people find it doesn't suit them, but a moral judgement on every single person who enjoys it (and assumptions about how dangerous they are, even!) is beyond me.

#anon #asks

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sleepylixie · 4 years

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The Twilight Renegade- Spellcaster! Lee Know

Word Count: 1.5k

Genre: As fantasy as it can get!

Beware of violence(a mild dose of it), mentions of an unhealthy household. Minho is a tricky lil shit and I loved writing him-

A/N: THIS FIC DOES NOT REFLECT THE CHARACTER OR LIKENESS OF THE REAL LEE KNOW IN ANY FORM OR MANNER. ONTO THE FIC!! I enjoyed writing this wayyy too much 💀😂😂 The idea of having Minho be a dark wizard was so appealing for reasons i am yet to comprehend. ANYWAYS. ENJOY!!

Requests are open for SKZ and BTS! || Masterlist

The Twilight Renegade.His name is passed from ear-to-ear in hushed whispers, his story told at children’s bedsides, the bard’s bonfires and old wives’ kitchens.

There’s so much known about the legendary dark wizard and yet, his existence remained shrouded in a cloak of mystery.

Where did he come from? Was he mortal? Did he sell his soul to the Devil?

It was said that the Twilight Renegade travelled the world cloaked and under disguise, sometimes not as a human, providing justice and retribution to those who couldn’t find it for themselves.

Where the Renegade came a- knockin’, treachery went a-runnin’, chorused the old song that every travelling musician worth his salt knew the words from memory.

Some said he was a poor orphan who died and was reincarnated by a magician hunting for a protegee.

Some claim to have known him as a child, a strange little boy who grew up with blood on his hands and bones in his pocket, he was always a strange one until he ran away from his family to never be seen again.

Some swear up and down to have seen his true face, singing praises of beautiful eyes and seductive lips like a maiden but a dead smile that betrayed his true nature.

If only they knew his true nature.

Said Twilight Renegade went by the name Lee Minho when he was off the job and was nothing more than a cat parent with a penchant for goodwill trickery.

In the spring days, a smiling young man wandered the marketplace with fresh game, bartering pleasantly with the baker and the butcher, greeting the maidens with a wink as they cooed at the 3 cats frolicking at his feet.

Of course, it was all a pretense-

the maidens only ever had eyes for Minho’s angular jawline and his sharp nose, his strong shoulders and lean yet built frame

sigh

He was an oddity, the sweetheart of the village.

Lee Minho lived in the corner of the village by himself for around 1/3rd of the year, then leaving on work trips the very day autumn begins to set in

He only reappeared again the morning summer awakens in their village, after almost 10 months away.

He’d bring back exotic spices for the old wives, pretty gemstones for the little girls and daggers for the little boys-

he was generous, the sweetheart of the village.

He’d always laugh away the questions thrown at him about his work trips, surrounded by hot-blooded young men in the crowded bar.

“Nothing interesting, I promise you,” He’d smile his mystery smile, tipping back his beer. “A lot of trading and a lot of travelling. You meet a lot of new people. That’s pretty much it.”

He was mysterious, the sweetheart of the village.

Little did those hot-blooded young men know how truthful, yet false his words were.

Lee Minho was a 400 year old dark magician, born into a small home of supernatural oddities.

His father was the last dark magician of a lost cult, his mother a necromancer from a family of elementalists.

He grew up with a rocky childhood, a shattered home where fights between a power-drunk father and alcoholic mother raged more often than not.

They had nowhere to go but home, they told Minho every night, for they had no family left but each other, and of course, him.

This young boy with lilac eyes and a penchant for spell-casting grew up more in the wilderness than in his own home, finding the crickets and owls safer than breaking glass and raging screams.

He found himself a love for animals-particularly of the feline type, cooing at the kittens in the ditch and unabashedly playing tag with the panthers over no-moon nights.

Minho’s parents were united in one front, however; they knew they had to leave their son with all the magical knowledge they’d ever gained over their years.

So Minho became his parents’ apprentice-He learnt to harness dark energy, to reanimate cat skulls and then cat skeletons, to bind the shadows to his bidding, to build incantations that would suck out his enemy’s power,to read minds, break minds

The more Minho’s power grew, the darker his eyes got- by the time he was 20, his eyes were bordering a deep royal purple.

He was his father’s pride and his mother’s joy, the apple of their eyes despite the hate they harbored for each other. He could almost believe that they were a normal family if he spent as long as he could out of the house with his feline (dead and alive) friends.

It was on one such night that he made his way back home just before sunrise, only to scramble back into the bushes and watch in terror as a battalion of humans tore his house apart with pitchforks and fire,

Drag his mother out by the hair, chanting WITCH. WITCH. WITCH. WITCH.

Watch his father be overwhelmed by the sheer brutality of mortal weaponry, succumb to age and fall, broken and very, very dead, from the way his head hung off his shoulders

Watch his mother burnt alive in front of his house’s doorstep, left to die with her husband.

And felt something crack inside him.

There were limits even a necromancer couldn’t cross, even after the loss of their loved ones.

Minho was distraught, understandably so. Having to watch his only family be butchered by a senseless mob had him bristling in a mix of emotions he couldn't differentiate.

He stayed in the woods with the owls, crickets and assorted felines, hunting game and satiating his human hungers.

He wished he wasn't human anymore. He wished he didn't have to be associated to a race of people that killed and let kill without a second thought, under the name of humanity.

Weren't his parents human too?

It was that exact thought that had him pulling together all of the magic running in his veins and perform his possibly last, potentially dangerous spell-

Nobody knows what happened in the Twilight Woods that night, but nobody would forget the raucous screaming that emanated from there for hours, like a young boy's screams of pain

And nobody would forget the piles upon piles of bones that laid at the edge of the woods

Human bones.

Every pitchfork wielder who had turned up at the witch family's house to burn the inhabitants were reported missing that very day.

Turns out Lee Minho had a skill other than feline whispering and spell-casting: he had an uncanny knack for staying alive

That final spell he cast in Twilight Woods was an incredibly dangerous spell that involved sucking out surrounding life forces- enough to make the caster virtually immortal

And of course he chose the people in the mob, not the sweet animals in the woods.

His new immortal status gave Minho a purpose in life.

He decided he was going to rid the world of all the lowlife scumbags that felt privileged and entitled to things and people who didn't belong to them.

Word travelled fast, even in thise times, of a dark wave that swept out from Twilight woods into the surrounding towns in a matter of months

Woman abusers and rapists found without genitalia, slave traders dead of uncurable disease

Cheating nobility hung by their coattails in town squares for their victims' amusement, their rightful money returned to them

The dark wave had a sense of humor.

When one of the stragglers of the dark wave swore that the dark wave was a person, a man, dressed in twilight purple and a dangerous smile

Townsfolk took to calling him the The Twilight Renegade

Minho took the name to heart, for what was he if not a newly immortal spell caster with a sense for the dramatic

He wore purple all the time, a mockery of the colour scheming nobility claimed for themselves

What a nice twist of irony would it be, to have your fate decided by a lowborn magical spellcaster who wore the colour of luxury better than they?

Everybody knows the story of the magical Robin Hood who came from questionable origins, but lived life with a love for trickery, feline companions and an unflinching sense of good.

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hamliet · 4 years

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Girls Don’t Want Boys, Girls Want Monsters: Netflix’s The Witcher Review

Finally, the show we deserve.

Men get all their superhero power fantasies of kicking villain ass. Finally there’s a story that has that and includes women’s emotional power fantasies about falling in love with monsters who change. It doesn’t treat either as ridiculous or limited by gender, either, since Geralt falls for a monster too and women get to kick ass as well.

Essentially, it’s a story about defeating monsters: often through integration with the shadow, sometimes involving love and connection, sometimes violence, but the violence is never glorified. It’s good.

NB: I’m in the middle of reading the books (in the middle of Blood of Elves so far). I haven’t played the game since video games aren’t really a medium I enjoy. So I’ll make some comparisons since the show covered the two books I’ve read thus far, but please don’t put spoilers for the books below!

Let’s talk my favorite aspect of every story: characters.

Renfri.

Her story was somewhat sanitized from the books (it’s a lot more brutal what happened to Renfri) but well adapted. Both versions--the book and show--depict sincere empathy for our deconstructed Snow White. I loved her dialogue with Geralt, in which Geralt praises her for escaping the huntsman her stepmother hired to kill her, and she laughs and says that she didn’t. He let her go, but not before raping and robbing her. The story never directly answers if the prophecy was true or not; Geralt doesn’t believe it, but a lot of things Geralt doubts turn out to be true. Renfri was supposedly attacking animals as a child; however, the person reporting that is highly unlikely to be unbiased (Stregobor) so is this even true? Did Renfri become a killer because she was horribly abused and left with no other option? (That’s the option that I think seems most likely.)

We can’t know. The Witcher isn’t interested in giving its audience palatable answers. It’s interested in provoking questions. The show gives more answers than do the books, again likely due to the medium, but it still lets these questions linger.

Renfri’s story is not the first one in the books, but it is the first one the show adapts, and that’s a good decision imo. Her story embodies The Witcher’s themes and questions:

By acting the monster, we make monsters out of others.

To defeat monsters, you must be a monster.

What, then, can heal, especially in a world so broken?

Ciri.

Our deconstructed Rapunzel (yes, there are a lot of fairy tale references). As far as her story goes in its adaptation, the addition of Dara was well done. Sadly, no, Dara is not in the books, but his addition gave Ciri an arc beyond merely running in this story.

That said, Ciri in the books is much younger than she is in the show. Which is okay, because Ciri is somewhat emblematic of the future: there’s a lot unknown about her powers, she needs to be protected from everyone trying to grab her and use her powers for themselves. She is Geralt’s destiny, and she is the future of the world of The Witcher.

NB: I can’t discuss Ciri without shouting out to the casting director for casting Pavetta: how did they find an actress who looks so much like Ciri’s actress? It’s almost eerie.

The episode where Geralt finds out about the Law of Surprise and his reaction to Pavetta’s pregnancy is perhaps the only story that I felt was better in the show than in the books (again, this isn’t inherently a quality thing but a medium preference). It added some much-needed hilarity (Geralt’s perfectly-timed “destiny can go f--” *Pavetta vomits* and all he can say is, “fuck”) and gave Geralt an arc.

Geralt.

Mm.

I liked how they handled his character and his struggles with what it means to be a Witcher and/or human. His struggles to understand himself are relatable, and fairly well set-up for future exploration. He’s a foil of Ciri, Yennefer, Jaskier, and Cahir so far, and I’m particularly intrigued by the monster theme and the foiling that is already set up thus with all of the above except Jaskier (who is no monster). Geralt was skeptical about saving the striga for her father, but managed to succeed, and I wonder if he will somehow be able to save himself from his own inner fears/monster by being a father. (Basically, I am curious as to how being Ciri’s de factor dad is going to challenge him.)

Jaskier.

Or, Dandelion, as he’s known in the books. The bard adds some much needed levity to the tale, and as @aspoonofsugar says, he’s pretty much Donkey from Shrek. But he is used fairly well within the story: he shows Geralt even before Ciri and Yennefer enter his life that he has a purpose beyond being a killing machine. In that sense he’s the foil of Renfri (Renfri accomplishes the same, but through violence) in that Geralt saves him and he clearly thinks highly of the Witcher. Jaskier is in some ways humanity in all its paradoxes and foibles, annoying and stupid, kind and clever, funny and truthful, deceptive and respectful.

Cahir.

I’m a sucker for ravens as part of an aesthetic, as well as pretty, tormented bad boys. Yes, I know he’s a character I’m sure will arouse much handwringing and puritanical policing a la his other archetype brothers (Loki, Kylo Ren, Snape, etc). I don’t care. I do think the show made him much darker when compared to the books, but I still expect his arc to go in the same direction as the books. He’s a complicated, conflicted, complex character, and I’m not sorry for feeling empathy for him.

But I am curious about his foiling with Geralt. Both are characters seeking Ciri to fulfill... something, and monstrous in a way (Cahir more for what he does, but there’s a humanity to him as well).

Yennefer.

Finally, my favorite, my baby murder daughter.

Yennefer’s character was fascinating. I appreciated that she’s allowed to want deeply, her own wants, instead of attaching her wants to be whatever the male character desires. She wants to have children. She wants love. She wants to be beautiful. Her desires are traditionally feminine, and the show doesn’t put this down. And she also kicks ass and takes names, she fails, she’s allowed to be angry, to be mean often, to want to learn and to want to be the best.

The show doesn’t punish Yennefer for her ambition. Neither do the books. She experiences consequences, both positive and negative, for her every choice. The show reveals her backstory right away, whereas the books don’t, but again that’s a medium thing. I think both do excellently in setting up Yennefer for our empathy. It doesn’t apologize for her or her wants or actions; it lets her arc and the story itself do the talking.

Yennefer’s not here to be your cautionary tale or your role model. She’s just there to be her and to live.

That is, to an extent, perhaps the best kind of role model.

That doesn’t mean the show did everything in Yennefer’s story justice. I wasn’t thrilled with the adaptation of her first meeting with Geralt--the orgy in the background isn’t in the books and is a very bizarre decision given context. While, I loved Tissaia’s character and her foiling with Yennefer: they are too alike to ever get along, I really didn’t understand the point of Tissaia turning the other girls into slugs in episode 2. It was unsettling and not in the books. It was a heavy-handed metaphor not explained until episode 7 (about treating people as expendable slugs) that didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know about how the world and Dark!Hogwarts worked. If anything it made the school seem foolishly cackling-mustache evil instead of the true current of darkness within it: manipulation and utilitarianism. As part of effort to control things, that control itself can lead to chaos.

I think the rest of the series set this precise dilemma of a precarious balance between self-control and manipulation/utilitarianism quite well, though (it goes hand-in-hand with the theme of a “lesser evil” to quote Renfri’s story). I’m excited to see this explored more.

Other comments:

When comparing the show to the books as I’ve read so far, I think the show made some smart changes for adapting to a visual medium. For example, Foltest and Adda’s story was adapted as a mystery: what is the monster? Who is the father? Who is the curser? Can the monster be saved? Whereas the book doesn’t do that: you know immediately that the monster is a striga, Foltest is the father, and he wants the striga saved. The answer to who cursed Adda is never clear in the written story either, whereas the show declares it was Ostrit (the book leaves it very much up in the air as to whether it was Ostrit or Adda’s mother). However, the way this particular episode weaves Adda’s story of rebirth with Yennefer’s rebirth was beautifully done. (Foltest is a good dad. We need more good dads in stories; of course, if we had more good dads, we’d have far less stories.) (I’m jesting.)

The dialogue is at times... well it’s not like it’s The Rise of Skywalker levels of “who wrote this???” but it’s not always stellar. Actually, I’d say the quality tends to swing wildly about between clever (episode 4) and just confusing (episode 5). But in general, I think the dialogue issue is representative of the show’s largest issue: it struggles to know when to trust its audience. When should it give details? When should it trust them? When is it spoonfeeding, and when is it just confusing? It tries to walk a fine line and stumbles a bit. It succeeds, however, with the characters as I mentioned earlier with Yennefer, Geralt, and Ciri.

My advice for the show going forward (not that they should definitely listen to me) is to forget Game of Thrones. It’s pretty obvious that this show is a passion project made by people who love The Witcher. I really hope they lean into that aspect instead of into the GoT-replacement aspect (because there are definitely aspects of that, particularly in the mood/aesthetic, tone, and gratuitous nudity--which is not exploitative or disturbing, but it also wasn’t necessary, isn’t in the books, and so felt like pandering).

However, the sheer love for the material still really shines through. They made me care for the characters, they interested me in the world, and they have me hooked for season 2. The showrunners’ excitement for the story and adoration of its characters is contagious, and I hope the show lets this excitement spread.

#the witcher #netflix's the witcher #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #cahir #ciri #princess cirilla #hamliet reviews #jaskier #renfri

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textsfromthetofu · 4 years

Text

8 Things We Might See in Wakfu Series 4

I sometimes get asked what I think will happen in series 4, and I have genuinely never thought about it much. So I’ve taken a little while to watch the last few episodes of series 3 to refresh my memory and take some time to write down my thoughts and predictions. Given the questions that the end of S3 brought us, this could all be way off base, but I’m going for what I think is most likely to happen. This is quite long so click below to read the whole lot.

1) A darker tone

As ToT mentioned in his blog, the series was dropped by France Télévision in part because it had become too adult, and series 3 continued in that vein - we had Pinpin literally murdered in front of his family, a pregnant Eva impaled by a ‘spell’ and a lot of violence. I think series 4 will go further. I didn’t watch the original OVAs (Noximilien L’Horloger and Goultard le Barbare) until much later after Wakfu, and I was surprised at how dark they were. Nox’s descent into madness in the former is genuinely disturbing, and Goultard le Barbare is full of blood, stabbing and his dead wife and kids hanging from the ceiling WHAT THE HELL ANKAMA.

While I don’t think Wakfu will go quite as dark as those, it’s an indication that, when free from the restraints of a TV channel or Netflix, the creators will lean to a slightly less kid-friendly audience. So I’m expecting more violence (and possibly blood), more mature themes and almost certainly more sex jokes.

2) No English (or any non-French) Dub

This one is something that I pray won’t happen, but I can easily see it. The limited budget for S4 means that Ankama will need to keep their costs to a minimum, and I fear this means that not hiring VAs for overseas dubs will be a way to do this. I’m sure there will be an English subbed version, so it won’t be entirely French-only, and maybe some dedicated fans may step in. But I’m not expecting to hear it in English.

That said, it’s not all bad. The French VAs are brilliant - even if you don’t understand them, the sound of their voices and the way they speak give you a real sense of emotion and the character.

3) Yugo’s fear

Throughout S3, Yugo’s story has been plagued by the negative effects of him trying to do the right thing. The fallout from using the Dofus in the OVAs (both in terms of the argument with Adamaï and the creation of the Eliotropes), the mind games Oropo played with him over defeating Nox (and feeling responsible for his death) and banishing Qilby will have given him so many regrets.

That’s why I think the big struggle of S4 will be that of Yugo with himself. He’s still a kid, yet wields huge power that has the potential to destroy lives - he’s saved countless lives too, of course, but he has (indirectly) killed because of it, and that’s what he focuses on. Yugo wants to save everyone, and those he doesn’t haunt him. His fear of doing the same again will make him reluctant to fight, maybe even refuse to get involved, and he’ll need to beat his inner demons and use his power for good to help the rest of them. But he won’t be the only one who can help...

4) The Gods

Since S3 ended with our heroes and the Brotherhood stranded in Inglorium, the realm of the Gods, it’s very likely we’re going to meet them. Initially, I think this will give us a bit of light relief (I mean, imagine Ruel meeting Enutrof!), but ultimately, its their power that will be needed to help return everyone to the World of Twelve. I can’t imagine convincing them to use that much power will be particularly easy.

5) Return of the Eliatropes

I’m not entirely sure how this will link into their being in Inglorium, but I’m reminded of what Balthazar said at the end of S2: Yugo is not ready to rule over the Eliatropes, and the World of Twelve is a dangerous place to have the Eliacube. Well, great news Balthazar, the Eliacube was destroyed (I assume). I think that Yugo ultimately winning the battle with his fears, and being instrumental in saving the gods will become proof that he is ready to assume the responsibility of being King again.

6) A happy ending... but definitely an ending

I love a good happy ending, and I’m sure we’ll get one, unlike S3. Here’s why - the season 3 we got, according to ToT, was the first half of the season he had planned, so the ending was written with the intention of it being continued. Of course, it wasn’t, so we got a real cliffhanger and that’s why everyone’s so desperate for closure!

Season 4 will be written with the intention of ending Yugo’s story. There almost certainly won’t be a season 5, so they’ll need to wrap up the story. That, to me, means a happy ending - it’ll happen, but we’re going to go through a lot first. But eventually, everything will return to a peaceful, happy life.

7) Yumalia Endgame

Come on, it’s going to happen. Yugo’s rejection of Amalia during S3 really hurt, but that smile he gave her right at the end... he loves her!

I think they will sort out the awkwardness fairly early on, but Yugo will remain adamant that he and Amalia can never be together. As the season progresses, I think either he’ll change his mind, or the power of the gods will come into play. Could they make Amalia age as slowly as Yugo - remember the time trap where Oropo tells her that her beauty can never be tarnished by time? Maybe she already has the slow aging thing down!

Either way, I’m fairly certain that they will be together by the end of the show. And talking of the end, I’m afraid to say that I think Amalia will return to find her father has died. I’m not sure how the monarchy of the Sadida works, but could she become Queen? And with Yugo King of the Eliatropes, their relationship would be a united force!

8) If it doesn’t happen...

Of course, all this is dependent on the upcoming crowdfunding being successful. I hope to God it is, but I worry that the amount it takes to create even half a dozen episodes will be more than we can manage. However, if it doesn’t, I can imagine there being a graphic novel or something similar to round off the story. I know ToT wants to finish the story as much as we want him to!

The downside to this is that, in common with the last couple of books of Wakfu: The Manga, it’s unlikely to be released outside France or in any other languages. The upside is that I’ll probably translate it in some way (doing a whole scanlation of Book 5 of the manga was a time-consuming task, so whether I’ll do that again is debatable), so in the event they substitute the series for the printed word, if Ankama won’t do it, I will make sure the English-speaking fans won’t go without.

So that’s what I think. I’d love to hear what you think will happen (and why you think I am so very wrong about everything!)

#wakfu #wakfu s4 #predictions

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captain-black-water · 4 years

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I’chi “Black Water” Tia

The Basics ––– –

Age: Thirty-seven

Race: Seeker of the Sun Miqo’te/Highlander Hyur

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

Marital Status: Single

Server: Mateus - Crystal

Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: Thick black hair with a constant shine. He doesn’t care for it as often as he should, usually letting it get slick with grease and sea salt until someone negs him enough to do something about it. When down his hair reaches down to about his midsection but, more often than not, he will usually put his hair up in some thickly bound braids that he then bundles in a knot.

Eyes: A keen feline yellow, with the trademark Seeker pupils. However, his right eye is marred by a cloudy texture. A birth defect that labels him as blind at a glance. Though his left eye is without this distinctive feature, it’s certainly no more capable of focusing on any one detail.

Height: 6′3″

Build: Broad chested, with well-defined muscle. I’chi keeps himself well in shape, focusing mostly on his naturally strong Miqo’te legs and his chest.

Distinguishing Marks: One of the first things anyone might notice about I’chi are the tattoos that decorate his face. They resemble the stripes of a tiger, turning his already intimidating features all the more grim and fearsome. But those aren’t his only tattoos. On his back, I’chi sports the image of a white tiger immerging from the depths of a black sea, surrounded by brilliantly marbled koi and vibrant orange petals. The colors are vivid and distinct with strong black lines, perhaps so that I’chi himself might be able to see them in a mirror’s reflection.

Common Accessories: I’chi finds himself in many different outfits but one accessory that he maintains throughout all of them is the gold earring near the tip of his right ear. It is sometimes, but not always, accompanied by some other rings that don’t shine quite as brightly.

Personal ––– –

Profession: Self-employed. I’chi runs the show that provides the downtrodden and poor with what they need to survive and get back on their feet, employing the street rats of Eorzea’s major cities to keep their eyes and ears open. He learns and deals with secrets, often using what intelligence he gathers to blackmail and bring down corrupt nobles and politicians in Ul’dah. Meanwhile, in Limsa Lominsa, he anonymously provides the Maelstrom with tips and information on criminals within their jurisdiction. Any gil I’chi earns through his efforts - often taken from those who stole it to begin with - is redistributed to those in need. None of these dealings, however, are public knowledge and he does not speak of these dealings openly.

Hobbies: In his free time, I’chi occupies his time by drinking or getting himself into someone else’s bed. Often both at once. There’s no better way for him to forget about the past than to be too busy finding pleasure in the present.

Residence: Owns a home in Shirogane known as “Tiger Lily Cottage” where he often frequents and stays during his visits to the Far East. He as well owns a rundown and abandoned mansion somewhere within Thanalan, given the deed to the place after the owner passed away. He’s done little to nothing with the places, aside from paying it the occasional visit.

Birthplace: Details of where I’chi was born are unknown to him, but his best guess is wherever the I tribe of Miqo’te make their home. He never bothered to learn where that may be.

Patron Deity: Llymlaen.

Fears: True vulnerability. Getting too close to someone. His past. Being submerged underwater. Losing what very little sight he still has.

Relationships ––– -

Spouse: Negative

Children: N/A

Parents: Miqo’te Mother, Deceased. Highlander Hyur Father, MIA.

Siblings: Yes, though he doesn’t know of where they are or if they’re still alive. None share his mixed heritage.

Other Relatives: Yes but, similar to the above, he doesn’t know them. Nor does he wish to.

Pets: Some fish back home in Shirogane.

Traits ––– -

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––– –

Themes and more: For the comfort and well being of all involved, it is very important that I make clear some potentially triggering subjects. I’chi’s past deals with themes of sexual violence, other non-violent sexual situations, parental death, murder, and strong language. Additionally, I’chi himself deals with depression and copes poorly through alcoholism and non-violent sexual acts. All that being said, I roleplay I’chi lightheartedly and save the darker themes for when I am sure that those participating in the roleplay are comfortable exploring those heavier themes. Just as people in the real world are flawed and multidimensional, so too is I’chi (or at least that’s how I hope to depict him), which means there are some things to his character that are rightfully considered to be bad. I will not fault anyone for only wishing to see the lighthearted side of I’chi’s character.

What I’m Looking For: I’m hoping to broaden my horizons as a roleplayer by roleplaying with many different people and experiencing new and interesting situations! I am always open to making friends and discussing potential plot ideas. I appreciate many different themes, but I would lying if I said I didn’t have a preference. While I can enjoy comedic and lighthearted stories, I find I am only ever truly invested in those with emotional weight, nuance, and depth. I prefer dark and/or romantic themes, but not so much in that I crave constant edge and agony or only erotic entanglements. Balance, y’know? Most of all, I have a story for I’chi that I wish to see unfold, and I want to welcome others to join me in telling that story - and yours too!

RP Hooks ––– –

Black Water: I’chi was raised amongst the Bloodtides crew under the careful watch of their captain, a man who held the title of “Black Water”. Under Black Water’s command, I’chi and the rest of the Bloodtides laid siege to many innocents, earning their name by turning the tide’s red with blood. Around the time I’chi entered his adulthood he began to plot to overthrow the reigning Black Water and usurper his title, successfully convincing enough of the crew to join him in his bloody revolution. His actions left the Bloodtides fewer in numbers, yet I’chi’s reign as the new Black Water led the crew to riches untold. However, as fate would have it, I’chi’s time as captain was cut short as he was done in by the same fate as the Black Water before him. Although he survived being tossed overboard with weights strapped to his arms and legs, his reputation did not. I’chi was declared dead and, though he later showed his face again to the Maelstrom that sought his head, the people were content to let that be the end of his story. Perhaps your character was affected by the Bloodtides at some point in their life, either before, during, or after I’chi’s reign as Black Water. Perhaps your character was one of the Bloodtides on his crew. Or perhaps you simply knew the legends as they were so often told around Limsa’s docks. Either way, there are plenty of different avenues to explore with this legacy!

White Tiger: One might think that I’chi being as large and distinctive as he is might be why the eyes of Kugane’s citizens can’t seem to look away, but the name they whisper under their breath tells a different story. The tale of the ‘White Tiger of Kugane’ they mutter to those not in the know. A tale regaling the exploits of one beastly figure, more animal than man, whose loyalties they cannot disconcern. They speak of how he once worked as the muscle for a gang of criminals who terrorized Kugane’s merchants, taking a cut from their profits in exchange for the kindness of leaving them and their wares be. But suddenly, one day, the White Tiger turned his blade on the very master that held their leash. He severed their head from their shoulders on the city streets, turning his white coat red and stirring panic and awe in the people. As the authorities gave chase, he led them back to where the criminals made their home, vanishing from sight and leaving the others to take the fall. His actions freed the people from a threat they could not oppose on their own, and for that they are grateful. But were his actions truly selfless? Your character may have had a run-in with I’chi during this time in his life, or maybe they were witness to his infamous deed. Perhaps they only know the legend. I am open to discussing any connections, just let me know!

Contact Information/About the player ––– –

Hello, and thank you for reading this far! My name is Blake, and you can usually find/contact me here or on I’chi Tia on Mateus. Btw I 100% stole this format from my friend Speedie, who you can find here. I keep a bit of an odd, migrating schedule, but I am always happy to make room for some RP whenever we can make it work!

#IC #about I'chi #character profile #mateus #ffxiv #ffxiv rp

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liannyeong · 5 years

Text

Say you want me (out of your life)

Summary: Agents or not, they are still humans.

Word count: 7654

Pairing: Jaebum X OC

Warning(s): angst?, some blood and violence involved, tons of time skips and pov changes (but fret not! the numbering is supposed to help...)

A/N: It’s been a little over 2 months. Enjoy this agent/spy AU that I've always wanted to try (though I don’t really have the confidence in this plot...) Summary is bad, I’m sorry I didn’t know how else to write it. Oh and the title is a line from 5SOS’s Youngblood. :)

xi.

"It's over," Jaebum speaks, tone serious. A gun pointing at her.

"Indeed," Aera whispers to herself, reigning.

She closes her eyes.

The sound of a click and then--

Bang!

---

The tension between them has always been there. Aera doesn't know how it all started, but it has always been palpable. Perhaps it was due to the rivalry between them at being the best agents in the company. Or before that, when they started on the wrong foot. Or perhaps, it was even way before that, when they lived in the same orphanage.

While Aera was a bully, Jaebum was quiet. Aera had a foul temper and was always aggressive. She would cut up soft toys of other girls. She would wreck buildings constructed by the boys for the fun of it. Most important of all, she resorted to violence. An avid fighter. She was always throwing punches and kicks at the other kids in the orphanage. On the other hand, Jaebum only talked when spoken to. But Jaebum stood up against her when she targeted him. The boy easily shoved her aside as if she weighed nothing. Then, a brutal fight occurred, much to the caretakers' chagrin.

From then on, Aera and Jaebum became sworn enemies -- though unsaid. They fought almost daily, over the littlest of things. With all the disciplinary issues, no one wanted to do anything with them. While all the other kids got their foster families, none would adopt them.

Until she turned fourteen, when Mr Park came to the orphanage. He approached them with a fatherly smile, tried to get close to them though Aera was adamant on being closed off. Still, the older male didn't stop trying. Finally, Mr Park won Aera's heart and she agreed to being his foster daughter. However, much to her great dislike, Mr Park took Jaebum along. When asked why, the older male would only reply, "Isn't it nice to have a friend?". So Aera had to live under the same roof as Jaebum again. And for the rest of her life.

But it became more bearable as they grew up. Mr Park introduced them to the secret agent organization when they were of age, having slowly trained them in combat. With more rigorous training, they easily topped the ranks: Aera was the best combat agent, Jaebum was the best marksman. Mr Park and the rest of the company staff saw how complementary they were. Thus, they were always paired up in missions.

Maybe it was the growth spurt, or maybe she grew out of it. But as she aged, as she spent more time with Jaebum, Aera slowly found him attractive. Not that she will ever admit it. He's masculine, his muscles now defined, his jaw sharp. His voice deep and manly, with authority in his tone. Aera likes to push his buttons, always wondering what it would take for him to burst.

Sometimes she thinks it's just a physical attraction. But when he always has her back, always protects her from a distance, shooting down enemies in her blind spot, Aera thinks it's more than that. When Jaebum was injured and Aera had to do a mission without him, it felt off-balance. As if nothing works. That was when Aera realized how true Mr Park's words were: "The two of you can't work without the other." Afterwards, she vowed not to do missions without Jaebum.

---

ii.

Their new mission isn't something easy or familiar. They have always been tasked to retrieve certain information or artifacts. But now? They have to bring in a human being, who just happened to be an assassin. It gives Aera the jitters. Perhaps, she's just nervous to capture a skilled criminal. Yet she knows deep down that it's nothing like that.

Based on the assassin's profile, the man is in his forties, named Jung Jihoon. He has cat-like eyes, wavy hair tied up in a bun. His jaw is defined, his body fit and masculine. It's weird, Aera thinks, that she's intrigued by this man. There's something about him that doesn't feel right. An alarm in her mind starts ringing, though she can't quite put the reason why. But she casts such thoughts aside, tries to focus on accomplishing the mission smoothly.

Chasing Jihoon down hasn't been easy for them. Heck, what were they even expecting, considering Jihoon is a trained assassin. Of course he would cover his tracks, or move stealthily like a shadow in the dark. In their chase, Jaebum managed to get a clean shot of the target on the rooftop, allowing Aera to corner him.

With Jihoon momentarily stunned, Aera bolts forward, then strikes with an uppercut. She quickly throws punches and kicks, getting him weak as much as she could. But Jihoon blocks her attack, an arm raised to guard against her kick. He twists the arm around her leg, then grabs her by the ankle. Aera loses balance, and Rain repeatedly hits her shin. She groans in pain as she collapses onto the ground.

Jihoon turns, heading for the helicopter. Aera pulls herself up, disregarding the pain on her leg. She limps forward, as fast as she could. The deafening sound of the helicopter blades help to cover her footsteps. So Aera stretches her hands out, grabs Jihoon by the back of his shirt. He resists, stays strong against her pull. The fabric gets stretched, then torn. It reveals an expanse of skin inked with a crimson dragon. Aera's brain flicks with pain and she's out of focus. Jihoon takes this chance to land a punch at her gut before breaking into a run towards the helicopter.

Aera can barely register the whole event, her mind throbs. Aera's body trembles. Hands pressed to the sides of her head, fingers dug into her hair, eyes shut tight, brows narrowed. She gasps. Surges of memories flow into her mind, all of them new and unfamiliar yet she knows it's flashes of her past. It's as if she just opened a box she totally forgot over the years. She sees that man standing over the bodies of her parents, sword glistening with blood, a grin on his face so wicked, his back inked with the same color and design. The engraving on his sword. The striking red dragon tattoo on his back.

"Aera!" she hears her name being called in a faraway distance, but the pain in her brain is too much for her to bear. She loses consciousness at the moment she feels someone hovering over her. The moment she hears an all-too-familiar voice speaking to her.

---

xii.

Aera feels numb. She barely registers the blooming wetness on her left stomach. She barely feels the pain. Her knees buckle, and she struggles to stay standing. She falls on her knees, holding her body up with just a hand. She looks down at her wound. The blood has soaked her clothes. She tilts her head up, meeting the male's eyes. It seems to have no remorse, no emotions whatsoever behind it.

Aera always knew it would come to this. She always knew this is how things would end. That she would run away until her lungs give out, until she gets tired. That it would be Jaebum who'll finish her. She always knew, but it still catches her offguard. She always knew, but deep down, she always hoped it wouldn't turn out that way.

Jaebum steps closer and Aera can only watch him, breathing as proper as she can with the pain. She's too vulnerable to attack. Even if she can, she wouldn't. She doesn't want to.

"You..." she says between her heavy breathing, "really hate me that much, huh?" Jaebum crouches in front of her, the gun still in his hold. Aera keeps her breathing steady, tries to stay awake enough to see the next move. She reckons he will place the gun to her head and pull the trigger. She reckons there won't be any last words from either of them. She reckons Jaebum will just leave her with the pool of blood oozing from her body.

Aera's eyesight becomes blurry, her mind slowly shifting out of focus.

Then, she falls forward.

---

iii.

Aera doesn't remember her parents, apart from the fact that they died when she was seven. Oddly enough, she could not remember a single thing about her dead family. The only possession she ever had of them is a pendant of their family photo. They were all smiling, but it felt so foreign to Aera. Nevertheless, she kept the pendant, as a hint of her past.

But sometimes, Aera dreams about them. It's always the same scene. Young Aera would be holding a teddy bear, clutched to her chest, as she tiptoes to her parents' room in the middle of the night. And when she opens the door, the next thing she knows, she's startled awake. It never goes beyond that.

However, this time, she dreams it all. When she pushed the door open, with a small cry for her mother, she saw her parents on the floor, lifeless. As she looked around the room, her eyes met the killer near the opened window. Most of his back faced her, body slightly turned, but she still saw the way his eyes were darker than the night sky. He held a shiny sword in one hand, blood dripping down its tip. Aera froze at her spot, watching traumatically, the way Jihoon bent over her father. He lowered his sword, wiping off the blood with her father's shirt.

Then he sheathed his weapon, before coming closer to her, step by step as if not wanting to scare her away. Aera couldn't move, totally immobilized at her spot. Jihoon stood in front of her, then crouched to match her level. He held up a finger to his mouth, and shushed. He brought the same finger to her face, and brushed away a tear that has rolled down without her realizing.

In a blink of an eye, Jihoon pressed a cloth to her mouth, and she breathed, before slipping into unconsciousness.

---

The second time they got on Jihoon's tail, they were relentless. Ruthless even. Aera doesn't let the male out of her sight at all. She chases him down as if her life depends on it. Jaebum trails behind, riding a motorcycle onto the pedestrian's pathway just to catch up to the assassin. Aera goes by foot, into the alleys and out.

"I got him!" Aera reports over the radio, voice ragged from all the running.

Jaebum glances at his navigator, a red dot signalling where Aera is. The map shows her in an alleyway, a dead end. Over the earpiece, Jaebum can hear grunts and thuds. He speeds up a little more, swerving between lanes to get past the traffic faster. The groans sound more painful with each second, coupled with some murmurs.

"Aera," Jaebum calls her name over the communication device. "Focus on the mission!"

Aera doesn't respond, but Jaebum hears a cackle in the back.

"Aera!" Jaebum tries to get her attention. "We are only tasked with capturing him," Jaebum reminds her. "Nothing more."

Don't go for revenge, is what he truly means.

There's a pause, that Jaebum fears something might have happened. If Aera is hurt -- or worst, killed -- Jaebum wouldn't be able to control his own emotions. He prays internally, hopes that Aera is fine. That she would respond.

The pause drags on.

Then he hears a firm, "Of course."

Afterwards, the connection dies.

---

xiii.

In the time spent hunting her, Jaebum wanted to hate her. He wanted to get angry at her. He wanted to track her down and kill her in the most excruciating way he could ever do to a person. But whenever he gets a glimpse of her during his chase, that fury in him just disappears. Jaebum doesn't know why either. After all, it was Aera who betrayed him. It was Aera who turned against him. It was Aera who abandoned him. Yet, he can't bring himself to kill her. Being a loyal and obedient agent, he believes an assassination mission would force him to commit the act. But here he is, the target right in front of him, yet he still hesitates to aim for her head or heart.

Even with those pleading eyes, Jaebum falls for the trap despite being the ruthless agent in the organisation. Just what has Aera done to him?

Before Aera's unconscious body hits the ground, Jaebum catches her in his arms. Her body still warm against his skin though her breathing is slowed. Jaebum injects some drug, making sure she's knocked out totally. He stares down at the female, pushing some hair strands aside to see her face clearer. Jaebum has always thought Aera had a beautiful face no matter how rough and strong she is. He has always thought if Aera wasn't a trained agent, she could become a well-known actress. Maybe things wouldn't have turned out this way if neither of them became agents. Maybe, if they were to meet as completely normal human beings, they could have had a happy ending.

Jaebum leans forward, eyes shut, as he presses their foreheads together.

"I can never hate you," he whispers.

It takes him a while to break free from his own thoughts and to proceed with the mission. It's always hard to choose between desire and duty. But he has to make a choice ultimately.

So he throws the body over his shoulder and exits the office.

---

vii.

The disbelief in him is tremendous. There is no way Aera would do this to him. Jaebum couldn't wrap his mind around the whole situation. Aera abandoned the mission and went rogue.

Upon hearing that Mr Park sent another team to hunt Aera down, Jaebum immediately protested.

"Why? Are you protecting a fugitive? A criminal?" the older man questions, eyebrows narrowed at his agent.

Jaebum slams his hands onto his desk, body leaned forward, resting his weight on the desk. "She's my-- was my partner. I know her better than anyone in this organisation. I know her tactics, her strengths, her weaknesses," Jaebum argues.

Mr Park's brow furrows even more. "What are you trying to say?"

Jaebum takes a deep breath, standing up straight. The words that he says next doesn't bring relief over him. Instead, it makes his heart tinge in pain. Nevertheless, he pushes it aside, dismissing it as just a dilemma.

"Let me do the mission."

This surprises the older man but he leans back in his chair, eyes lingering on Jaebum before he narrows his eyebrows again. He nods at the agent. "Name your price."

"Freedom," Jaebum answers. "This shall be my final mission."

This has Mr Park thinking a little. Then he nods. "Very well. Are you sure you can handle it?"

"Of course," Jaebum says, dead in the eye. "I hate traitors the most."

---

vi.

Aera knows that Jaebum would get angry. She's confident that this will strain their relationship. But she doesn't think twice. Doesn't care either. All her life, she had been haunted by dreams or nightmares or memories of the past. All that she has become is because of the man in front of her. Everything that she is is because of him. It's time to end it all.

Aera keeps her focus on Jihoon, eying his every move, tracking him down like a hawk preying on its food. She manages to corner him into a dead end, blood pumping with the need to kill. Jihoon doesn't even seem scared. Instead, his grin is still as wicked as ever. He draws his sword from his back, the blade reflecting light in the dark alley. He may be skilled with his sword, but Aera has been trained hard to fight any weapon possible.

She darts forward, closing the distance within seconds. She evades his sword while simultaneously landing a hard punch on his stomach. He grunts in pain, but recovers quickly. They battle, Aera successfully dodging his sword, yet failing to knock him out. Jihoon slides a foot across the ground, and Aera loses her balance. The man raises an arm and elbows her down to the ground. In a swift of a moment, Jihoon has his sword aimed at her throat, but she managed to hold it away, her hand coiled around the blade. It's razor sharp, cutting through the layer of skin on her palms, blood slowly dripping down.

"Your eyes... Ah, yes, I remember you," Jihoon speaks, grin plastered on his face as if it's permanently tattooed. "You're that little girl. From the Kwon family."

The male removes his sword, crouches down, his face peering into hers. He grabs her by the neck, pressing her throat, blocking her airway. She coughs.

"W-Why did you k-kill my family?" Aera croaks out, struggling against his hold. She has her nails scratching against his skin, begging for release.

Jihoon tilts her head to meet her eyes directly. "To get to you," Jihoon replies, expression something similar to a devil. He smiles, the tip of his lips stretching up to the lobes of his ears. A taunting image to see.

"What better way to create a monster but by taking away everything one has?" the male spits.

"Why me?" she chokes out, her nails already digging into his skin as hard as she could. It would have already draw blood, but the male seems unaffected.

"I think the better question is: Who gave the order?"

Aera twists her body sideways, lifting a leg and hooking her knee against the man's neck. Then she brings him down, so close to breaking his neck if she applied more force. Jihoon grunts in pain, and Aera pulls the arm that held her before.

"Who?" she bellows, twisting the arm, bending the wrist backwards.

The man doesn't respond, only groans. Aera rolls away, detaching herself from Jihoon. At the same time, she slips a knife from the side of her boot, plunging the weapon into his thigh before the man can even move. He cries in pain.

"Answer me!" Aera roars.

Jihoon manages a laugh, sinister. "He trained you well."

Aera frowns. She was about to ask, when she hears in her earpiece.

"Aera, focus on the mission!" Jaebum's voice, reminding her about the mission. Her eyes flick to the man lying just below, face bruised and bloodied. She feels guilty, yet she lies of a promise that she doesn't intend to keep.

"Aera!" Jaebum calls once more. "We are only tasked with capturing him," Jaebum continues. "Nothing more."

Aera fully understands what he means. She knows. But at this point of time, the mission isn't her priority. So she replies curtly, "Of course."

Afterwards, she yanks the earpiece out, crushing it with her foot. Her attention now solely on the assassin.

"Who sent you?" Aera demands.

"You'll figure it out," he answers.

Aera spots his glistening sword just a few meters away. Glancing at the man's state, there's no way he can move quickly. So Aera grabs the sword, examining the blade. It bears an engraving of a dragon on the body. She tests the weight of the sword, swinging it back and forth. Lightweight, yet sharp. Deadly. Fitting for an assassin.

"Quit with the riddles," Aera speaks, raising the sword to Jihoon's throat. "Tell me the name."

Jihoon smiles, teeth all bloodied. "Never."

"Then pay for what you've done," she utters, cold. She raises the sword then--

With a devilish smile still plastered, Jihoon says gleefully, "You've become a monster!"

-- thrusts it through his chest. Merciless. Ruthless. Jihoon's screams are nothing but pleasing to her ears.

He collapses onto the ground with his knees, yet Aera doesn't let go of the sword. She pulls it out, the metal stained -- dripping -- red down the length. Again, she raises the sword with her two hands, before plunging it through his heart. She twists the sword, more blood spilling at the ends. The male's face turns red, blood spurting out of his mouth. Aera watches contentedly the way his eyes bulge, the way his life gets sucked out.

"Aera!" she hears Jaebum yelling behind, breathless. "What have you done?!"

Aera drops the sword, takes a step back, staring at the now dead Jihoon. Blood oozes out of his wound, pooling underneath his body. His words echo in her head.

You've become a monster.

As if broken from a spell, Aera snaps her attention to her partner. Jaebum has a gun pointed at her, his hands are trembling. The disbelief in his eyes, the horror in his face, Aera cannot help but commit them to memory. She hears a helicopter in the distance, then glances at Jaebum for the last time. She darts forward, aims straight at her partner, but slides when she's close enough. Then she hooks a foot around his ankle, destabilizing him to the ground. Afterwards, she quickly stands and kicks his gun away before breaking into a run on the streets.

You've become a monster.

She truly has.

---

xiv.

When Aera comes to, she nearly thinks she's in heaven. The sunlight that seeps through the curtains gives the room a soft glow. It gives her a feeling she hasn't felt in a long time: serenity. Everything seems so peaceful, so pure, so innocent -- something she knows she doesn't deserve. Not when her hands are tattooed with red ink.

She tries to sit up, but feels a slight pain on her left. She glances down, fingertips pressed against the layer of clothes and bandages. Slowly, she moves to get off the bed. It feels as if she has been unconscious for so long, her motor skills not as fluid yet. She stables herself with a hand against the walls of the house. Aera makes her way out of the room, though as silent as possible just like the trained agent she is. Pain may hamper her movements, but her skills are still deeply engraved in her body.

It's a pin-drop silence in the house. It's a big house, Aera concludes. There are still rooms on her left and right, and a staircase leading down. She takes a peek at the lower floor, before tiptoeing down the stairs. When she reaches the base of the stairs, there's no one at all. All she hears is the chirping of the birds outside. A countryside, perhaps?

Where on earth is she right now? Aera roams around the house for clues. There's no human picture frames hung on the walls, only landscape paintings and photographs. She tries to rack her brain for the last memory before she blacks out.

She had been searching for answers until she got it. She always thought she’d be killed when she learnt of the truth. She remembers the gunshots and the pain at her stomach. She thought Jaebum would have killed her. But here she is, still alive.

Something in her peripheral vision catches her eye and she looks up. It's a dartboard hung on the wall, the darts stuck at the bullseye.

Bullseye.

Jaebum never misses.

Then she hears it: the rustling of keys and the creaking of the door. On reflex, she grabs the nearest object she can use as a weapon: an umbrella. She wanted to hide herself behind a pillar, and wait for the right moment to strike. But before she could even do that, footsteps came closer, and the person steps into the room. Aera could only hold the umbrella up, the tip pointing at a familiar face.

Jaebum's eyes dart between her face and the umbrella. She can't describe the feeling inside her when she sees his face. With no cap and no mask, his face is bare for her eyes to roam. He looks the same as before but it still takes her breath away. He is still as handsome as she remembers. It's overwhelming for her. Especially when he lets her live. Tends to her. Aids her. Her eyes get cloudy.

She doesn't notice that Jaebum has taken a step closer, ducking away from the umbrella. She barely registers a firm hand pulling the umbrella out of her hold, then, the clanking sound as it gets thrown aside. Aera has been reduced to a vulnerable girl, as Jaebum grabs her by her shoulders and maneuvers her onto the couch.

Jaebum leaves the room, but comes back with a medical kit in hand. Aera doesn't resist when the male tugs at the hem of her shirt, and pulls it up just enough to expose the bandaged area. Aera remains mum as Jaebum cleans her wound and changes the dressing.

"You reopened your wound," Jaebum says, so softly and gently that Aera feels as if they haven't been apart for a day.

"I really thought you'd--" Aera can't bring herself to say. "I thought you hated me--"

Jaebum shakes his head. "I could never."

That is all that it takes for a tear to roll down her cheek. The realisation that Jaebum can never hate her despite all the things Aera put him through. She was so self-centered with her revenge that she sacrificed her partner. Yet, Jaebum couldn't bring himself to hate her. Jaebum still forgives her.

---

viii.

When Jaebum retreats to his safehouse after receiving the assassination order, he finds Aera in his living room. Clean, sleek and smart as she always looked. Her arms and legs crossed, Jaebum knows she has been waiting for him. For how long, Jaebum doesn't ponder about it. He pretends not to care.

"Why are you here?" Jaebum can't help himself but spit bitterly at her. He can't even look at her in the eye. He keeps himself at a safe distance, feeling a little out of place despite being in his own apartment.

"I..." Aera starts, but it dies on her tongue. Jaebum glances at her. She has the audacity to look guilty. She slowly gets up, cautiously makes her way towards the male. It's as if they've become strangers after spending all their lives together, unable to read each other anymore. "Did I hurt you?" she asks, concerned. Her eyes are soft, her voice sweet, her touch gentle where her fingers are on his cheek. Maybe if they weren't in this situation, Jaebum would have reveled in it. Maybe if they weren't in this complex situation, Jaebum would have given in to her touch.

But Jaebum tilts his face away, and shifts from the spot. He pretends not to notice the way Aera flinches. If she's hurt, Jaebum doesn't sympathize. He pads over to his couch. Now it's him who has his arms crossed over his chest.

"Why are you here?" Jaebum repeats.

He hears a deep exhale. Then she turns around, looking at the male in the eyes.

"I don't regret it," her voice is now stronger yet trembling. It's filled with anger, and no remorse. "Not even one bit. He deserved it."

He shakes his head, disapproving. "This isn't you, Aera."

Aera stares at him, a little frown appearing. But she disregards his words, as if she didn't hear it. She continues, "I still have questions left unanswered. I need to know."

"Aera," Jaebum calls her name, exasperated. He's leaning forward, his elbows to his knees, hands clasped together right in front of his face. "Stop this. You're not one to go after revenge. This isn't you."

"I need answers!"

"But you promised you wouldn't--" Jaebum halts himself, trying to compose his own emotions. But his chest feels like a volcano at the time of eruption, lava spilling out burning its way down the course. "Do you know what you've become? A fugitive. A criminal! And I'm tasked to hunt you down and finish you!"

There's a pregnant pause, their chests heaving. Jaebum hadn't even realized he's on his feet, standing in front of his former partner. Aera takes a step closer, eyes aflame with challenge. Her voice serious, she dares, "Do it then. Kill me right now."

Oh, if only she knows. How desperately Jaebum wants to do it. How desperately Jaebum wants to end this madness. It's so easy. It's just so easy to finish his mission and kill this vulnerable Aera in front of him. It's so easy, Aera already offering, making it much simpler than ever.

It's so easy, yet why is so hard for him?

Jaebum resigns, shaking his head. "You should leave."

He turns to move, but Aera speaks again.

"Run away with me," she says, voice softer than before. Any emotions from before vanished. What's left is just a plead. "Come with me." Jaebum glances back at her. Aera has a hand reached out to him, palm facing up, for Jaebum to take.

Jaebum casts a glance at her outstretched hand, then back up to her face. She's desperate to have him join her. She wants him on her dark journey. The way her eyes are pleading, Jaebum knows how much she doesn't want them to fight as enemies. But have they ever been comrades in the first place? So Jaebum takes a step back, along with a subtle yet obvious shake of his head.

He sees it anyway: the tinge of pain in her eyes by his rejection. Her hand hovers for a few moments before she closes it into a fist, dropping it by her side. She moves past the male, heading towards the already opened window. It must have been the way she came in. She doesn't look back, doesn't cast another glance at the male as she says, "Goodbye, Jaebum."

Jaebum just watches helplessly as Aera climbs out of the apartment, and off into the streets. That same night, he didn't know it was possible for a heart to hurt so bad. That same night, he didn't know a goodbye could mean so much.

---

ix.

Contrary to his words, Jaebum couldn't hunt Aera down that easily. In his anger, he overlooked how unpredictable Aera could be. She has always been the box of ideas whenever they were on a mission. Very easily, she slips out of his fingers. Whenever he thinks he's close enough to get a shot, she evades. Jaebum wonders if she knows it's him who is chasing her. He wonders if she knows him so well to evade his traps. But he pushes on anyway. It's his mission. He must end it.

The next time he hears news of Aera, it was through a phone call. She has infiltrated the company building, approaching Mr Park's office. Jaebum doesn't waste a second as he stumbles out of his apartment and rushes to the scene.

Jaebum tries to crack his brain. Just what exactly does Aera want with Mr Park now? He hoped it wasn't anything bad. But--

"I need answers!" was what Aera yelled back then.

Could it be--?

Jaebum gulps his saliva.

No way.

That's messed up.

Jaebum speeds up his motorcycle, running the red light, swerving between lanes.

---

Clad in the company's guard uniform, she managed to infiltrate the building easily. A flaw, she realizes, but she doesn't complain. After all, it's to her own advantage. Now Aera stands in the president's office. Pictures of her with Mr Park and Jaebum throughout the years are hung on the wall. Those years feel like a lie now.

Mr Park sat in his leather boss chair, eyes on her. He seems calm, his two arms resting on the armrest. Perhaps he knew that it would come to this. While Aera knew nothing all her life.

"My parents... Why?" Aera spits, not wasting a single second.

"I loved your mother. She was everything I wanted," the older man says so fondly. It's as if nostalgic. The next moment, his eyebrows are knitted together in anger. He continues, "But she loved your father so much. I couldn't take it. I wanted him dead, so that your mother would come to me."

His eyes soften again. Now he's gazing at a photo frame on his desk, his finger reaching out to it. "Of course she wouldn't. She swore she would never. So I ordered Jihoon to kill her too."

Mr Park's eyes flick to Aera. Then he slowly stands, moves away from his desk, and approaches Aera. He stops right in front of her, eyes now fond and soft, the fury from before gone. He raises a hand, brushes his knuckles against her cheek. "I let you live so that at least, I had a part of her."

"You're sick!" Aera spits as she slaps his hand away. But in the spur of the moment, the older male managed to grab a hold of her wrist, firm and tight. He bends her arm in a way that it has her locked, and in pain.

"I waited before taking you with me. I waited -- made sure -- you would trust me. That you wouldn't hate me!" Mr Park raises his voice. "Everything I ever did, it was for you!"

"No," Aera interjects firmly, eyes burning into his. "It was for your own selfishness."

Furious, he twists Aera's arm, earning a groan from her. The female endures the pain and exerts force against his hold, successfully breaking free. At the same time, she slips a knife in her hand from the back of her belt. But before she can even aim for the desired target area, Mr Park is swifter. He pulls out a gun and presses it against her forehead.

"Do you really think you can kill me that easily?" he spits. "I trained you! I know all your techniques!"

Aera tilts her chin up, fearless. She twists her hand and the male whimpers. In that moment, Mr Park glances down his body. A knife delved into the side of his stomach, blood slowly spreading through his shirt. Aera takes the chance to pull the knife out, and using the same arm, she pushes his gun-held hand aside. Then she quickly maneuvers herself such that she gets behind the man, holding him in a chokehold, the blade of the knife pressing against his throat.

"But you didn't know you made a bigger monster than yourself," she utters right into his ear.

Aera slits his throat, letting his body falls forward, blood gushing out onto the carpet. The older man grapples for his throat, trying to stop the bleeding but it's of no use. Aera made sure the cut is deep enough for a fatal injury.

She stands over the dead body, the blood spilled over the floor, carpet soaked in red. Watching the death of her former guardian, it leads to an inner turmoil. She grew up with the memories of Mr Park as a great teacher, a figure to look up to. But the truth revealed itself after much searching. That the person she admired was never the person she thought he was. Her own foster father took her parents' lives for his own greed. In the years of growing into a barely emotional person, she feels her own heart hurt. She feels the swell in her chest, the tears threatening to flow.

She hears footsteps behind and she turns just slightly to see a man she's familiar with stand at a distance. Aera feels a tear roll down her cheek as she turns her whole body to face him. She drops her weapon and raises her hands in surrender.

---

xv.

"You can go anywhere you want, you know," Jaebum states as he gives attention to the fabric of the couch, brushing off some invisible dust. "You don't have to stay here."

"Do you want me to go?" Aera asks cautiously, peering into his face. But Jaebum is adamant in being interested at the couch.

He swallows his spit. "I don't know..." he whispers weakly. Then he tips his chin up. "But I won't make you stay."

She blinks at him. If there's disappointment in her eyes, Jaebum doesn't read into it. It's better that way.

The girl stares off in a distance, seemingly lost in thought. Then her eyes flick back to Jaebum's.

"And if I leave?" she asks again. "Will you chase me?"

"I... don't know."

Aera nods. "You're still unsure. Even after all these years. You didn't hold on to me when I wanted to leave. And now, you won't hold me even though I'm right in front of you."

Jaebum dares himself to look into her eyes, trying to gauge her hidden emotions. But what he sees is the same look on that night when Aera returned to their mission. Something between yearning for him and suppressing her feelings for him.

This time, it's Aera's turn to break the eye contact. She stands, saying her decision as if it's not a big issue for the both of them. "I'll leave at dawn."

Make your decision by then, is what Jaebum deciphers.

"Where will you go?"

Aera pauses at the door and for a moment, Jaebum thought she didn't hear him. For a moment, Jaebum thought she was about to say something else.

"Somewhere you won't find me," she says with finality, before heading out the door.

---

iv.

When Aera wakes, no one says anything. No one asks her anything. Not even Jaebum. He wasn't present when she regained consciousness. He wasn't even around when she recovers.

But once Mr Park gave her the green light to join the mission again, Aera gets sent to where Jaebum was: a rundown apartment just a few streets away from the location of the target.

Jaebum slips into her allocated room, eyes on her. It's as if he's observing her every move, to catch a glimpse of something, she thinks she knows what. A question in mind, but too hesitant to ask.

"Shoot," Aera breaks the silence, perched on the edge of her bed.

Jaebum eyes her still, but allows his curiosity get the better of him. He stays at the doorway. "What happened back then?"

Aera freezes. It's not something she's comfortable to talk about. It's not something she's willing to share with another person, worrying that it could be her weakness. But Jaebum and his hawk-like eyes, everything seems to be harder to be hidden away from him. It's like he emits a kind of truth serum that has her talking no matter how much she doesn't want to. Then again, she has always found comfort in confiding in Jaebum. Something about him makes her relaxed. Makes her feel home.

"I remembered my past," Aera says slowly, her fingers touching the pendant around her neck. "I... It was a memory I've forgotten. I think Jihoon-- I think he killed my parents. I remember that dragon tattoo. And that sword."

By then, Jaebum has walked over, settled next to her on the bed. He's so near that she can feel his body temperature. That she can feel his soft breathing. The male peers into her face, eyes filled with concern, emotions bare.

"You okay?" Jaebum asks ever so softly, his knuckles lightly brushing against her cheek.

It's too much for her to bear, too much for her to feel at once. If Jaebum is trying to console her, this is too much. Yet Aera leans in to the touch, eyes closing. Her nodding to the question was almost unnoticeable. She brings a hand up, her fingers coiling around his wrist, a thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand. She relishes in the moment as much as she could, before finally mustering the strength to pull his hand away and down to his lap.

"Don't worry about it," she says as she moves back, preparing for bed. "I'll be fine."

Jaebum pulls her back by the arm, much to her surprise. If she were outdoors, out of these four walls, she would have had her guard up. She would have defended herself. But at this moment, she lets the male do whatever he wants, as if she's a lifeless person. Jaebum tugs her into his chest, a hand around her waist, the other cradling around her head.

"You're clearly not," he nearly whispers.

It's like her heart stops. It's a little awkward, her body angled such that there's still a significant gap between their chests. Yet Jaebum's embrace is so warm, Aera just melts into it. She hasn't had a hug in years, always thinking that it's a weakness. She keeps thinking that love is something pure, something she can never have with all her blood-stained hands. But right here, right now, she thinks that maybe, she has a chance. That maybe, she can have it too.

Aera snuggles closer, snakes her arms around him, up his shoulders, cheek pressed against his. They revels in the moment, letting the embrace soothe their hearts. Moments later, Aera feels his hands move, pulling back, fingers trailing across the skin of her arms.

"Better?" Jaebum asks, so soft, so gentle, she wouldn't think he is a trained agent.

She stares. An answer be damned, consequences thrown to the wind, she leans forward. Aera presses her lips onto his, her palms having slid up to the part where his shoulders meet his chest for support. Her eyes closed, she doesn't know -- doesn't see -- Jaebum's reaction. But she lets her senses take over her: Jaebum's lips are soft to touch, rather chapped.

She pulls away when she feels his lips are still, and that he doesn't return the kiss. Her eyes flutter open to see Jaebum's stunned face. Perhaps Aera misunderstood. Perhaps she read it wrong. Perhaps Jaebum never really meant anything other than consolation when he hugged her. But she doesn't care. She had always wanted to kiss him, had always wanted him. Even if she misunderstood the situation, even if Jaebum now knows her feelings, she doesn't care. It's about time he knows too. She fears she may not have another chance to show him.

Aera was about to back away, to break apart, but that movement seem to snap the male out of his daze. Because Jaebum closes the newly formed gap, pulls her even closer than before, a hand cupping the side of her face. Then he brings their faces close, connecting their lips again. This time, he moves. He rolls his lips, nibbles softly onto her lower lip.

And it feels way too good to stop.

They kiss as if they were teenagers, as if they will die without the other's touch. They don't go beyond that though. Even if they're pressed together on the bed, even if their hands roam around each other's bodies, they don't step over the boundary. They kiss until their lungs give out, until their lips are red and swollen, until fatigue washes over them.

In the end, they sleep on the same bed, limbs tangled, clothes on yet way too intimate for partners.

---

xvi.

Jaebum can barely sleep a wink. Not with his mind so filled with thoughts of Aera leaving again. Not with his mind so filled with the thoughts of not having Aera by his side. God, Jaebum had only got her back a few days ago, and now she's leaving. And now, he's not even making an effort to keep her.

There's some movement outside of his room, and he glances at the clock on his bedside. It's already dawn. It must be Aera making her move. So eerily silent, yet Jaebum manages to catch the slightest sound. He's so attuned to the way Aera moves, that it's so easy to pick her out. Jaebum stares at the ceiling, hands clasped on his stomach.

The slightest creak of the door, then a soft click.

That's what it takes for Jaebum to jump off his bed and hurry downstairs. He nearly breaks the front door with how harsh he's moving, but he doesn't mind. After all, he has all the time he needs to fix the damn door. But he doesn't have time to fix this vague relationship with Aera.

The female doesn't turn around despite all the noise, continues making her way towards the forest.

"Aera!" Jaebum shouts her name. He gives chase when she doesn't stop. When he catches up to her, he blocks her path, standing in front of her. Aera pauses, looks up at his face.

"Don't--" Jaebum tries to articulate as he pants. "Don't go. Please. Stay here."

Aera shoots him an unconvinced look. "And what? You won't even--"

Jaebum closes the gap in just one huge step, arms winding around her body. He pulls her close to his chest, tucking her head over his shoulder. There's no flowery scent nor any body wash on her skin. So plain, so characteristically Aera.

"Stay with me," Jaebum whispers into her ear. "Stay here with me."

Aera doesn't move, doesn't answer. She just stands as still as a statue in his arms. So Jaebum pulls away, but his hands stays on her shoulders, eyes peering into her face. "We can have this."

"I want to have this with you," he adds.

"Please," he begs.

"Will I have you entirely? Will you give me everything?"

Jaebum nods. "Everything. I'll hold you if you want me to. I'll kiss you if you want me to. I'll make love to you if you want me to."

"No more running away?" Aera asks, her voice small like a timid girl asking for assurance.

"No more," Jaebum asserts. "No more running. No more missions. No more fear."

"Just us?"

"Yeah," Jaebum breathes. "Just us."

Aera steps forward, into his chest, arms finally winding around his waist. She tucks her head underneath his chin. Dawn slowly breaks, the sun casting its soft light over the field. The morning dew is now obvious with the light, forming a low cloud around their ankles.

It's the start a new day.

A new life.

#got7 #got7 jaebum #got7 im jaebum #got7 scenarios #got7 jaebum scenarios #got7 im jaebum scenarios #jaebum #im jaebum #im jaebum scenarios #jaebum scenarios

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avenger-hawk · 5 years

Note

i just read one of your asks about your future fics. have you considered writing about sasukes interactions with karin?? not sasukarin (but sasukarin is still a good ship!!) but i really like your karin meta and would love to see her in your fics, even if she isnt part of a ship!!

wow Anon I just realized in the last nice ask I received about my writing I forgot to mention a suisasu oneshot I started writing as a drabble here…I haven’t thought about writing something centered on Sasuke and Karin, usually I wrote about Team Taka as a team, as in my Team Taka headcanons here, here and in bits of In Power (ff.net/ ao3) and What He Wanted (ff.net/ ao3).

I know what you mean when you love a character like Karin and you want to see her more, even in a not shippy context. And I totally agree that SasuKarin really IS a good ship, the only worthy Sasuke ship with a girl, tbh. (I think Sasuino would be ok too but I’m not interested in it all all as I find it boring, and I prefer Saiino anyway).

(needless to say: SS shippers, don’t read, this is not for you. And since it’s properly tagged as anti, don’t bitch)

It’s only a matter of personal taste, I’m usually more interested in rarer pairings, and because when I think of Team Taka ships I’m more intrigued by suisasu and juusasu that in my opinion have room for both ‘healthy’ dynamics and darker ones. But if I weren’t so slow and full of future writing projects as you read, I’d totally like to write them. In fact, I’m gonna leave some random headcanons here cause I’m sorry I’m not able to write all the things I have in mind and you guys mention, AND because I’m so late replying to this ask that I feel guilty xD

My favourite things to read and write isn’t romance but dark stuff and hurt/comfort, so I would love some hurt/comfort between them, and there is a lot of possibility for this, just thinking about canon. I actually see SK hurt/comfort as canon behind the screen so you may have an idea already, both for shippy and non-shippy stuff.

For example, there’s nothing about Sasuke’s years at Otogakure but we know he was always with Orochimaru, not only training or taking poisons/drugs to get stronger, but also visiting other hideouts and assisting to his horrible experiments as well as seeing/meeting Suigetsu and Karin, mostly, as she was not a prisoner but a subordinate, kinda like Kabuto. She saw more about Sasuke than the others in Team Taka, and this may mean a lot of things. For example like in this fanart, inspired by that Karin-centric filler episode (I think 331) where she witnesses Orochimaru taking Sasuke in a dark room which seems quite creepy and may be interpreted as…eh, you get it. And there’s also Kabuto telling her that Sasuke sought Orochimaru, that he came her by his own choice…that, in this dark context, that he is ok with things being done to him (it’s the price for power).

So it’s interesting to imagine Karin being more and more intrigued by this person, who saved her in the past, when they were genin, and who now came to her creepy leader that she knows very well, and ‘lets’ him do all sorts of things to him. Some random headcanons coming, more or less connected

-(tw: pain) Otogakure: she’s doing some work and she overhears someone moaning in pain, and she sees Sasuke shirtless, strapped to a table/bed and kind of squirming, as he’s been injected poison for his training and he’s clearly suffering.

(She takes his hand and tries to comfort him. She thinks he was in too much pain to remember but some time later he tells her ‘thank you. For being beside me that day’)

-(tw: r*pe) Orochimaru leaves the creepy room and tells her to heal Sasuke. When she enters she sees him battered bruised and bloodied everywhere, looking in pain and lost, defeated, and it’s easy to understand what happened, and that it’s neither a first nor a last time, but when he sees her he puts up a tough face, cause he doesn’t know her and he doesn’t know if he can trust her as maybe she’s like Kabuto. He can’t imagine that she (like in my Team Taka headcanons part 2) was r*ped too by Orochimaru, that most of his ‘most interesting subjects’ have been at least once. He’s the most special which means Oro always comes to him ‘to toughen him up’ and ‘train’ him or ‘just’ to be repayed for making him stronger, and he’s constantly manipulated by him (that he’s not as strong as Itachi, that he needs him to be stronger and defeat his brother, and so on) and she knows this. She, too, is wary of him cause he might be so manipulated that he supports him and if she says something wrong he might tell Oro who might punish her and she is ok with him now, he leaves her be without molesting her, so she wants to keep the peace. So she’s discreet and heals him, not in the impersonal way Kabuto does though. Sasuke appreciates silently.

-(tw: random violence and blood) Inspired by this amazing fanart by @lisimba-art. Sasuke is trained to use his curse mark, but it’s hard to completely control his powers in that form, with those weird wings and everything. So it’s exhausting for his body but also for his mind, he can’t even think straight at some point, and he can’t control his emotions either, even though he tries hard cause he can’t be weak. Orochimaru makes him fight against other ‘test subjects’ with the curse mark or with other powers he developed on them, and Sasuke kills them…he hates killing, as there is only one person he wants to kill. He feels his body move and he can’t avoid it, he feels his nails slashing another human and can’t avoid it, it’s horrible, it’s like being trapped in a nightmare.

Karin stumbles on the fighting ground and sees him. They know each other by then, she is worried about him, many in Oto bet on how long he will last, if he will last, when Orochimaru will ‘devour’ him, if the curse mark will ‘devour’ him first. When she sees him Orochimaru, who was observing him with Kabuto, left already. Sasuke is standing alone, a few corpses around him. She approaches him, talking slowly and calmly, to check his wounds. Nothing too serious, the most worrying thing is his mental/emotional state, cause he looks around without actually seeing things, he seems lost, troubled.

It takes a few minutes for him to see the one who’s speaking to him, and when he does he’s not in his usual state anyway, Karin can tell not just from his chakra but from his body language. He’s standing so, so close to her, his shoulders are hunched and his eyes are empty, or somewhere else still. Or maybe they want to be somewhere else, she can’t tell. She should feel the heat radiating from his toned body -she dreamt of a moment like this- but the tanned version of what is normally pale is so cold..maybe he got so close because she’s warm instead.

“Sasuke…bite me, you’ll get some chakra back and you won’t feel cold anymore,“ she tells him, but he just hovers over her, silent as a hawk watching its prey, but unlike it, just staring at her.

“I killed all of them” Sasuke’s voice is low and raspy, but he’s back, she’s glad but also sad because he’s clearly upset by what happened and she knows why. Everyone does.

- (tw: mentions of blood/violence/r*pe) This works both for Otogakure and for Hebi/Taka travelling. Night time, Karin hears some low pained sounds and she realizes it’s Sasuke having a nightmare, about either the above mentioned moment where he was forced to kill random people, or about some abuse Orochimaru inflicted on him, either directly or through someone else like Kabuto. He suddenly wakes up and realizes Karin was there. She tries comforting him by saying that she knows what he felt back then cause she was done similar things, and also Suigetsu and Kabuto and others, even though she doesn’t minimize his experience (as Oro’s favourite he took more than others of whom he soon got tired). It’s a hurt/comfort moment where they share intimate traumatic experiences and bond.

Bonus dark points if the experience Sasuke had a nightmare of, involved the aforementioned indirect abuse inflicted by Orochimaru but indirectly, through his current comrades Suigetsu and Juugo, ofc hypnotized/drugged/in some trance. Karin connects with the way he sometimes looks at them when he’s more tired and vulnerable, almost imperceptibly but she can see chakra shifts. They talk, he doesn’t say anything but the things he said in his sleep were obvious so she tries to make him admit and he does, as he’s honest. He doesn’t blame them, he knows they were under Orochimaru’s power just like he was during his curse mark mode when he wasn’t able to control it.

He thinks that Suigetsu and Juugo don’t even remember that experience but they do, exactly like he does with his killing random people in curse mode form.

More bonus dark points if Karin assisted to the traumatic thing cause she was Oro’s assistant too, sort of.

Related to my Akatsuki AU that is mostly in my mind for now (how unexpected lol) and it’s Itachi/Sasuke centric but there’s also a lot of Sasuke interactions (like, with Deidara a lot, I just like the idea) and lots of Team Taka that exists in this context first as Orochimaru’s subordinates along with Kabuto, then as Sasuke’s comrades, cause while Itachi is a full fledged Akatsuki, like Orochimaru (he never left Akatsuki in my AU), Sasuke is not, and like Orochimaru has subordinates affiliates to the Akatsuki, Itachi has Sasuke. Unlike Akatsuki wearing cloaks with red clouds, Akatsuki ‘lesser’ members wear black cloaks like Sasuke and Team Taka wore in canon. They are given missions too, they’re younger and less experienced that the others and their interactions and dynamics are similar to canon ones.

Uh Anon why did you make me think of more interesting scenarios tho, I had too many already lol

#sasukarin #karin #sasuke uchiha #uchiha sasuke #uzumaki karin #karin uzumaki #team taka #anti-sasusaku #team taka is the best #vivalarevolution: visions #vivalarevolution #headcanons #my writing #akatsuki au #I love karin can you tell #also she likes sasuke when he's battered and wounded so

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blackhecrted · 5 years

Text

LFRP - Lilah Black, Balmung

THE VITALS ——–

NAME: Lilah Black (not her birth name)

NICKNAMES: Lilah. Dove.

AGE: Twenty-Nine.

NATIONALITY: ████ ████

CITIZENSHIP: ████ ████████

GENDER: Female.

OTHER INFORMATION ——–

RACE & CLAN: Midlander Hyur

NAMEDAY: ████ ██ ████ ██

ORIENTATION: Grey Asexual, Grey Aromantic

MARITAL STATUS: Single.

RESIDENCE: ████ ███ ████

OCCUPATION: None.

PATRON DEITY: None.

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Evil to Chaotic Neutral depending on the day.

FEARS: Butterflies. ██████ ████

HOBBIES: Murder, violence, annoying people, collecting... certain things.

SMOKING HABIT: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

DRUGS: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

ALCOHOL: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

APPEARANCE ——–

HAIR: Long, white, and often well-kempt. For someone who often gets covered in blood her hair rarely shows it.

EYES: Amber eyes, fairly simple and almond-shaped.

HEIGHT: Five fulms, six ilms.

BUILD: Lithe, with some muscles, soft around the hips and backside.

COMMON ACCESSORIES: Bracelet with gemstones that is made of garrote wire, a ring with a hidden compartment of poison, and hidden knives in various places.

FAMILY TIES ——–

SPOUSE: No.

CHILDREN: No.

PARENTS: ████ ████ (father, deceased), ████ ████ (mother, deceased.)

SIBLINGS: Not that she’s aware of.

OTHER RELATIVES: ████ ████ and ███ ████ (grandparents, deceased)

PETS: An ebony snake named Hiss.

OTHER: ████ ████████ (emotional ties)

QUICK INFO ——–

extroverted / introverted / in between

disorganized / organized / in between

close minded / open-minded / in between

calm / anxious / in between

disagreeable / agreeable / in between

cautious / reckless / in between

patient / impatient / in between

outspoken / reserved / in between

leader / follower / in between

empathetic / apathetic / in between

optimistic / pessimistic / in between

traditional / modern / in between

hard-working / lazy / in between

cultured / uncultured / in between

loyal / disloyal / in between

faithful / unfaithful / in between

OOC INFORMATION AND HOOKS ——–

Lilah and I are both of considerable age enough to participate comfortably in darker themes. This doesn’t mean it’ll always go that way, though.

Recognition - Though Lilah has taken great strides to keep her identity (the truth of it) hidden, it’s possible someone can recognize her from her past. This would need to be discussed at length to make sure we’re both respecting each others boundaries.

Sick Like Me - Lilah gravitates towards people who are as sick as she is, as far as things go. There are heavy themes of violence and murder within her background and her present, and she likes people who do much of the same.

Surprise Me - Honestly just approach me if you have some ideas. I’m sure we can work something out.

OOC, I AM…

I’m open to most forms of RP, but I won’t entertain anything involving the abuse or harm of children or animals. If things get too graphic I reserve the right to fade to black on anything involved in the torture and murder scene. I reserve the right to change my mind at any point in an RP and fade to black, if you are not comfortable with this I might not be the RP partner for you. NOTE: this does not mean I will fade to black if something isn’t going right for my character or to avoid consequences. I’m not a bitch, I can just be a wuss (IRL) sometimes and handle things less well one day than I do another.

Willing to do permanent injury, disfigurement, or death for Lilah. That being said she rarely stays ‘dead’ long and I’m not going to openly just let every Dick, Dick, and Other Dick maim her.

I’m a nice person, most of the time. We all slip and have our bad days but if I’m ever rude to you (in RP or OOC) just tell me and I’ll do my best to correct it.

i am the world’s most socially anxious person so i might panic at first but I will do my best to make amends, please don’t abuse me in this manner. ):

I’m in CST (GMT-5).

I prefer to RP in-game, on tumblr, or occasionally on Discord. My Discord will be given out at my discretion. Google Docs are also fine but we’ll have to work something out.

Lilah (as all of my characters) is on the Balmung server.

#lfrp #ffxiv rp #ffxiv #balmung #balmung rp #how does one tag these things #about lilah #signal boost

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robininthelabyrinth · 7 years

Note

Okay but please imagine Len as Vulcan/half Vulcan. Like it makes sense, the logical analytical mind great for numbers and countdown, the hatred of showing emotion, the aversion to being touched. Now that I've thought of it this au won't leave me alone. (Also bonus: rip not knowing he recruited a Vulcan and being super surprised when it comes up)

Fic: It’s Only Logical (ao3 link)

Fandom: DC’s Legends of Tomorrow, Star Trek fusionPairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: Leonard Snart doesn’t know much about his real father. His Vulcan father.

Well, he doesn’t know much other than the fact that the jerk left him on a pre-contact planet that doesn’t even believe aliens are real, anyway.

So, you know. Fuck the Vulcans.

——————————————————————————————-

Leonard Snart doesn’t know much about his real father.

Oh, he knows what some people would consider the important part, namely that his father was not of a terrestrial origin - rather important, given the fact that most people on Earth don’t think aliens are real and that anyone who does believe in them is crazy - but what he knows beyond that is fairly limited.

He knows that his father had been involved in a terrible space battle of some variety, causing him to abandon his ship for a lifepod that, in turn, was far cast off course until a meteorite dragging it in its gravitational field brought it down to Earth, badly damaged.

He knows his mother - his stupid, city-born mother, who’d been out on a field trip with her school, so painfully young - found him there and smuggled him home with her, telling him (rightfully) that he would be hunted down in the countryside, but that no one would ever look for him in the slums of the city.

No one ever looks for anything in the slums of the city.

Len knows that his mother nursed his father back to health in her broken down flat, where her alcoholic father was so stupefied and absent he never noticed.

He knows that his mother and his father got close.

He knows that his father fell into a fever of some sort.

He knows -

Well.

He knows that his father was rescued, after a time.

He knows that his father left, and never came back.

He doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t know who his father was (is?) as a person, he doesn’t know what he did, what he liked, what he disliked, he doesn’t know whether he was kind or cruel or -

He doesn’t know.

His father knew his mom was pregnant when he left, he knows that much. He wouldn’t have left her the tapes otherwise.

Len watched the tapes avidly as a child, greedily looking for indications of something about his father, something about himself, but it was nothing but lessons on Vulcan culture.

Vulcans.

That’s what they called themselves, his father’s people.

His people, Len supposes, but for all that he was born half a Vulcan, he was raised a Jew, and for his mother’s people - his people, much more than the Vulcans have ever been - it is the line of the mother that counts.

So, you know.

Fuck the Vulcans.

His father abandoned him and never returned, undoubtedly embarrassed by his half-breed son; his mother married too hastily to hide her own embarrassment, and suffered for it; his mother died, still staring up at the stars for a man who would never see her again.

But Len still has those tapes.

Your emotions are overpowering, they said; you must be reasonable and logical at all times.

You’ve gotta be hard, you gotta be cold, his dad (stepdad) tells him, and teaches him bit by bit in lessons that hurt Len’s soul as much as his body.

His dad is the only father he’s ever known, the one he grew up with, the one he loved with a child’s ignorance, and Len thinks, sometimes, that he wouldn’t hate his real father so much if that hadn’t been the case.

But the lessons of his father and the lessons of his dad are the same: be cold, be calculating, be logical.

Hide the blazing fire in your heart under layers and layers of ice, and never let anyone see; don’t let emotion muddy your vision and soften your heart.

Don’t let yourself feel the emotions at all, no matter what.

It’s the same lesson, really.

The Vulcan version just has a bit less violence and a lot more pseudo-philosophical quotes from a guy named Surak.

Maybe it’s actual philosophy, but what the hell would Len know? He’s a slum kid, destined for a life of crime and prison, and his teachers barely tried hard enough to make him literate.

And so Len learns.

He learns to hide his feelings in the same way he hides his green blood, concealed in his face by the dark undertones he inherited from his mother; she’d worried so, when he was a child, regretting that he was not a touch darker so that the green would show less - regretting that he was not lighter so that the police would let him go by unmolested - regret, always regret.

She never permitted Len to go the hospital, of course, or even to a doctor; Len learned very young to care for his wounds himself, and to avoid leaving the house with any whenever possible.

It was not always possible, though luckily Len seemed to heal faster than normal, especially cuts; his skin weaving itself back together as if it, too, was embarrassed about showing off such inhuman traits.

No one but you must ever know, Len’s mother warned him, time and time again. Not your dad, not your friends, not a doctor, no one.

The one time Len had had to go to a doctor, to get all his vaccinations to make him legal for kindergarten, his mother had forestalled any blood test by telling the doctor he had a blood disease.

She hadn’t specified which one, but during those days of panic, a mere hint had been enough.

She’d told Len that the stigma of it that faced them both after that, the side-eyed looks and the sneers, the accusation of sexual improprieties or dirty needle habits, was still better than anyone finding out.

Len’s dad knew of Len’s green blood, of course, he shed enough of it, though luckily he remained unaware of Len’s true ancestry - in Central, with its labs and its military bases and its corrupt politicians and newshounds who could be paid to overlook certain accidents, it was not so unusual for children to be born with stranger characteristics than most, and Len’s mother had explained that she had, while pregnant, unwisely wandered into one toxic waste dump or another that’d ended up dumped in the slums, and Len’s dad had just grumbled about there not being a class action payout from it.

The blood wasn’t all of it, of course. There was more - a internal eyelid, thankfully translucent, that Len primarily used to protect his eyes when he was locked in their dusty, unfinished basement in winter or in the truck of a car during the height of summer. There was the way he was always a little cold, always preferring a jacket or parka even in the warm months.

There were his ears.

Len hid his too-pointed ears first with his hair and later, with bravado and scorn that suggested that anyone questioning him simply didn’t understand the full extent of human diversity.

The kids in Central’s slums didn’t really care to ask questions of how - they were not so young as to not know about the planes with their pesticides, the explosions from the secret laboratories everyone knew were there, the strange diseases that came through their water (drink soda instead, the schoolteachers advised with haunted eyes; if you must drink water, boil it first if you can, hope for the best if you can’t) - but they were more than happy to mock Len about his almost elfin ears, particularly when he was still young and delicate.

Len’s dad solved that problem when Len was eight, his mother dead and unable to interpose herself, by taking a knife to their sensitive tips.

Len screamed for hours, days, in unending agony, but Lewis locked him in the basement before he left, and by the time he returned Len was mute and the wounds had begun to heal.

At least his hearing - far superior to others in his age group, and vitally useful to knowing when to flee as the police approached - wasn’t impacted.

(Len hadn’t spoken for nearly a month after the incident, walking through his days in a daze that slipped away from him; his ears had always been extremely sensitive, and the trauma seemed to loop endlessly in his mind - it was only Lisa, brought home from the hospital and dropped into his arms, that brought him back into his body.)

And then, of course, there’s his skin.

His skin, which he keeps as covered as much as he can; perfect and unblemished and able to read people’s thoughts if he wasn’t careful about who he touched.

“Contact telepathy”, the tapes called it; as a kid, he’d thought it was kind of cool, played around with some thoughts about making a living conning people like a medium or even one of those fake-supernatural detectives on TV.

Touching his dad in the midst of a rage – feeling the nasty curl of emotion, feeling the vicious pleasure in pain, feeling nothing for Len but ownership – had put a quick end to those thoughts. He didn’t want to hear thoughts, if that’s what other people’s minds were like.

Len’s pretty sure that’s it, though, or at least that was all he’d been able to detect. He’d worried perhaps most about certain, uh, genital differences, but his mother assured him that both he and his father had been entirely normal in that respect - the mohyel she’d gone to in secret after her equally secret home birth had been old and half blind, and had politely not mentioned the shade of Len’s blood - and that his father had been normal enough to make her pregnant, after all, so how different could they really be?

Besides, Len doesn’t look all that different.

Sadly, Len’s father had helpfully not included much of anything about Vulcan anatomy in the tapes he’d given Len’s mother. As Len aged, he became increasingly convinced that the tapes were standard - some stupid Intro to Vulcan Culture 101 meant for alien species, not insiders, because it always seemed to portray the Vulcans as some sort of perfect species even though Len could pick out some inconsistencies they hadn’t quite managed to whitewash away.

At any rate, it meant that Len had to hope for the best.

And he did, making his way all, alone in the world – as far as he knew.

Turns out, he didn’t know as much as he thought he did.

It happened in juvie.

Day one of Len’s very first stay, when he was still unaware of how vicious it could be and how seriously some of the boys took themselves; he’d laughed at the wrong person, and they’d come after him, six of them.

Len’s stronger than a regular human, and as he grows he finds he’s a lot stronger, but he didn’t want to get into trouble – the more fool him – and he spent too much time trying to figure out how he should fight back to actually do it. They got him on the floor, first, punching and kicking, and one of them pulled out a knife.

That’s when Len started to panic, because he can’t get stabbed, not here, not in the middle of a group of stupid kids that’d spill everything, he can’t – but he couldn’t get out either, not even with his increased strength, they’d pinned him too well – the knife, the shiv, darted forward and Len threw himself to the side, felt it scrape by his side instead of stab right into him, and the kid was rearing back for another hit when suddenly they were all hit by a tornado.

At least, that’s what it felt like, swift and furious and pulling the kids off to throw them across the room, but it wasn’t actually a tornado.

It’s Mick.

Mick Rory, the boy no one is friends with, who sits alone at lunch and is said to have murdered his whole family.

He beats the boys so badly that they fled in tears, and then he picks Len up and gets him bandages from the nurse’s office so he can bandage himself up before anyone noticed anything had happened.

“Why’d you help me?” Len asks, suspicious, when it’s done and they’re assigned to be roommates by an indifferent teacher who doesn’t want to know any details.

Mick looks shifty.

“Tell me,” Len demands.

“The knife,” Mick finally admits. “It got you, just a little. It was green.”

“Blood disease,” Len says, automatically.

“I don’t think it is,” Mick says.

Len crosses his arms, a little painfully. “What do you think it is, then?”

“My grandmothers,” Mick says, hesitantly. “They used to say – this is probably real dumb –”

“Tell me.”

“Are you a Vulcan?” Mick blurts out.

Len stares at him, utterly lost for words. “How do you even know about those?” he hisses.

“My grandmothers told me,” Mick says.

“Were they Vulcans, too?”

“No,” Mick says, and Len’s shoulders slump. “They were something else, though. Not – normal.”

There are more aliens?

No, forget that; there were people who knew about Vulcans, it doesn’t matter what they are. What matters is that they might have answers.

“Your grandmothers…” Len starts.

“Dead,” Mick says. “Sorry. What about you?”

“My father,” Len admits, his shoulders gone slumped again. He should’ve guessed already; he never has any luck. “Gone.”

“And he was a Vulcan?”

“Yeah,” Len says, figuring it couldn’t hurt to admit it, just this once. After all, Mick already knew so much.

Mick nods. “My grandmothers were Klingons,” he offers.

“Never heard of ‘em.”

“Yeah, figured,” Mick says. “My grandmothers were from the future.”

Len twists to gape at him, because sure, he knows aliens exist, but time travel? That’s still weird and almost ridiculous enough not to be believed.

“Really!” Mick insists. “They got sent back in a time travel accident and got stuck. Twin sisters, Klingons; they did everything together, so I have no idea which one’s my actual grandmother, so I call ‘em both grandmother. They said a lot of weird stuff, though, but one of the things they said was that Vulcans were the ones who made first contact with humans, and they taught me to recognize some of the signs in case it happened in my lifetime. You’ve got ‘em all except the ears.”

Len flinches involuntarily. He can’t help himself; that memory still appears in his dreams with a monotonous regularity that does nothing to reduce the horror.

Mick looks away, guilt on his face. He’s close enough now to see the scars on the tops of Len’s now-more-regularly-curved ears, though perhaps not close enough to see how they’ve slowly and painstakingly been starting to grow back into their original pointed shape.

“It’s okay,” Len says, even though it very much is not.

They sit in silence for a few moments.

Len doesn’t know what to do with the information that he’s not alone after all, he really doesn’t.

Mick, luckily, has something in mind already.

“Wanna be friends?” he asks, just the slightest touch shy; it didn’t fit his face or his body, already tall as a man and strong as an ox.

Len’s pretty sure he’s never had a real friend before. He wonders if Mick will know how to do it.

“Sure,” Len says.

Turns out Mick also doesn’t know how to have friends, but it’s okay.

They work it out.

Most of the time.

The rest of the time, they go through the good times -

“What are you going to go as for Halloween?” Lisa asks one year.

“An alien,” Len deadpans. He’s working on some plans for a bank heist – nothing too serious, just a bit of fun.

Mick sniggers. He’s on the couch, fiddling with something small and mechanical – maybe a clock or something.

It’s nice, just the three of them here, squatting in this ridiculous house that’s deserted for the summer.

Len could get used to it.

“You can’t do the alien joke every year, Lenny!” Lisa whines.

“Watch me.”

“Ugh, come on, Lenny!” she exclaims. “One year, Lenny. For me. Please?”

“Fine,” Len gives in with a groan.

“Really?” Mick asks, amused. “You never give in on that one.”

“One year, and you don’t bother me about it again,” Len tells Lisa.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Fine,” she lies.

He knows she’s lying, she knows she’s lying, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Then we’re agreed,” Len says.

“But what’re you going to be?”

“Hey, Mick, pass me that box on the side table?” Len asks.

Mick looks for it, frowning. His eyesight is a bit better at tracking moving objects and a bit worse at identifying sitting objects than humans.

“Next to the remote.”

Mick finds it – a small box, no bigger than the palm of his hand. “This one?”

“Yeah. Open it for me?”

“It’s too small to have a Halloween costume,” Lisa says.

“Wanna bet?”

“Against you, big brother? Never.”

Len snorts and turns to look at Mick, who’s opened the box and is frozen solid, staring at the contents. “Well?” he asks, fairly sure about the answer, but still that slightest bit nervous regardless.

“It’s it illegal?” Mick asks.

“Has that ever stopped us?” Len points out.

“Good point,” Mick says, blinking. “Uh. Yes. I guess.”

“Say it with a bit of enthusiasm, why don’t you,” Len pretends to grouse. “It’s the only logical next step, you know.”

“You’d better drop it with that logical shit,” Mick says, having seen Len’s tapes by now, but his tone is entirely fond.

“Isn’t what illegal?” Lisa asks, looking between the two of them. “What’re you talking about?”

Mick holds up two matching rings. “Guess we’re going as groom and groom for Halloween this year,” he jokes.

Lisa’s shriek nearly splits both of their eardrums.

– and sometimes the bad times –

“You just got shot!” Mick shrieks, years later, when a job goes particularly off the rails.

“I get shot all the time,” Len protests weakly, reaching for the bandages. “It was a through-and-through!”

“Yeah! Through and through your heart!”

Len grimaces down at his chest, where indeed there is a bullet hole in the middle of his left pectoral. And yet, for some reason, he’s definitely not dying. Judging from the way the blood keeps pouring out of the wound, his heart’s doing just fine.

“We’re getting a doc,” Mick says. His tone does not accept any other result.

“Fine,” Len sighs. “But I’d like one with a narcotics addiction and red-green color blindness.”

Mick blinks at him owlishly.

“I have a list of ‘em prepped,” Len says. “It’s in the phone book.”

“Red-green colorblind?”

“So they don’t notice the blood,” Len explains.

“You think they won’t notice the hole in your heart?”

“That’s why they need to have a narcotics addiction,” Len says. “We’re going to shoot ‘em up afterwards and let them think it was all a bad trip.”

“Fine,” Mick says, and stomps off.

The doc they find is as colorblind as a dog and doesn’t even blink at the gushing green blood, though he does run at least six x-rays to try to confirm his result regarding the heart thing.

“Uh,” he says, squinting at the readings. “I think - I mean - okay, your heart is where your liver ought to be and everything’s incredibly fucked up. But you should be fine other than that? The bullet missed your lung. Or any organ, actually, you don’t have much there.”

“Yippee,” Len says dryly, and they pay their bill with enough morphine to make sure the doc’s not going to be asking any questions anytime soon.

“Fucking Vulcans,” Mick says afterwards. “Probably should’ve guessed it when we found out you were practically a herbivore, food-wise, even though you keep on trying to eat meat because you’re a fucking idiot…”

“Now, now, Mick,” Len says. “That’s not a very logical thing to say.”

“Vulcans can take their logic and shove it up my –”

Len starts laughing, which is rare enough for him that Mick twists around to stare.

“I thought I was the only one allowed to do that,” Len says, as innocently as he can manage.

Mick rolls his eyes at him. “Stop laughing. I thought you were having a fit.”

“Just a bit of leftover humanity, I assure you,” Len says.

– and the plain old weird times.

“Uh, hi, Mick,” Len says into the phone, covering his eyes with his hand.

“That’s quick,” Mick grunts. At least he hasn’t hung up. “Usually you stay angry at me for at least a few more months. Not sure I’m ready to make up so quick.”

“Yeah, about that,” Len says, then swallows. Well, no way around it, so he may as well charge forward. “Uh. So, it turns out my alien species is overwhelmed by a desire to mate or die once every seven years, and my body’s decided that you’re my true mate, so can we maybe get over our disagreement faster than usual now and get to the mating thing before I die?”

“That’s…the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard,” Mick says blankly. “And we’re married.”

“It’s not a pick-up line!”

“Uh, huh,” Mick says skeptically. “Your super logical no-emotions species has a built in fuck-or-die trope. Right. You could’ve just said that you were super horny and wanted a booty call, you know.”

“It’s true,” Len whines. He’s blushing. He never blushes, and he’s blushing. It’s probably related to the way he feels like his entire body is cooking. “It’s like – salmon returning to their spawning point –”

“You’ve never seen a live fish in your life,” Mick, the farm boy, says, sounding vaguely pained. “That’s totally not how it works.”

“Mick! Please!”

Mick pauses. “Wait, you’re actually serious?”

“Yes,” Len says. “Now I’m already starting to totally lose it, so can we lock ourselves into a room and bang for a week already?”

“How often did you say this happens?” Mick asks.

“Every seven years,” Len says grumpily.

“You know, the timing of our honeymoon seems oddly suspicious to me now…”

“Shut up. You coming over?”

“No, you’re coming over here,” Mick says. “I have a nice apartment set up, and I’ll make us some snacks.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Len promises.

“That’s not possible with traffic –”

Len is there in ten minutes.

Mick’s very impressed.

He’s even more impressed when Len picks him up and carries him to bed.

Three cheers for Vulcan strength.

And so it goes.

Len is remarkably good at keeping what he is a secret, and he adapts his ways to keep Mick’s heritage a secret, too, and the few times anyone sees him bleed, saying “Central City lead poisoning” with a wince and a shrug turns out to be a pretty convincing lie.

And so it goes.

Mick doesn’t know when, exactly, Vulcans are supposed to make contact, and it’s not like Len hears anything back from his father, so they both resign themselves to being just a little bit weirder than everyone else.

Right up until they meet the man from the future, who has a space ship.

Sure, it also travels through time, but that’s not really what they’re interested in.

Len looks at Mick.

Mick looks at Len.

There is no way they’re passing this up.

(They end up having to hijack the Waverider when their trip is nearly derailed by space pirates, but it’s totally worth it for Len to punch his stupid father right in his stupid, logical, eyebrow-arching Vulcan face, despite the man’s claims that he was barred from returning due to Earth not being ready for Contact. Mick’s grandmothers – they went and picked them up on the way – approve. Rip, who had no idea Len was a Vulcan, does not, but oh, well!)

#dccoldwave #leonard snart #mick rory #my fic

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elizacatherinemoore18-blog · 5 years

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Are there any limits to what can be described as Performance Art?

The Oxford Dictionary definition of Performance Art is; ‘an art form that combines visual art with dramatic performance’. The connotations of the word ‘performance’ suggest an audience. After reading Grayson Perry’s book: Playing in the Gallery.I became fascinated by his statement ‘how do we tell if something is good? What are the criteria by which we judge art made today, and who tells us it is good?’. This allowed me to question myself and I realised, it is difficult to say that something is notart. Taking a shower, drinking water, applying my makeup. Are these performances? Are they performances even though no one but myself is witnessing them? In a world where we are obsessed with self-documentation, and all rely on the use of social media platforms such as Twitter and Facebook. Is it possible that we are all performance artists, as we express ourselves in any way we can in day-to-day life. We are able to record every second of our lives if we wish to. In this essay I hope to explore what qualifies as performance art, and consider the idea that we are all performance artists.

The origin of the Performance art movement began with peaceful rebellion against the violence and hate of World War One, headed by the Dadaist and Futurism movements in the 1910s. Performance art challenged the more traditional methods of creating art such as painting or sculpture. ‘In the post-war period performance became aligned with conceptual art, because of its often immaterial nature’. The horror of the First World War, grew equally powerful and dynamic movements of art, with the Dadaist movement (founded in Zurich) producing poetry, art, and performances all displaying a satirical and negative reactions to War. Hans Arp, a French-German sculptor, painter and poet stated: ‘revolted by the butchery of the 1914 World War, we in Zurich devoted ourselves to the arts. While guns rumbled in the distance, we sang, painted, made collages, and wrote poems with all our might’. The movement questioned and challenged the social climate in the sense that if we as humans could cause so much pain, what was the value of creating art? The movement set out to destroy tradition, and create art with new functions. The Futurism movement ‘celebrated the modern world of industry and technology’, headed by Italian poet Filippo Tommaso Marinetti in 1909. The crux of the movement was separation from the past, specifically Italy’s oppressive one. The Performance art movement began to gain momentum and ‘stricter rules’[1]during the late 1970s, and transformed into a more time-based process, typically art would be made in live performances with people observing it. It is generally seen as an ‘ephemeral event’[2], rather than a stand-alone object, and is often filmed on a camera, or photographed as the event is happening. To me, ephemeral performance art imitates the unpredictability of real life, and the two are interchangeable.

This shows that the function of performance art has always been politically engaging, and has been utilised largely to respond to political events and has been ‘fuelled by many of the activist movements’[3]. The politically turbulent era of the mid 1960s, with the nuclear Cuban Missile Crisis and anti-war protests against the Vietnam War had a soundtrack of ‘folk-inspired protest songs’[4]by the likes of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. David Wojnarowicz’s 1990 film, Silence = Death, made in 1990, the artist can be seen sewing up his mouth. This dark and horrifying imagery was protesting against the underfunding of AIDs research and treatment, which at the time was taking many lives. The lack of awareness was dangerous for many gay men at the time. In Yoko Ono’s 1964 work ‘Cut Piece’was first performed in Japan, in New York in 1965 and then in London. The artist gave the audience a pair of scissors and were encouraged to cut away pieces of her clothing, bit by bit, one by one, until she was in front of them in her underwear. Some members of the audience would cut small items of her clothing away, whereas others would cut away her blouse or bra strap. Yoko Ono remained quiet, still and expressionless throughout the performance. This poignant performance was to challenge the ‘passive role women often played in public spectacles’[5].Conceptually, this work relies on the audience’s willingness to participate in the performance and can be describes as a ‘Instruction Piece’. The blame is passed onto the audience and will reiterate the idea that the female body has been historically and presently viewed as an object. Similarly, at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City in 1985, an exhibition called ‘An International Survey of Painting and Sculpture’ was put on which would display some of the most influential work of the time. Despite the misleading name of the exhibition, all thirteen out of the one hundred and sixty nine artists with work featured in the exhibition were white females. This lack of diversity upset many people, and in response to this exhibition, a group of anonymous female artists, calling themselves the Guerilla Girls stood outside the gallery holding placards with slogans on them such as ‘Do women have to be naked to get into the Met. Museum?’. These slogans questioned female rights and visibility, even in the art world, and posed questions about the importance of the Male gaze. They could be distinguished easily by the gorilla masks they wore to keep their identity a secret. Feminist artist Judy Chicago said ‘Performance can be fuelled by rage in a way that painting and sculpture cannot.’[6]This suggests to me, that performance art takes many forms, and anything can be performance art if it is objecting to an aspect of the political and social climate. However, this poses the question. Is performance art still relevant, even if it is not in response to anything socially or politically? Can we all be performance artists even if we ourselves are not rebelling against anything?

Yves Klein’s live presentations of anthropometries took place on the 9thof March 1960. The artist asked women to be covered in blue paint (Klein Blue). ‘In his anthropometries Klein used models as living brushes. They smeared themselves with blue paint and pressed against a canvas piece of paper to make an imprint, according to his instructions’[7]. This dramatic event is seen as early performance and body art, and does not seem to have any political functions, and in fact in my opinion seems to unnecessarily sexualise the female body. This performance is not protesting against anything, and is generally only showcasing the Klein blue that the artist was so obsessed with. This allows me to consider if this is performance art, also because he instructed the models where to go, it takes away the ephemeral element of performance art and controls the way they move. This performance is solely about the marks made, and the colour of the marks. This causes me to reconsider my view that, perhaps, performance art does not always have to have a political function, and can alternatively be completely concentrated on drawing.

Perceptions of what constitutes performance art will obviously differ from person to person. To me, performance art feels like one of the purest forms of expression, just as dancing is. One’s own performative actions will influence this. For example, perhaps, a dancer could identify a piece of performance art with movement involved, or a chef could argue that cooking is a piece of performance art. For me, someone who studies art, I feel that my time over the past Foundation year has allowed me to reconsider and examine what I think performance art is. For me now, it is the artistic intention behind an action and the desire to be performative in the process of creating the art. To me, the process is equally important to the outcome within my own art, I have been recording each performance on a camera, looking at the way my body moves to different types of music with a range of different sounds within them. The way the music affects the marks I made fascinates me, which lead me to draw while listening to do more abstract sounds with emotional connotations, such as the sound of a waiting room at a Doctor’s surgery or the sound of my Mother’s laugh. This led me to see what marks I would make when there is silence. Similarly, the performative art I have been making seems to be about the concept of the loss of time and nothingness. While I am performing, I sometimes feel as if time moves very fast, and an hour can feel like ten minutes. I am interested by the fact that the more time I put into the performance, the darker and more interesting the image becomes. Currently, the process and what it teaches me is more important than the end result in this year of exploration that I’ve had. Presently, my work does not hold any political function, and is not revolting against anything. It is largely focusing on different types of mark making. Does this lack of protest limit it as protest art?

When reading Viktor Shkolvsky’s work[8], and considering how it related to the artistic process I found myself disagreeing with his fundamental points that art must have artistic intention. I believe that an actress warming up her voice, a private ritual in preparation for her performance, is as valid as the performance with an audience. Additionally, I believe the interpretation of the audience is just as important as the interpretation for the artist. Someone can consider someone else’s actions, as art.

Serbian performance artist writer and art filmmaker, Marina Abramović, in a video created by The Museum of Modern Art specified the difference between theatre and performance. Her work is largely body, endurance and feminist art. She states in the video ‘this is not a theatre. A theatre will repeat’[9]. She also states that ‘Performance is real. In a theatre you can cut with a knife and there is blood. The knife is not real and blood is not real.In performance the blood and the knife and the body of the performer is real.’ She explains that to her, performance is real life and makes reference to the white box of gallery space. I disagree with her argument, that for performance art to occur, there must be a ‘white box’ or ‘gallery space’, and I believe that performance art can occur anywhere. Performance art is an imitation, and perhaps heightened and purer version of the emotions we experience in real life. Marina Abramović states that,‘performance is the kind of unique form of art and is very temporary and comes and goes.’ Our actions in real life are similarly temporary, unpredictable, and all depend on a range of things that inform our choices. In more recent years, the Draw to Perform: An International Community for Drawing Performance, headed by Ram Samocha, holds an annual International Symposium for the world’s most influential and important Performance drawers. This Symposium looks at the links between performance art and drawing.

In addressing the question considered, the range of ways that performative art presents itself shows the limits of what can be described as performance art are not very strong. Although performance art was originally a process that was in response to times of political turbulence, it is clear from both the Draw to Perform International Symposium and Yves Klein’s anthropometries that the idea that politics and rebellion need to be at the heart of all performances, has been challenged. My own work, can be considered performance art, and there are no political intentions behind it at this moment. This has allowed me to see what are the limitations on my own work, and that the limitations exist, but they are flexible.

The idea that performance art is real life, a point which Marina Abramovićmade, and is not like theatre because it cannot be repeated, makes it clear to me this is another limit to what can be described as performance art. Although I previously believed that anything can be performance art. From a dancer stretching their muscles, to a drag queen applying their makeup before a performance, I now see that although I don’t think there needs to be artistic intention behind a performance, I believe someone has to have an audience for it to be perceived as performance art. I believe there has to be an ephemeral quality to all performance art.

[1]https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-performance-art

[2]Bratu Hansen, Miriam. Benjamin and Cinema: Not a One-Way Street. Critical Inquiry, Vol. 25, No. 2, "Angelus Novus": Perspectives on Walter Benjamin (Winter, 1999), pp. 306-343.

[3]https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/p/performance-art/angry-space-politics-and-activism

[4]https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/p/performance-art/angry-space-politics-and-activism

[5]https://www.sleek-mag.com/article/feminist-performance-art/

[6]https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/p/performance-art/angry-space-politics-and-activism

[7]Thames & Hudson, Art the Whole Story, London, Thames and Hudson,pp.498-499, 2010

[8]Shklovsky, Victor,‘Art, as Device’(1917) and Ferdinand de Saussure “excerpts” Course in General Linguistics (1916)

[9]https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/global-culture/conceptual-performance/v/moma-abramovic-what-is-performance-art

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travelererrant · 7 years

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Character Questionnaire for Nomad

So I saw this little questionnaire, and thought I’d take some time to do it for Nomad. It’s a lot longer than I thought it was going to be, but I had fun doing it anyways. I’m going to put the whole thing under a break, as it became very, very long. The formatting got a little wonky as I wrote it all in Microsoft Word so I could save it for future use, then copy/pasted it over here.

Full name

Nomad the Dauntless

Preferred name/nickname

Nomad

Generally referred to as

Nomad

Appearance.

FACECLAIM: Currently, not really. I have a couple of video game avatars I’ve made for him, and I’ve got a commission in the works. SEX: Male.

HEIGHT: 7’1’’ WEIGHT: Very heavy BUILD: Bulky muscular, built like a tank HAIR: Thick, long black hair that’s somewhat poofy. Sometimes wears it in a ponytail. He has a very thick beard. SKIN: Dark brown, rough, almost more scar tissue than skin. EYES: Brown eyes full of fire and vigor. MOUTH: If you can see it under his beard, it’s big, with teeth that have been chipped in some places, but are still decently cleaned. NOSE: Big, crooked and somewhat flattened from all the fights he’s been in. His nose hasn’t gone untouched, and he’s very aware of it. HANDS: Also big, but very calloused and covered in scars. FEET: Decent sized. Calloused. Rough. Usually covered in socks. SCARS: Lots of ‘em. Very condensed on his back, but his face has a decent amount as well. It’s a miracle he still has eyes with how many scars are around them. CLOTHES: Very simple, usually just a t-shirt and jeans, sometimes a Hawaiian shirt, and a bombardier’s jacket during the colder seasons.

OTHER NOTEABLE FEATURES: He really is huge and muscular, meant to be an ugly, brutal looking warrior, with enough scars to make people think he should have been dead three times over. He’s got the kind of face that would break a mirror, y’know what I’m sayin’?

Speech.

VOICECLAIM: Something close to Stoick the Vast. Deeper, more harsh in its own way. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEQhjS-c7EU close to this, honestly. ACCENT: I honestly keep alternating between Scottish and Norse. VERBAL TICKS: None that I can think of at the moment. LANGUAGE: Usually just whatever is common, but he’s good at picking up the intent behind words, and has a deep and extensive knowledge of insults from around the world, so he can know if someone’s insulting him, and he can insult them back. ARTICULATION: If he’s flustered, he tries to correct himself way too many times. If he’s telling a story or teaching someone how to fight, he’s very clear, taking his time by adding movements to give his words more meaning. EDUCATION: He’s blunt and to the point, avoiding complicated words because they make it harder to understand than necessary.

LAUGHTER: He laughs a lot, whether it be at a feast or during a battle, and it’s the loud booming laugh that can be heard clear across the room.

GRUMP: When irritated, he does tend to grumble to himself, as usually he gets mad because people are ignoring his advice. He’ll also grunt if he’s focused on something and doesn’t want to waste time with words. BREATHING: He sighs a lot when he’s going through a day when he can’t get his mind out of the past, thinking of his fallen comrades and the adventures they shared. Gasping isn’t something he does often. He “humphs” at the sight of someone pretending to be more badass than they actually are.

Mannerisms.

FACE: Nomad wears his heart on his sleeve. He doesn’t hide what he’s feeling and makes it known to anyone around him.

HANDS: Usually his hands scratch his beard, mime a weapon or action during a story, or are busy with whatever he’s set himself to doing. LEGS/FEET: Not really. He keeps himself planted pretty solidly.

EMOTIONAL OUTBURSTS: See the heart on his sleeve bit? It applies here. He shouts when he’s angry, shouts when he’s happy, and is very quiet when caught in a fit of sorrow. HABITS: He sings to himself in that kind of voice you use when you just want to feel the words come out of your mouth, but not be heard by anyone in particular. He doesn’t like his singing voice, but likes to sing anyways. Especially when he’s singing an old battle song, or a chant about ancient warriors and adventurers. POSTURE: He holds himself proudly in everything he does. From standing in the presence of royalty to sitting at a tea party for the child of a friend, he does everything with the pride of a warrior whose survived a thousand, thousand battles. WALKING POSTURE: See above. Though when angry, he tends to stomp in a way that draws attention to him and lets everyone know to either get out of his way or risk the consequences. SITTING POSTURE: He takes up space when he can, legs apart, shoulders held wide, and sort of slouched. PERSONAL SPACE: Only people he explicitly trusts and admires are allowed to get in his personal space, and he respects the wishes of those around him. Though sometimes he gets carried away, the moment he notices they’re uncomfortable is the moment he readjusts himself to what’d make them feel better. He especially does not like it when people try to touch his back. SPACIAL AWARENESS: He’s very aware of everything going on around him, but sometimes chooses to ignore it if it can make the moment more entertaining.

Health:

DIET: While he tries to eat healthy, he does inevitably eat a lot of meat and sweets. His philosophy with food is that you never know what meal will be your last. Enjoy it while you can.

SLEEP: He’s prone to nightmares about his past, but is an infamously deep sleeper. If something is trying to bother him, he can usually sleep right through it. If it’s something dangerous that threatens to kill him, he can be up in an instant. Sometimes he goes a few days without sleep so he can avoid the nightmares.

EXERCISE: He exercises quite a lot, practicing with weapons, weightlifting, tai chi, Yoga, etc. He also likes dance aerobics. ACTIVITY: He’s a hard worker, known to work himself to the bone until he’s satisfied with whatever he was told to work on. Especially if he’s doing it for a friend. He thinks they deserve the best, and he won’t rest until they’re satisfied. CLEANLINESS: He bathes when he can, but will sometimes just splash water on his face and under his arms to save on time. ODOUR: He usually smells like sawdust. MEDICINAL DRUGS: Painkillers, but only when even he can’t ignore the pain of a wound or headache. NARCOTICS: Nope. Dependence on a drug is something he won’t tolerate for himself. ADDICTIONS: Nothing again, though some have accused him of being an adrenaline junkie and using battle as an excuse to get the “blood pumping”. ILLNESS: Nope. INJURIES: Just the scars. PARASITES: Nothing once again. This time, it’s not personal.

Personal.

INTROVERT/EXTROVERT?: Somewhere in between. While he keeps to himself most of the time, once he’s made friends with people, he’s always looking for a good way to get them out to do something.

OPTIMIST/PESSIMIST: He hopes for the best, but always expects the worst, and prepares for it as such. GENDER: Definitely male, and identifies with it, though doesn’t understand why gender is so confusing sometimes and just tries to be supportive of his friends. SEXUALITY: Asexual. He’s not really much of a sexy-times kind of guy. ROMANTIC: He doesn’t like falling in love, as he’s lost too many people already and is scared of trying again, especially with his trust issues. He definitely doesn’t want to have kids, but is more than happy to help others raise their own. MEMORY: Nomad has a very good memory, as he doesn’t want anyone to ever feel forgotten, and does not want to feel guilty for forgetting something someone had told him. Never know when that memory will bring you a bit of happiness in a darker time. PLANNING: He’ll plan for battles where his friends will be, but most of the time he runs on instinct and intuition, letting his actions plan it out for him. PENSIVE: When he’s alone, and the sun has set and left him alone with his thoughts, he thinks. And sometimes he hates it. INTUITION: Usually, yes, especially with matters such as fighting, tracking someone or something, or deciphering ancient riddles and stories. PROBLEM SOLVING: He’s good at finding a solution, or finding someone who knows how to find a solution. And if that doesn’t work, he’s fine with punching his problems away. GOALS: Short-term goal is to make it to the next day. The long term goal is to be the warrior that everyone can look up to and rely on, and to hear the stories of all he befriends and carry those stories with him, so they’ll never be forgotten. INSECURITIES: He’s worried about not being strong enough, and not being sensitive enough for his friends. Though he knows it’s sometimes his greatest asset in a battle, he doesn’t like the fact that he’s ugly as sin and doesn’t like it when people make fun of his attempts to be vain, though he usually masks it as a joke. ACHIEVEMENTS: Every battle he’s survived, every monster slain, and everyon he managed to spare along the way.

ANXIETY: Whenever his friends get involved with a battle, or have to fight for themselves, he worries. He wonders if this will be the day that he loses them, and isn’t there to protect them. He worries about when he’ll see them again or if he’ll ever see them. He fears once again being helpless to stop needless destruction and violence, and the consequence will be the loss of his friends and family. OVERWHELMED: When he’s just one man trying to take on the problems of the world, or if all of his friends ask him to do something for them at the same time. He has a hard time saying no to them. If he’s one man versus a thousand in the battle, he feels overwhelmed. SELF-HELP: Nomad tends to practice a lot of breathing exercises, and that’s about it. Sometimes he takes a break for a meal, maybe a quick song, but mostly just… keeps going with it, I guess.

COMFORTS: Music, food, and good company. BAD HABITS: He tends to think his problems aren’t worth his friends’ time, and has trouble accepting compliments as he struggles with the idea of self-worth and confuses it with arrogance on his part, and doubts his own abilities a lot of the time. PHILOSOPHY: “To live is to fight. You do a thousand things each day that show your will to live. You breathe, you eat, you sleep, you wake up and face the day again. You show everyone that you’re still fighting. You learn so that you may live, so that you can fight.” TRIGGERS: Ancient prophecies and anything that says that only one very specific weapon or person can stop an ancient evil or something like that.

The Past.

PARENTS/GUARDIANS: Orphaned.

SCHOOL: They struggled, and dropped out of high school to join the military. ADOLESCENCE: Difficult, because no one was really there for him. LEAVING HOME: He didn’t really have a stable home to begin with. He just tended to wander, scrounge, and got dropped at foster home after foster home. FURTHER EDUCATION: Once he was old enough to join the military, he did just that. He couldn’t really go to college officially, but he liked reading some college level textbooks. FIRST JOB: Usually his first “job” involves some kind of mercenary work. LIFE EVENTS: When he was imprisoned for murder that wasn’t his fault. When he saw his first death in battle. When he killed someone as a soldier. When he saw his closest friends get massacred while he was powerless to watch. When he discovered just how strong he was.

WORST DAY OF THEIR LIFE: Several, but one of the most notable was when he was trapped under a burning castle and forced to watch the three people who treated him like a human die to a demon because the magic sword that was supposed to stop him judged him as “unworthy” and wouldn’t be bothered to save innocent lives.

BEST DAY OF THEIR LIFE: When he was accepted for who he was, scars and all. LESSONS: Never rely entirely on one object or person. Be ready to take matters into your own hands. Never let someone feel alone. If someone has a passion, give them the attention and respect they deserve for following their dreams. LOOKING BACK: He regrets a lot, but can’t and won’t change it. If he changed it, he wouldn’t have learned.

Relationships.

FAMILY: He has no blood relatives, and considers his very close friends as his family. FRIENDSHIPS: He has several close friends, and many acquaintances and people he’d call “okay” friends. To be a close friend, you have to be someone who he’d trust with not only his life, but the lives of others. Loyal, trustworthy, and someone who treats others with kindness. FRIENDS IN NEED: He’s always willing to do whatever’s necessary to help his friends, no matter what. Even if it’s just being a shoulder to cry on, or finding someone else who can help them better than he can, he’ll do it with no hesitation. NEEDING A FRIEND: He doesn’t like it when people worry about him, and tends to try and deal with his problems on his own. He doesn’t know how to feel when someone does help him. His pride says to be insulted, but he also feels touched that others would care enough to want to help him. ANNOYANCES: Usually if he disagrees with someone, it’s just that: a disagreement where Nomad will let the other do what they want. If it endangers others, however, Nomad will be stubborn and insist on finding another way. ROMANCE: He’s not one for woo-ing, and any attempts to flirt with someone are awkward and very, very rough. It’s rare for him to even try to take the initiative. Usually someone else has to do it. MARITAL PROBLEMS: Talk it through. Ending it because of a lack of communication would be very stupid, in Nomad’s opinion. The best way to fix that is to be open and honest. ADVERSARIES: People who lie and manipulate others to further their own goals, as well as those who look down on their inferiors. ENEMIES: If they kill without passion, without remorse, without consideration for the stories they’ve ended, they can count themselves as Nomad’s enemy. STRANGERS: Nomad is wary around anyone he doesn’t know. He’s cautious and tries to play his cards close to his chest, unless introduced by another friend, wherein he’s willing to be a little more open. FUN STUFF: Hiking, adventuring, running daily errands, and mundane activities in general. He also enjoys playing board games and card games. DATING: Walking along the beach, and through forest paths and meadows. Sitting quietly at home while the fire crackles, sharing a bowl of popcorn while watching a movie, or listening to music in the darkness. He likes to keep it quiet and simple. BEST FRIEND: Swift Sketch, owned by The Chibster. LOVE: Nothin’ here right now. WORST ENEMY: Several can claim that, depending on where he is. “The Drifter” is one such being, sort of his antithesis. There’s Trevor, a pirate king who he once loved but was consumed by his own lust for power and the sick justifications he came up with. RESPECT: He respects them, because “If I hate them, I’ll underestimate them. I have to expect anything.”

Interactions.

MINGLING: Sort of bad at making new friends on his own, as he isn’t sure whether or not they’re just trying to get close enough to put a knife between his ribs. At a party with friends, he’s the loudest and most boisterous.

COMFORT LEVELS: He’s usually pretty comfortable with talking, but once they start trying to pry personal info out of him he starts to clam up. Even more so when they try to touch him.

PHYSICAL: With friends, he’s a hugger. With strangers, he keeps his distance and hopes they do the same. GROUPS: Groups of friends, yes. Otherwise he’s fine with just a couple of people. OPENNESS: It takes a little while, at least until he feels like they’re the sort of person he’d be willing to buy a few drinks for. GENEROSITY: Though he usually doesn’t have much money, he’s a sucker for getting gifts for his friends and doing charity work when he can spare the time. He likes cooking a lot of food at once and is more than happy to share whatever he made with his friends. He always thinks they need to eat more. JEALOUSY: He doesn’t really experience jealousy.

TEMPER: He gets mad very easily, as it’s the emotion that kept him alive for so long. As he’s also got his heart on his sleeve, he tends to be seen as someone who can get hotheaded at the drop of a pin. Really though, he’s usually just mad at himself for messing up something. Unless someone else is trying to be an idiot, which gets him mad enough to the point where he thinks that a good beating is what they need.

EMPATHY: He empathizes deeply with others, and tries to be aware of what he’s saying and doing. He cares about what his friends feel. AFFECTION: He shows affection through hugging, offers of food, and giving gifts based on what he remembers them saying. DISTASTE: He just outright says “I don’t like you” and ignores/avoids them. ETIQUETTE: Oh he can be very rude and blunt. Social rules don’t really appeal to him, and he can be pretty messy when it comes to certain social events. RESPONSIBILITY: He takes too much responsibility some times, but he always makes sure to at least claim what he knows was his fault. SELF ESTEEM: He won’t let others push him around, but he still has issues with his own self-worth and trying to figure out what the fine line is between being arrogant and being honest about his own abilities. CONFIDENCE: Only his friends, and even then he exudes an aura of bold confidence when engaged in battle.

HONESTY: He’s extremely honest, but tends to hide thoughts about himself and his problems behind jokes and a fierce temper. LEADER OR FOLLOWER: Happy to follow someone else’s lead and be their muscle, but when war is declared he falls naturally into a leadership position, despite the anxiety it causes him. PARTY TRICKS: He likes to show off with his strength. PRAISE: Nope. FAILURES: He can be too loud, too blunt, and sometimes can be oblivious to people flirting with him. He also is far too willing to get into a fight, and his temper can be a bit of a problem sometimes. He improvises too much for some to handle. CRITICISM: Takes it in stride, unless it’s from someone he doesn’t respect. Then he insults them. INSULTS: To quote the cliché, “Them’s fightin’ words.” EMBARRASSMENT: Embarrassed by compliments. FLIRTING: Nope, for reasons of “Fear of losing a loved one”.

ATTENTION SPAN: He can hold his concentration very well as a result of his meditation sessions and time spent training overall. SITUATIONS: He can handle his friends and help them out, but when he has to deal with his own problems he gets frustrated.

Life.

CAREER: Mercenary, bounty hunter, adventurer, soldier, and he is very good at all of those things and anything relating to them. PROMOTION: N/A BOSS: If he respects them, yes. If not, he goes solo again. DUTY: He has to protect others and help them grow stronger. TECH: He’s not very good with modern technology, usually having to ask someone else to help him figure out stuff and write him a note with reminders. POLITICS: His opinion is, “Choose the one that won’t fuck up as much”, and votes as such.

COMBAT SKILLS: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA, he’s unrivaled and it’s the one thing he’s really f***ing good at.

HOME: Cluttered, sort of a mess that only makes sense to him. DAILY LIFE: Sometimes he feels out of place, like he needs a crisis to keep himself occupied. INDEPENDENCE: He knows how to get by. COOKING: Yes! While he’s not a gourmet chef, he knows how to make comfort food and great homemade meals to soothe the soul. BUILDING: He’s a very hands-on type of person, like an angrier, more violent Ron Swanson. CLEANING: He always does his chores when he can, as they’re a routine that help him adjust to everyday life. SHOPPING: He likes shopping, but only goes when necessary because he doesn’t want to frivolously spend money. DRIVING: He can drive just about anything, though not at an expert level. FINANCES: He usually pays his bills on time, but has to save his pennies whenever he can. He likes to keep a lot of money stashed away for emergencies. MARRIAGE: If he gets married, he just wants to continue life as is, but now with someone to come home to, someone who wants to see him again. KIDS: He’s sterile, and can’t have kids. PETS: He likes cats and any animal overall. DEPENDANTS: Not really, but if he does meet someone like that who becomes his friend, he’ll take care of them. LAW: He’s stolen, broken into private property, murdered (though they deserved it), and stolen. He’s also set certain things on fire. COURT: Yes, and though he was innocent, he was declared guilty. PRISON: He’s been to prison before, but not for incredibly long periods of time. Mostly. TRAVELLING: He travels around the world, wandering and adventuring. MEDICAL: He doesn’t really go to the doctor, except for checkups and very serious diseases.

ILLNESS: He has anxiety, and suffers from depression at times, as well as Survivor’s Guilt. WORRIES: The mortality of the people around him. PEACE: He likes the quiet, but because of his mind wandering to the past, he prefers to play music. PARTYING: Prefers to stay in, unless it’s a get-together with only his closest friends.

HOBBIES: Training, meditating, gardening, baking, watching cooking shows, reading cook books, taking notes to remember the stories of his friends, and showing others how to fight.

#Sean's writing again #Sean's talking again #Nomad the Dauntless #this took a couple of hours #and was fun to do

2 notes · View notes

sparxwrites · 7 years

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i think u have a point abt kinks being only one step sideways from vanilla stuff, but what about the heavier/violent stuff? im trying to think of where it might come from and my only idea is maybe a dark fascination with what our imaginations are capable of. i remember being younger and fascinated with writing violent things just because i was surprised my imagination served. you're certainly more experienced with dark stuff than i am, though. what do you think?

tw for frank discussions of violence and sex, sometimes the intersection between the two, and a whole variety of sometimes very extreme kinks

Okay, that’s a tricky one. And not something that has a single answer, either – I’ve talked to a lot of people about what they see in darker fiction, and honestly every single person has had a slightly different perspective on it (one person, entertainingly enough, just shrugged and said they liked the aesthetic). But there do seem to be some common threads, and I’ll see if I can… if not provide answers, then at least provide food for thought and maybe lay out the groundwork for an interesting discussion.

(The rest is under a cut because, me being me, I got a little carried away, and this turned out to be something of an essay, and a compilation of thoughts I’ve had for a while now and conversations I’ve had with others. Whoops.)

The first thing is, I think, defining whether we’re talking about heavier/violent stuff in a consensual (either fictional or non-fictional) context – ie. heavy impact play, bloodplay, needleplay, consensual nonconsent, humiliation and degradation, what I’d call BDSM in a broad context – or a non-consensual, fictional context – ie. fiction involving rape, torture, severe bodily harm, gore, what I’d call whump and darkfic.

(I’m not talking about non-consensual non-fictional contexts, on the basis those are a) pretty much illegal, and b) even people I’ve talked to who enjoy really dark non-consensual fictional stuff are usually deeply upset or even disturbed by the thought of the same stuff in a non-fictional context. I can talk about the psychology of someone who wants their fave fictional character being beaten bloody, but wanting that to happen to an actual person is… a little beyond me. It’s not something I’ve talked to people about, and something I personally feel deeply uncomfortable thinking about outside the context of a consensual BDSM scene.)

Another thing is to define whether we’re talking about sexualised “stuff” or nonsexualised “stuff”. The consensual things are almost always sexualised, fictional or not (though very occasionally you might come across depictions BDSM that are entirely free of sex). Fictional depictions of non-consensual things are also sometimes sexualised – noncon fanfic (which is, by definition, sexualised, since noncon vs. rape was fandom-historically used to differentiate between sexualised and nonsexualised non-consent) is the most obvious example. Most fictional depictions of non-consensual violence, though, are things like torture, sickfic (not exactly violence, but it falls under the general “people in pain when they don’t want to be”), hurt/comfort, and whump, which generally aren’t explicitly sexualised.

We also need to work out whether people’s responses to these various categories are erotic or not. Are people actively getting off to them? Passively aroused by them, but not getting off? Are people reading them because they want to be aroused, or is that a (possibly irrelevant?) side effect? Are they getting something other than arousal from them?

With sexualised stuff, this is pretty easy – people pretty much always have erotic responses to sexualised stuff, that’s what it’s designed for. It’s written with the intent to arouse, that’s why it’s classed as “sexualised”.

But with non-sexualised stuff, such as whump, or hurt/comfort, or torture porn, it’s a lot more complicated. Some people have erotic responses, but a lot of people don’t, or only sometimes have erotic responses. Many seem to struggle to even answer any of the above questions – the difference between erotic responses, other powerful emotional or physical responses, can sometimes be blurry and difficult to define.

I and other people I’ve talked to about this, though, seem to get strong “stomach feelings” when reading good whump. They sound similar to arousal but are different somehow. Variously, I’ve had people talk about things like an emptiness just under their ribcage, a heaviness in their stomach, a lurch in their stomach, “like someone’s tucked a hook behind my stomach and pulled”, lightning through their abdomen, shortness of breath / panting, tightness, hollowness, an ache…

There’s definitely similarities to sexual feelings there, but people usually seem pretty insistent that it’s not exactly the same – even though it does feel good, and it’s a sensation they actively try to find more of by seeking out fiction that generates it – since they only get it from fictional depictions of violence or pain. Trying to find language for intense, pleasurable physical sensations that aren’t sexual is incredibly hard, but non-sexual or only partially sexual physical pleasure seems to be an integral to a lot of people’s enjoyment of fictional violence.

(Case in point: like you, I also remember being younger (we’re talking like… starting from about six or seven, here, really young) and daydreaming about either my favourite characters, or myself / thinly-veiled self-inserts, being hurt to help me get to sleep. Like, properly broken bones and blood and screaming kind of hurt. It took me until maybe a few years ago to realise these were not the kinds of things “normal” people daydreamed about for fun, so I certainly wasn’t doing it out of surprise at what my brain could come up with, and it definitely wasn’t a sexual thing. I just liked it. Lots of other people I’ve talked to have similar stories of enjoying fictional depictions of violence, and daydreaming or thinking about them for enjoyment, from a young age and well before they had any kind of sexual awakening.)

In some ways, I think the sexualised stuff is easier to analyse, since that’s mostly about sex (by the sheer merit of being a consensual scene or a sexualised non-consensual fantasy, it’s designed to be jerked off to). So, let’s have a look at some of the feelings and desires based around that kind of thing first.

The fact that people get off on power and control, or lack thereof, and vulnerability, is just sort of… a fact. And almost all fetishes eventually come down to that power versus no-power dynamic, even the really weird, “scary” ones – I’ve talked to people about hard vore and rape fantasies and execution kink, and they’ve all talked about how it’s about Dom/sub roles, about the submission of the “victim” to their fate, about the power held over them by the predator / attacker / executioner.

On the basis I have notes from the conversation I had about execution kink, let’s look at that one (I told you, I really like learning about this stuff). On the surface, getting off to fictional depictions of people being executed seems very, very heavy, but… the person I discussed this with talked about liking the aspects of the person being bound and handcuffed pre-execution (bondage), about being tried and sentenced and paraded around in front of a crowd and feeling scared and embarrassed (humiliation), about the ritualised aspect of it (rituals of various kinds are common in the BDSM community, from collaring ceremonies to body modification rituals). They talked about the historical pressure for the condemned to submit to their fate, “put on a good show”, pay their executioner (submission). They talked about necks and breathplay, and the condemned’s feet twitching (foot fetish), and the “death erections” people sometimes get (involuntary arousal) with regards to hanging, specifically.

So that’s, y’know, something really big and dark that I think a lot of people would kind of instinctively rear back from, that’s actually just a lot of smaller, very “reasonable” kinks being combined into one thing. If someone says, “Hey, I’m into necks, breathplay, bondage, humiliation, Dom/sub stuff, and feet,” you might think that’s a lot of kinks or be squicked by some of them, but you won’t necessarily think they had “dark” tastes. Turns out, that’s also all the basic components people who like fictional depictions of executions and hangings seem to enjoy. Weird, huh?

On a similar but slightly different note, some things I’ve heard from a lot of people who enjoy noncon or dubcon are that, a) contrary to the popular opinion of “people who like noncon are stealth rapists”, they tend to imagine themselves in the victim’s position rather than the attacker’s, and b) there’s a strong element of “I feel ashamed by / scared of / nervous about the prospect of sex, and having to admit I want sex, and the negotiation and intimacy and emotions that come with that – but also I want sex. Therefore, in fiction, the idea of having sex forced upon me, or being drugged/intoxicated or manipulated to the point I am not responsible for having sex, is powerfully appealing”.

Essentially, a large part of the appeal of rape fantasies seems to come from the prospect of being able to have sex whilst maintaining you definitely don’t want sex – which, in a culture that constantly talks about sex and encourages sex and pushes images of sex, whilst also telling people (specifically women and afab people, and some other marginalised groups such as disabled individuals) that they shouldn’t have or even want sex, makes sense. In a rape fantasy, you can have as much sex as you like, and it’s not your fault (and therefore you’re not an awful, sex-hungry monster), because you didn’t ask for or consent to it.

Obviously, people don’t actually want to be raped and would be deeply upset if their fantasies actually happened irl, but in the privacy of their own heads it’s a useful “tool” of sorts to circumvent feelings of shame attached to sex. Also, hey! Conveniently plays into the whole submission thing a lot of people have, often conveniently plays into stuff like breathplay, bondage, bruises and slapping, humiliation, maybe age difference or size difference or group sex… Again, big scary fantasy, really not particularly scary once you break it down into lil bite-sized chunks.

(Not all people have rape fantasies for this reason, though it’s a very common one. For some people, the “actually wanting it, deep down” thing is actually a turn-off, given they’re attracted to the vulnerability and control aspects of it. For some people, they enjoy “actually wanting it” in depictions of sexualised assault, where there’s an element of ravishment to it, but dislike it in non-sexualised depictions of assault, where the appeal is the character’s vulnerability, or the control the rapist has over them, or the negative emotions and physical pain involved with it. Fantasies are complicated, and even people with very, very similar fantasies may be getting completely different things out of them.)

There’s also the taboo aspect of these kinks and other things like them, which is a powerful draw. Humans like breaking rules (or at least, breaking rules in the privacy of their own heads) for some reason – it gives them a bit of a rush, makes them feel good. Humans also just seem to fundamentally really like power dynamics, and as a result they’ve found a lot of really interesting ways to tie it into sex (with various additions for flavour).

(You’ll notice how I say “in fiction” or “in their own heads” or “in fantasies” – because, surprise surprise, a lot of people with darker sexual fantasies don’t want those things to ever happen. Fantasies are often not remotely an indication of what you actually want, irl, sexually. You can have a reoccurring, incredibly powerful fantasy that gets you off like a rocket every goddamn time, and also be kind of sick thinking about it happening irl. That’s perfectly normal, and perfectly fine – and, in the case of things like rape and executions, probably pretty good, because it indicates you’ve got a working conscience.)

With outright kinky stuff, too, I think there’s a habituation aspect to it – you can be kind of trained to find something erotic by having it presented alongside more conventionally erotic stimuli often enough, or even just coming across something that presents it as strongly erotic. A lot of people tell me they didn’t realise they had a certain kink until they read something I wrote with it, and I really suspect that’s because I kind of… think about the building blocks of what makes a particular fetish appealing, and emphasise them in a way that appeals to even people without the fetish. You can definitely coax other people into liking something with a “convincing” enough “argument”, or train yourself into liking something by associating it with pleasure. This, I think, though, is probably less common for violent and dark things than it is for stuff like, say… foot fetishes or leather kink, more every-day objects of fixation that it’s easier to accidentally associate with pleasure.

For less sexualised violent and dark fiction, such as whump and hurt/comfort, though, understanding why people like it becomes a little more difficult and murky. It’s not directly about sex, and people don’t seem to view it as inherently sexual or have inherently sexual responses to it, but do seem to get some kind of pleasure from it. Sometimes that pleasure is sexual, sometimes it’s not, mostly it seems to be a very confusing mix of the two. I suspect that mix has a lot to do with people who like whump also liking analogous, explicitly kinky and sexual things, and sort of… not signals getting crossed, exactly, but something similar.

It doesn’t help that a lot of the language of sex is also the language of pain – squirm, gasp, groan, moan, writhe, shudder, clench, too much, please, god, fuck, kicking feet and sweat and wide eyes and dilated pupils and hearts thumping in chests. Unsurprisingly, a lot of the language of pain is also the language of submission – begging and cowering, vulnerability, reliance on others, bending to another’s will, weak and small and shaking. Even when torture or pain isn’t deliberately being written as erotic, the language of sex and power (and a variety of other fetishes besides) is still there, and both brains and bodies will still respond to that.

Oddly enough, if they’re written similarly, your arousal probably doesn’t care much whether that fictional character being choked consented to it or not, or whether it was supposed to be sexual or not – their eyelids are still fluttering, their breath is still coming in short pants and hitching wheezes, they can still see the darkness creeping in at the edges of their vision and hear the blood rushing in their own ears, and they’re still going to have a collar of bruises blooming dark around their neck come tomorrow morning. The only difference between a Dominant and their submissive, and a torturer and their victim, is consent, and in fictional fantasies that can be a very blurry line when it comes to people’s weird, unreliable sex brains that just want that sweet, sweet power differential.

(As a side note, it’d be interesting to see what the correlation between “likes whump” and “likes various whump-like aspects of BDSM” is, and also what roles people tend to imagine themselves in when they read whumpfic versus how dominant or submissive they consider themselves. The general consensus by people who object to violent fic seems to be that everyone who enjoys it sees themselves in the aggressor’s position, because they’re “secretly abusers”, but… my personal experience is that people usually seem to imagine themselves in either the position of the whumpee, or the caregiver (the person getting hurt, or the person looking after the hurt person, respectively, for those not familiar with the terms).

A lot of very violent and dark stuff tends to be vicariously enjoyed from the perspective of the “submissive” party, it seems. And when someone vicariously enjoys it from the perspective the dominant party, even people used to existing in these darker spaces tend to get worried. I’ve had friends who’ve bumped into stuff like this outside of fandom spaces mention how they feel deeply unsafe around the people there (usually men) who enjoy taking on the role as the aggressor and also seem very into the idea of this stuff actually happening. So, even in dark kinky spaces, there’s a distinction between “safe” and “unsafe” people who are into stuff, based around perceived willingness to enact non-consensual violence irl.)

I think, though, the most powerful non-sexual motivators for liking non-sexualised violence in fiction are emotional venting and catharsis. Darkfic allows us to explore a range of very powerful emotions – sadism, cruelty, twisted pleasure, and anger on the behalf of the person doing the hurting, and pain, misery, fear, horror, desperation, and grief on behalf of the person being hurt – in a safe, controlled environment where we can say stop at any point. In real life, these emotions are powerful, and scary, and can be overwhelming, and in a way confronting them in fiction can be a good way of practicing for feeling them irl.

However, in the same way intense physical sensation can be good regardless of whether it’s pleasurable or not, intense emotions can be good regardless of whether they’re positive or not.

Sometimes, especially for people who are hurting, it can almost be better if they’re not good. If you’re hurting emotionally, sometimes it’s easy to translate that into physical pain in fiction, to match the way you feel like you’re screaming inside to the way some fictional character actually is screaming. If you’re angry, sometimes it feels good and cleansing to write about a fictional character getting torn to fucking shreds, in much the same way it feels good to punch a pillow and scream until your throat’s raw. There’s a lovely post about finding fiction that “matches the shredder noise in your head”, and although I disagree a little with the implication that only unhappy people like whump, and that you inevitably grow out of it as you leave your teen years behind, I really like the shredder metaphor.

Best of all, fiction comes with catharsis, usually. Not so much darkfic or torture porn, but whump and hurt/comfort usually have a caregiver character, who spends the whole story worrying over the character getting hurt, and / or spends a portion of the story nursing the character back to health. Either way, they provide a way for the reader to vicariously live through being cared about and fussed over and have people demonstrating their love for the whumpee through being deeply distressed over their pain and desperate to ease it, to help them.

(If you think about it, this is, perhaps, very similar to the way a Dom provides their sub with love and catharsis and care during aftercare after intense scenes – which may have included powerful emotions such as shame from things like humiliation and dehumanisation, or physical pain from things like flogging or spanking… Isn’t it funny how people play out the same patterns over and over? Once you’re looking for them, they’re surprisingly easy to spot. Breaking people down, building them back up again… violence and vulnerability, and control.)

For anyone (and, again, especially for people who are hurting emotionally already in some way) this whole process can be very powerful, and very soothing. The character is hurt, broken down – and there’s this lovely, intense emotional release on the reader’s behalf where they get to experience all these big, scary, good emotions, maybe have a bit of a cry, maybe feel a bit sick, maybe get a little aroused. They can wallow in the state the character’s been brought down to, where they’re so tired and broken and damaged that there’s nowhere lower to go, that they can just be – which, oddly enough, can be very soothing in a way.

And then a caregiver turns up, and demonstrates their love and affection and deep desire to help the character that the reader has been putting themselves in the position of – and the reader gets to experience that love and care and acknowledgement of the pain they’ve just been through, second-hand.

Some people need this final catharsis a lot, and go for hurt/comfort, where the balance of hurt to comfort is usually 50:50, or tipped even further in favour of comfort, and the hurt is generally fairly mild (broken leg, small accident, minor injuries). Some people need more intense hurt, and less comfort, where the balance is maybe 75:25, or tipped even further in favour of hurt (possibly even no explicit comfort, just the promise that it’s going to happen after the story), and the injuries might be graphic, or there might be torture. And then there’s darkfic, and tortureporn, that’s just entirely hurt, and usually involves gore / guro / body horror, people enduring unsurvivable injuries, and possibly the character dying at the end. So the vulnerability-catharsis cycle isn’t the same for everyone! And, in fact, doesn’t even need to be a cycle for some people.

(I, personally, tend to sit cheerfully on the line between whump and tortureporn, for those curious. Love me some torture, but I generally want at least the promise of a positive-ish ending, if not a little outright worrying and comforting from a caregiver character. Suffering is most interesting when there’s someone who cares there to witness it and worry over, for me – it legitimises the pain of it, somehow, I think.)

Incidentally, mentioning “broken down”: characters can be really interesting to read about and write in extreme mindsets, whether that’s someone broken down to almost nothing, someone furiously determined not to give into the pain and stay strong, someone who’s abusive and whose thought processes are badly warped as a result, someone who’s so sadistic they’re barely even human any more… extremes of human existence, of human experience, of human thought processes and mindset, seem to just be a Thing that people find interesting. (They’re a thing people are interested in experiencing, but in a controlled environment where no one’s actually getting hurt.) So I’m sure that’s also got something to do with it – that humans are kinda voyeuristic and nosey when it comes to Horrible Things and Mangled Corpses and Huge Tragedies, even irl, and that naturally bleeds over into fiction.

Another important aspect is that both irl and fiction are full of examples of violence and hurt towards minority groups – women, poc, and lgbtq+ and mentally ill people, to mention just a few, since they’re the groups fandom is largely comprised of. But there’s very few depictions of (specifically cishet and white, but not exclusively) men experiencing violence, or being hurt. When men in fiction do get hurt, they largely bounce back from it, action-hero style. You get this sort of “impervious, invulnerable man” character, who never seems to experience any true sort of pain or suffering – and who also looks a lot like the people who enact violence on minorities in real life.

There is, then, something appealing about a) seeing the untouchable become touchable, the unhurtable become hurt, the invulnerable made vulnerable, b) seeing someone who is usually the one enacting trauma being the one that’s experiencing the trauma, and suffering for it, “seeing how it feels”, c) seeing someone who usually shrugs off any kind of trauma or pain having to actually deal with that pain, and become vulnerable and more real as a result, sort of humanising thing, and d) being able to project the violence and trauma minorities experience or live in fear of on a daily basis onto a “blank slate” character.

In a culture that treats male (again, especially white, cishet male) as the default, hurting fictional male characters can be a way for minorities to examine, explore, and discuss their fears and feelings surrounding the violence they’re constantly hyperaware of, but one step removed from themselves. You can hurt a white, cisgender man and be able to realistically talk about violence, and the short- and long-term consequences of that violence, without having to think about stuff like racism, transphobia, and misogyny, which may be a little too close for comfort. Even given fandom’s tendency to make characters gay or bi, a fairly small proportion of whump and darkfic is focused on attacks to do with or even tangentially related to a character’s sexual orientation. People want the violence and the aftermath, but they don’t necessarily want the messy, real societal issues that so often come along with that.

There’s a lot of discussion about women using slashfic to examine their thoughts and feelings about sex and romance without having to confront various, female-specific or gendered issues around them. I get the feeling – especially given most whump targets are male, and many people are utterly disinterested in or actively upset by female whump – that whump is, similarly, a “safe” way for women and other minorities to explore their thoughts and feelings about the violence they are immersed in. They can even create imagined minorities which which to explore realistic violence against minorities but again without the personal context. This is most obvious with A/B/O and BDSM aus (omegas, who are stereotyped in-universe as weak and prey-like and needing an alpha to “protect them”, and subs, who are stereotyped in-universe as much the same), but even in aus more removed from being obvious social critiques people tend to create some kind of group perceived in-universe as weak and easily victimised with which to explore these issues.

And, even when the whump targets are members of real-life minorities, such women, or poc, or lgbtq+, there’s still that element of author or reader control. They can control whether the whumpee is getting hurt because of their minority status, which minority status they’re being hurt because of, whether the violence they experience lines up to common irl expressions of violence against that minority, how far the violence goes, whether the fictional community around the whumpee reacts realistically or overwhelmingly sympathetically…

Finally, and relatedly to the above point, there’s also the eternally-trotted-out “coping mechanism” line, which… has been pretty badly weaponised, unfortunately, by people who don’t really seem to care about the people using darker fiction as a coping mechanism and mostly seem to care about policing people’s fiction consumption. But it’s definitely a thing, and some people enjoy darker fiction because it gives them a way to relive past abuse or mistreatment in a safe environment (they can close the tab, hit the back button, if it gets too intense). Allows them to put themselves in a position of power again (reading noncon and imagining themselves as the rapist, or reading noncon and knowing they can stop reading at any time, or reading a consensual nonconsent scene where the sub actually has the power because they can say stop at any time). Gives them a sense of reassurance and catharsis through the caregiving aspect of it (their fave characters went through what they did, these characters still have people who love them even after the abuse, these characters were told it wasn’t their fault and they’re strong and perfect and deserve to be supported and their abusers are bad people). Gives them a chance to fictionally confront their abuser (the fictional abuser gets put in jail, or killed, or gets the shit kicked out of them / gets verbally condemned by the survivor’s friends, or the survivor finds the strength to confront them about what they did).

And oh, hey, look, we’re back to power, and controllable vulnerability, and catharsis. Surprise!

So… that’s it, really. In the end, it largely comes down to power and control, and catharsis, and vulnerability. People use darkfic because it’s a safe way of feeling intense emotions and then getting love and catharsis afterwards, or of venting negative feelings and desires they’re already feeling without hurting anyone or needing to feel guilty after, and because humans have been getting off on power dynamics and taboos since probably forever. People have kinks for… pretty much the same reasons, but with sexualisation and erotic responses. Pretty much every big, scary kink can be broken down into lots of little non-scary kinks. Fantasies aren’t inherently bad, and it’s pretty normal and not inherently harmful to have fantasies about things that would be Deeply Bad irl. Humans are fucking Weird, and I love them for it.

Did I really need over 5k to say that? Maybe, maybe not, but it’s been fun putting thought into this whilst avoiding doing my coursework, and hopefully it’ll be useful to some people (and maybe to me, next time I need to argue against purity politics).

If you’re interested in talking / thinking more about this: my ask box is always open. I’m always curious to hear people talk about their own experiences with trying to understand their weirder or darker kinks, or happy to answer questions about why I or other people like things, or to just be as much of a safe space as I can manage for these kinds of things. If you’re interested in more introspection about non-sexualised violence and why people have intense, enjoyable (but largely non-erotic) responses to it, go into the “whump” tag and poke around a bit on the blogs that post in there – most whump blogs talk about why they like whump a fair bit, and there’s a huge amount of variation. The “purity politics” tag on my personal blog has a lot of me being annoyed at people trying to police fiction, but it also has a lot of really good, introspective thoughts on why people like, want, and need darker themes in fiction. Finally, the book “In The Flesh: The Cultural Politics of Body Modification” by Victoria Pitts also touches a bit on similar real-life things, where body modification overlaps with kink and fetish and BDSM things and people’s enjoyment of pain and injury as both a personal thing and public spectacle. (She’s got some fun thoughts on identity that I really liked, too, though that’s for a different discussion.)

Otherwise… Whilst I think it’s good to think critically about what you’re into and how and why, and do the same about what other people are into, I don’t think it’s necessarily great to criticise yourself for what you’re into. (Caveat: this is not me approving of people committing illegal acts irl, just… acknowledging that people usually worry a lot about having “bad” fantasies, when really fantasies rarely hurt anyone, don’t necessarily indicate a desire for something to happen irl, and are rarely as bad / weird / unusual as the person having them thinks.) Think about stuff, but try not to stress, and try to enjoy working out the shape of your brain and what you like. You might be surprised what you find out about yourself in the process.

#anonymous #ask #whump #meta #darkfic #sparx chats #idk what to tag this with really???#it's just like. 5k of me talking about why human brains are weird and sometimes really like violence #even if your human brain is Definitely Not Weird and you Definitely Don't Like Violence i'd suggest reading it tho #i would hope it's interesting #and i think it's got a bunch of important things in it given the current fandom climate #essays

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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This week, critic at large Todd VanDerWerff (who hasn’t read any of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels) and culture writer Constance Grady (who has read the first one) got together to discuss the first two episodes of HBO’s adaptation of the first book in that series — My Brilliant Friend. Beware! Spoilers follow!

Todd VanDerWerff: As someone who’s never read the Elena Ferrante Neapolitan quartet that inspires the new series My Brilliant Friend, what most surprised me about the series’ first two episodes was how borderline pulpy they were.

Don’t get me wrong. This is still a show that puts its best “coming of age story” foot forward. It is, above all else, the story of Elena and Lila growing up as poor girls in an out-of-the-way Naples neighborhood. But mixed in there are darker, pulpier elements, like murder and horrifying cellars with strange shadowy figures in the corner and hints of organized crime. I’m starting to see why these books were such a phenomenon — they both capture certain truths about female friendship that aren’t always well portrayed in culture and they wed those truths to storytelling elements that carry an air of popcorn fiction.

I mean, I assume! Again, I haven’t read the novels. And every single one of the pulpy elements I’ve listed above turns out to have a completely logical explanation that mutes it somewhat. That shadowy figure in the basement? Just the local pawnbroker! Though as you learn about said pawnbroker, you start to realize that he, too, is a story in and of himself.

That sort of realization is what the first two episodes of My Brilliant Friend evoke so well, I think. When you’re a certain kind of literary-minded kid, everything that happens to you feels like the start of some fantastical story or voyage. Elena and Lila are that kind of kid: intelligent, but also too young to fully understand every aspect of the world around them. So they fill in the gaps with stories. What they don’t yet realize is the most important story they’re involved in is the one centered on their friendship.

Constance, you’ve read the book that My Brilliant Friend’s first season is based on. One thing that some critics who’ve read Ferrante’s novels have said about the show is that it can occasionally feel like a perfunctory adaptation — taking bits that sang on the page and literalizing them onscreen in a way that works for those who don’t read much, but falling just a little flat if you know what’s coming. How do you feel about the series’ adaptation choices? And can we talk about how remarkable its child casting is?

Run, Lila, Run: A film by Tom Tykwer HBO

Constance: I am ready to talk about those child actors all day. You get such a strong sense of their personalities from the way they’re shot, and the continuity between the child actors and their teen counterparts is honestly astonishing.

In terms of the adaptation: I think that the pulpiness you pointed to is actually one of the biggest changes we see from page to screen. On the page, Elena describes the murder and violence and horror around her so matter-of-factly that it doesn’t quite register as violence.

We know that Elena is afraid of Don Achille, for instance, and that she thinks of him as a monster — but she writes about that fear as though he’s just a creepy old neighborhood man who the local children have made up some stories about. When I was reading the book, it wasn’t until Elena was well into her teens that I finally put together that oh, okay, Don Achille is a local crime boss who got rich off the black market during World War II. He runs the neighborhood like it’s his private fiefdom, and he is ultimately killed by another local crime family who want to get rid of the competition. In the book, Elena just doesn’t think of her neighborhood in such terms, so I didn’t either.

But the TV show makes it clear who Don Achille is almost immediately. There’s a kind of doubled vision here: We see Don Achille as Elena and Lila see him, as a fairy tale ogre who goes around stealing dolls and putting them in a black bag — but we also see him as he is in “reality,” as a petty crime boss.

The TV show also makes the rest of the violence around Elena and Lila a lot more vivid and concrete. There’s a scene in the second episode in which Lila’s father throws her out a window in a fit of rage. Onscreen, it’s horrifying: You hear voices shouting and crescendoing, and then you see Lila’s tiny child’s body crashing through the window to thud painfully on the ground, shards of glass everywhere. It feels like a monstrous act of violence.

But on the page, the violence of that scene is muted. You have to dig for it. It’s almost comic: “Suddenly the shouting stopped and a few seconds later my friend flew out the window, passed over my head, and landed on the asphalt behind me.” Listen to how peaceful those verbs are! Lila is flying, passing, landing; you don’t get a strong sense of brutality from this language. The horror here is subdued, below the surface, and it only dawns on you gradually how terrible and violent the thing you just read was.

As a result, the TV show feels a lot bleaker and more harrowing than the book does in its beginning. Elena and Lila still have their sense of childish wonder and delight at the world, but now overlaying it we can always see the reality of how terrible their world is, and how difficult it will be for them ever to escape. In the book, you have to work for that realization. The shift in emotional register isn’t necessarily bad, but it is noticeably different.

Todd: That’s really interesting to me! As more and more acclaimed novels are adapted into TV shows instead of movies, and as those TV shows tend to streeeeeeetch everything ooooouuuut, I’ve been thinking a lot more about how onscreen depictions have a tendency to make everything blunter than it would be on the page.

To be sure, that’s not always the case. No Country for Old Men is magnificently blunt both on the page and on the big screen. But your highlighting of Ferrante’s verb choices makes clear that a mini-arc within the book must be Elena’s slow realization of how the world around her actually works, as she loses her childhood innocence and observes more nuance as she gets older. (Obviously, this is something all of us experience.) That’s difficult to portray onscreen, where a small girl flying through a window is hard to depict as anything other than brutal and horrifying, unless you’re deliberately going for comedy.

That also speaks to another adaptation problem I think My Brilliant Friend gets around beautifully — namely, even though Elena is the point-of-view character and one of the two leads of the story, she doesn’t really do much throughout the first two episodes, which makes Lila feel like the more dynamic and engaging character.

I sometimes think of this as the Harry Potter problem. In the first few books of that series, Harry is the point-of-view character, which means that we’re getting a fairly vivid portrayal of the wizarding world through his eyes. But onscreen, the point-of-view character is almost always going to default to the camera. A skillful director can change the audience’s relationship to point-of-view (as Alfonso Cuarón did in the third Harry Potter film and Chris Columbus… pointedly did not in the first two), but they’re always working against the way the audience on some level just wants the camera to be an impartial, unseen observer. So how does My Brilliant Friend avoid this issue?

Well, director Saverio Costanzo (as well as writers Ferrante, Costanzo, Francesco Piccolo, and Laura Paolucci) is always cognizant of how we understand the world through Elena’s point-of-view. When she first becomes aware of Lila in class at their school, Costanzo films the revelation in close on actress Elisa del Genio’s face as it cycles through frustration, irritation, and intrigue. Who is this person? Who does she think she is? And more importantly, when we see Lila, it’s from the perspective Elena would see the girl from — seated at a desk.

Costanzo returns to these filmmaking tricks throughout, at moments of emotional importance, so that we are firmly with Elena. Even when we see things that Elena couldn’t possibly have seen — like the murder of Don Achille — they’re presented almost abstractly, as a small child might imagine them. (The murder is revealed via a knife popping in from offscreen to sink into a neck that gouts blood. Not only does it obscure the identity of the murderer, but it also underlines the way a little kid wouldn’t quite understand how all of this works.)

Adult Elena is telling us this story via narration, which also shoulders some of the point-of-view burden, because we’re always reminded that these are her memories. Elena’s narration also subtly frames the story as something of a mystery about who Lila is. (It would seem something bad happened to Adult Lila in the present.)

When Kid Lila takes those dolls and pitches them down the chute into the cellar, it’s presented as impetuous and rude, but also as something almost impossible to understand. The moment underlines one of My Brilliant Friend’s themes, and one of the reasons point-of-view is so important to its success: No matter how well you know someone, they’ll always be a mystery to you on some level.

This theme also extends to how the little plaza where the girls live is presented almost as an entire fantasy kingdom when they’re kids, full of odd nooks and crannies and adventures just waiting to be uncovered. How do you feel about the “world-building” of the show, for lack of a better word? And do its places match up to the ones in your mind’s eye from the book?

Elena and Lila enjoy reading Little Women, another realistic fiction novel that employs wonderful world-building as it follows girls from childhood to adulthood. HBO

Constance: The world-building is another great example of how My Brilliant Friend has to reconcile the reality of the larger world with Elena’s childish understanding of it. In the book, the neighborhood doesn’t really register as filthy and squalid until Elena has a chance to get out of it and catch a glimpse of the rest of Naples; she’s just living her life in the only place she knows. And we see that onscreen, we see what it is about this neighborhood that would be fun for a kid to play in. But we also see that it’s cramped and impoverished and the light is always gray — and in a way, that raises the stakes. We want these girls to go to school so that they can leave this place, before it seems to have fully occurred to them that they might like to.

One of my favorite things about the friendship between Elena and Lila is just how much of it revolves around their shared desire to escape. Elena first decides to befriend Lila specifically because she can see that Lila is smart enough to get out, and if Elena follows her, she’ll be able to leave as well. She won’t live the life her parents lead, and, as she puts it, her mother’s limp will stop chasing her. (What an image that is!) And Lila, in her turn, seems to be drawn to Elena both because she can see that Elena is the only one in the neighborhood who is almost as smart as Lila is, and because Elena has an ability to please the people in charge who can be useful to Lila.

Their teacher, meanwhile, deliberately sets them against each other as friendly rivals, because she can see that they motivate one another to do better — and when it becomes clear to her that Lila is a lost cause, that her parents will not allow her to go to middle school, she drops Lila, and encourages Elena to do the same.

So much of this friendship is built around utility, around the idea that this person, this one, can be an escape route, a way out of the neighborhood. But what’s fascinating is that even as it becomes clear that even if both Elena and Lila are getting out, they’ll be taking very different paths, the friendship never quite curdles. There are moments of profound resentment — that scene where it becomes clear that Lila orchestrated Elena’s punishment for going to the ocean in the hopes that her parents would be too angry to send her to school is just heart-stopping — but there is never any question of the friendship breaking apart.

They mean too much to each other for that to happen. Each one is the other’s “brilliant friend,” and so their bond keeps evolving and mutating but stays forever intact.

Todd: In my review of the season overall, I described Lila as the “brilliant friend” of the title and was met with a degree of pushback from readers who feel that each of the girls is the other’s “brilliant friend.” And, yes, that is obviously where the series is heading (though it feels to me like it will take several seasons for Elena to get over her Lila-themed inferiority complex), but it also strikes me as something very true about friendships between kids and teens.

We’re so often drawn to people who mirror the things we value most in ourselves, and we’re so often drawn to people who — to us, at least — seem to do those things just a little bit better, to the degree that we can make it to adulthood and still be racing against our childhood best friend just a little bit. I mean, I’m sure there are some people who don’t have this complex, but Lord knows I do, and lots of the people I know and love do as well.

Every brilliant friend, on some level, is also a brilliant rival. Elena and Lila seem to have a pretty good balance right now, but I wonder how that will change as the two are separated by their parents’ decisions, by aging, and by time. They can make each other better, but they can also make each other worse. That dynamic is bound to pay dividends the deeper we get into the show.

My Brilliant Friend airs Sundays and Mondays at 9 pm Eastern on HBO. Previous episodes are available on the network’s streaming platforms.

Original Source -> How HBO’s My Brilliant Friend translates Elena Ferrante’s beloved book to TV

via The Conservative Brief

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