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theia-eos · 2 months

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Elincia Was Not Too Hesitant to Act

I love the Tellius games. I think the writing for the Fire Emblem series as a whole peaked in the Tellius duology. There's a lot of nuance and tiny details and characterizations and depth and layers to every character. However, this does not mean that the games are perfect or beyond criticism.

And one such criticism I have is the message they try to sell in Radiant Dawn Part 2. I am not buying it. Spoilers below the cut.

In Part 2 of Radiant Dawn, we see how being ruler of Crimea is working out for our fair Queen Elincia. The last time we saw her in Path of Radiance, she was filled with self-doubt and worried about her ability to rule as she was never raised to rule and kept secret from the public, so her coronation as queen of Crimea is a big step for her.

Ike stayed on as a member of the royal court for a while, but dips out 6 months prior to the events of Part 2 because he's only causing her more grief than he is providing support now and he goes back to the simple mercenary life he loves.

Bastian has also left her side, citing sightings of the Black Knight returning in Daein and wanting to get a good understanding of Ashnard's "son," the new King Pelleas. He is lying to her, which I'll go into later. So it's only Elincia and the children she was raised alongside, her knights Geoffrey and Lucia, in the courts.

And the nobles do not respect Elincia at all. They disparage her at every chance they get, they blame her for Bastian wanting to go scope out Daein because she lets him go because he tells her, as her advisor, that it's the best idea. They chastise Lucia and Geoffrey for trying to defend her. Generally, you get the idea why Ike had to leave, he probably kept calling them out until he was blue in the face and then some.

Leanne comes looking for Ike, and he's disappeared into the wind, and then Elincia gets word from Nephenne, Brom and Heather from Ohma that one of the nobles, Duke Ludveck, is attempting a coup based on what the recruiter said. Elincia sends Lucia to Ludveck's territory, under the guise of showing Leanne around Crimea's best orchard region, to gather some more information. Lucia finds proof that Ludveck is trying to start a civil war/insurrection, and brings that back to Elincia, who then sends Geoffrey and the Crimean Royal Knights to arrest Ludveck. Elincia privately despairs to Leanne that she never wanted to be queen, she never wanted to deal with these problems, the burden of having to act against her own people is too much for her to bear.

There's some political espionage, Ludveck had a decoy force at his castle and attacks Elincia in her safehouse in Fort Alpea, and Elincia bests Ludveck, captures him, and then says he needs to be executed for treason. Ludveck says she should make him king instead, as she's too indecisive and feeble to be queen, she took too long to stop him plotting under her and that's weakened her authority in Crimea, and to force her hand, he says that he captured Lucia. His forces will execute Lucia unless she releases him and promises to pass her crown to him. Elincia refuses, Lucia is about to be killed but Ike and the Greil Mercenaries swoop in to save the day to save Lucia. Elincia resolves to be more decisive in the future.

So what is my problem with this plot? Well, let's review the chapter count of Part 2, it's very short.

Prologue - Elincia finds Begnion wyvern riders attempting to capture Leanne and intervenes immediately

Chapter 1 - Nephenne, Brom, and new recruit Heather fight their way out of Ohma to warn Elincia directly

Chapter 2 - Elincia sends Lucia to find solid evidence that Ludveck is a traitor

Chapter 3 - Lucia comes back with proof and Elincia sends Geoffrey to arrest Ludveck

Final Chapter - Elincia fights Ludveck

Please tell me where Elincia was indecisive, failed to take action, dwadled, or let the insurrection just grow. As soon as she finds out that it's happening she goes to get evidence, and then as soon as she has the evidence, she orders for Ludveck to be arrested. She immediately refuses to hand Ludveck the throne.

Ludveck: So I take it you understand everything now? And considering Lady Lucia’s life is on the line, you haven’t much choice. Now, let’s have you free me from this prison cell, and then we can discuss any further details… Elincia: I don’t think so. Radiant Dawn, Chapter 2-F, Elincia's Gambit Extended Script Translation from Serenes Forest

No hesitation. None. Even in the prologue where she fights and kills Begnion forces intruding on her home, trying to enslave Leanne, no hesitation.

Elincia: Begnion dracoknights… You will only be warned once. Leave this area immediately! I serve the queen of Crimea. Trespassers on Crimean territory will be dealt with. No exceptions. Zeffren: The queen, she says! The very queen that relied on us, the Begnion Empire, to free her nation. Imperial dracoknights are not frightened by soldiers so weak as Crimean pegasus knights. Listen up! Leave those two alone. It’s the Serenes maiden we want. Do not allow her to escape! Elincia: …Looks like we’ll not talk any sense into them. I suppose we have no choice. Sir Nealuchi! We’re here to help you! [Elincia attacks Zeffren] Zeffren: You… You Crimeans seriously believe you can withstand the might of Begnion?! Elincia: Crimea takes this sort of encroachment seriously. We will not overlook invaders in our domain. Release your weapons, and apologize for your discourtesy… Only then will we lower our own. Zeffren: You have quite a mouth on you… I won’t be addressed in that tone by anyone. It’s time to end this farce. Radiant Dawn, Chatper 2-P, On Drifting Clouds

Like yes, she offers diplomacy and a chance for them to stand down, but the story and Ludveck would have you believe that she's so crippled by hesitation that she wouldn't take action. Ludveck says "you were too hesitant and too concerned about harming the people" in stopping the civil war decisively to be a strong ruler.

What the hell else was she supposed to do? Elincia never caught wind of the rebellion until the beginning of Chapter 2, and then what was she supposed to do? Take the word of three villagers that there was some random unknown man they didn't even bring in with them recruiting for a rebellion for Duke Ludveck? Like I love Nephenne, Brom, and Heather as much as anyone else, but if she had just arrested and executed Ludveck based on that information she'd be a tyrant, the other nobles would never trust her and could possibly turn against her too. Getting proof was not a sign of hesitation. Sure, she says she'd like to attempt diplomacy first instead of immediately resorting to the sword, but as soon as she says that, a soldier runs in and says Ludveck is preparing to attack and Elincia realizes the time for negotiation is over and authorizes an immediate attack.

Lucia: As we suspected, Lord Ludveck is intent on rebellion. His followers are spread across the land, inciting insurrection. We have the documents to prove it. Geoffrey: Queen Elincia, I stand ready to defend the realm! I will lead the Royal Knights into Felirae, and we will seize the duke! Elincia: I am hesitant to resort to the sword without at least attempting diplomacy. At all costs, I must stop the people of Crimea from fighting one another. [A Crimean soldier rushes in] Crimean Soldier: Your Majesty! News from the countryside! Duke Ludveck has assembled an army and announced his intentions against you! The rebellion in Felirae is growing quickly! Elincia: I see… Lucia: He must have realized that his operations were no longer a secret. Your Majesty, we have no time to waste. We must stand against this, for the future of Crimea! Elincia: …I understand. Geoffrey, leader of the Royal Knights… I hereby authorize the use of military force against the rebel army! Geoffrey: Yes, Your Majesty. At once! Radiant Dawn, Chapter 2-2, Tides of Intrigue

Does a few seconds warrant Ludveck's criticisms? Is that a failure of Elincia, for taking a moment to say she wants to try diplomacy first?

Ludveck: Exactly, Your Majesty. If you truly had the power to quell the civil war… As long as I could affirm that, even if I were executed as a traitor, I would have no regrets. But, no, you were too hesitant and too concerned about harming the people… Now look what has happened. Radiant Dawn, Chapter 2-F, Elincia's Gambit Extended Script Translation from Serenes Forest

No, the real reason it took Elincia so long to act is because Bastian, Lucia and Geoffrey failed in their roles for her. All three of them had known that this was underway for a while.

Elincia: I see… So, that’s what’s going on. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I’m very sorry your village was affected by this. You have my sincere apologies. Brom: Oh, no, Your Majesty. We don’t need no apology. We’re just happy we could help. Geoffrey: Lucia… Brom’s story confirms what we’ve suspected all along. Lucia: Yes, as we thought. Duke Ludveck of Felirae is firing up a rebellion. We should have seen it coming. To be honest, Queen Elincia, there have been a number of indications that something like this was under way. We’d hoped to uncover something more tangible than hushed rumors… I should have told you sooner. Radiant Dawn, Chapter 2-2, Tides of Intrigue

They've suspected it. They've known it. They're not surprised when the Ohma villagers tell Elincia about it, which is the first time she ever hears of this going on. Lucia apologizes for keeping it from Elincia because she was waiting for more proof. If Elincia had known about this sooner, she could have acted sooner. She would have acted sooner, by how she immediately sends Lucia to gather evidence.

But worst of all is Bastian. Bastian not only knows that this is happening, he is so certain his absence would set things into motion that he hires Ike and the Greil Mercenaries to step in and assist at the last minute if things go as he expected. Does he warn Elincia of what might happen while he was gone? No. Not only that, but Bastian isn't even going to Daein to see if the new king is going to be friendly to them. He's going to Daein to get Izuka to force Izuka to cure Renning, even though Bastian has known all along for years that the herons could have cured Renning. Why does he go this route?

[エリンシア] ユリシーズ、あなたはいままでどこにいたのです？▼ 突然、連絡を絶ってしまって… とても心配していたのですよ。▼ [ユリシーズ] デインにて…… 長く探っていた”鍵”にめぐり合いまして。▼ それ故、表より姿を消し、策謀を巡らしておりました。全てはクリミアの未来のために……▼ Radiant Dawn, Chapter 4-5, Unforgivable Sin Extended Script

In the Extended Scripts (JP Only script locked to Hard/Manic Modes), Bastian explains that he is looking for a "key" to Crimea's future in Daein while working in secret, which is later revealed to be that he wants Izuka, former advisor of King Pelleas of Daein, cure Renning. This despite the fact that he could go to the herons the entire time, and eventually winds up going to the herons in the end anyway. While never talking to Elincia about any of this. The only justification for this is that Bastian is in love with Renning and Bastian is worried that Renning will die if he is cured through heron galdr, as Rajaion did, and Bastian's emotions get in the way of his reason. The best and most charitable explanation I can give Bastian saying that Renning is the key to Crimea's future, to the point he's left Elincia alone since before Part 2 begins when she really could have used his help, is that he hopes that Renning's support will make Elincia's rule more stable, but it's never explained why Bastian believes Renning is the key to the future or why Bastian doesn't go straight to the herons, so your guess is as good as mine.

But that still doesn't excuse the fact that he hires mercenaries to rescue Elincia without ever warning Elincia himself. He either doesn't believe in her himself, which him saying that Renning is the future of Crimea kind of hints towards, or he is just leaving the the queen of the country in the dark because he thought his plan was best. Either way, unforgivable.

None of Elincia's most trusted people, the people she relies on for advice and counsel, gives her a single hint of a warning of the information they have, even if it is only rumors. Elincia should have been told.

Is Elincia young and naïve? Yes. Ludveck's criticisms that she's too trusting, that it is too easy to assassinate her, or poison her food or drink are 100% valid. I'll even agree with his point about her letting the fleeing rebels leave after she captures Ludveck in the final chapter, they absolutely should be arrested and punished for treason. Maybe not killed, but punished.

But that she is too hesitant to act to quell the rebellion? No. Bastian, Geoffrey, and Lucia keep vital information from Elincia. That the civil war gets so far is on them, not Elincia. Elincia always takes the correct next step for her based on what she knows and what they know after finding out about it. Now, for all Ludveck knows, Bastian and the others found out and told Elincia from the start and the inaction was on Elincia, because why wouldn't they keep the queen informed, so he can say what he believes to be true. But the fact that Elincia believes him, the fact that no one calls out the three of them for what they did wrong, is a failure of the writing.

Elincia: Yes, that’s true. It’s for the same reason that, once I knew of the rebels’ movements… I didn’t immediately make any decisive orders. Radiant Dawn, Chapter 2-F, Elincia's Gambit Extended Script Translation from Serenes Forest

If they wanted me to believe that message, they would have needed to add another chapter into Part 2, not that Radiant Dawn needs to be any longer, ideally making Chapter 3 deal with her attempting diplomacy and hesitating to act (maybe they set up a place to talk that gets attacked and she still doesn't authorize an attack on Ludveck), and then Chapter 4 being Geoffrey's Charge when Ludveck mobilizes his army.

However, as it stands, Elincia hesitating to take action is completely absurd.

#fe9/10 #tellius #fe10 #fire emblem #fire emblem radiant dawn #radiant dawn #taking fantasy settings too seriously #Elincia #Ludveck #Lucia #Bastian #Geoffrey #Justice for Elincia #Would have loved for Ike to chew Lucia and Geoffrey out at the end #He'd be so bothered that he was hired to help for something they kept from Elincia #Like Elincia saying “I just wish I had known of it sooner”#Could have just triggered a few lines from Ike chastizing Lucia and Geoffrey

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pseudo-hero · 5 months

Note

Conner Kent basically is a child from (medical) rape. Not calling him Clark's child is basically the mentally healthiest way to cope with this for everyone involved.

Note #1: I first want to apologize for taking this long to respond, though it's not the only time that's happened and probably won't be the last. I'm still surprised that this particular blog even got an "ask", to be honest! That being said:

WARNING: This post is about—among other things—sexual assault, properly defining/utilizing the terms and has a few violent descriptions within it. Some possibly unpopular and controversial opinions are below. Absolutely no harm or insult to any person or group was intended while I typed this out (including to the "asker"). I hope any possible readers will make it to the end before judging. I've typed this up for anybody, with no one in particular in mind, so 'you' therefore, refers to anyone as well as what's said in the "ask". This gets into and brings up a lot different subjects and ideas in regards to the Kal-Kon family relationship (both in-universe ones and meta ones), so apologies to the above anonymous user if it ever seems like I'm going off on a tangent; although I like to think all of this was relevant to the "ask" in some way.

As always, I'll try to be open-minded to differing opinions/information and I hope any possible errors made can be forgiven. This is also going to be really, REALLY L--O--N--G because I have a hard time giving short, straight-to-the-point responses for anything, I guess. Especially topics that have wide-reaching implications. I switch between character names a lot (and other quirks), may get a little repetitive (but I will try to make new points each time) and I also may at times be harsh on Clark here (but it's arguably DC Comics and their partners that are truly at fault, not him).

Note #2: I've always wanted to make a post about why Clark's treatment of Conner throughout the years has been questionable writing at best and detrimental to Clark's character at worst [as part of a not-yet-completed series on what's destroying Superman's character and legacy these days, in fact] but maybe this will end up being that post [or they'll just share many points/arguments in common].

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Sorry, but I'm not playing that game. Only rape is rape. You comparing (and perhaps twisting) Conner Kent's/Kon-El's creation to being that of a "child from (medical) rape"—which, mind you, I can't help but be reminded of "rape baby" (one of the names unfortunately often used on such victims-by-proxy for the wrong reasons) when I read it—is not only, to me, an insult to any version of the character's backstory and the hardship they've gone through, but to those who have actually experienced the trauma of rape or other forms of sexual assault (or being conceived from any such act).

While I understand why some interpret Kon's creation that way/where the belief comes from, I feel that's only one possible interpretation and one that unfortunately—on top of promoting offensive and less-than-rational conclusions—might actually be missing the point about the real reason(s) Kon got and still gets treated the way he does.

First off, let's get down to how every version of Kon was created before getting into the details of the origin of one or another, and proving how none of them sprouted from rape: Kon is, put simply, a genetically engineered progeny; a form of "test tube baby" (not meant to be disparaging). He was made in an undoubtedly sterile (purposefully loaded word) lab from the ideas, research-based input and experimentation of dozens of scientists and geniuses, his human parent typically included. (Note how I didn't name a human parent? I'll get to that.) After many failed attempts, there was a success, first dubbed Experiment 13.

There was no warmth or genuine intimacy involved in E13's creation, just as is the case with 95% to 100% of sexual assaults (I'm trying not to assume how it went for all victims). However, there was also no physical contact, beyond perhaps the extraction/finding and adding together of DNA-type substances. (You know, what with every version of Kon being treated solely as science experiments in their early days and all.) Without physical contact, specifically/particularly/especially of the sexual variety, already the case for Superman being "raped" begins to fall apart and we can get closer to what fandom/societal problem is really behind this idea being pushed and what truth is continually missed/hidden due to said problem acting as a cover.

Continuing from before: So, as we all know, almost every version of Kon-El/Conner Kent get's his DNA from a male kryptonian progenitor (always Kal-El/Clark Kent unless stated otherwise) together with the also-male human progenitor's, and rarely anywhere else. These days most versions of Conner seem to be the half-human genetic child of Lex Luthor and Superman, and it's been like that for a while. In the beginning however, he was solely a clone of Superman before it was later decided that he was actually an altered clone of some now-forgotten man named Paul Westfield and that he only mimicked Superman's powers. They later changed it up again ("retconned" it) to the Lex Luthor/Superman combination origin(s) for the 2000's version of him, but in doing so, made it clear in BIG, bright letters that Kon is not a "clone" anymore.

Unless—we're calling him a binary clone (what we all are).

That's right, a binary clone is one of many words for child. It's just a specific type of child/progeny. Here's another definition example, with the same description. I would hope no one needs to see the definition for child, too, but you never know. So, notice how so many of the definitions for child match up with what Kon is? What are the people that argue that Superboy is not Superman's—or that he's neither Clark's nor Lex's child—really trying to say or inadvertently saying, I wonder? That Kon is no one's child? That he isn't even a child (unless someone wants him)?? Good luck using that logic with real life "test tube children" (in-vitro children, if we want to be clinical), foster children and adoptees. Bet they'll really appreciate the insensitivity.

As for his age? Why does that matter? At his oldest, he's an upper teen, so still an impressionable minor. And who ever said you needed to pop up in someone's life as a perfect, little chubby cherub to be their child? Who said your parents needed to accept you/get the chance to raise you, for you to be directly descended from them? If a parent dies before a child is born (and stays dead), is the child not their child anymore? Even if someone meets their kid—that may appear to others, to have been created when the parent was a teenager—when the youngling is already a teenager him/herself now, that's still their child, isn't it? Look at all the questions that we are forced to ask when certain fans try and come up with arbitrary definitions, explanations and excuses (or ignore preexisting ones) for what makes a child a child.

As far as I can see, Superman is not delusional nor prone to denialism and isn't known for letting his emotions (or what some believe his emotions are or should be) get the best of him. At least, he's not supposed to be. Some writers in the past have had different ideas on that. In my opinion, they often ruin things for a large amount of us though, seeing as engaging in poor, contradictory behavior will never automatically = a character being more complex. It's more likely that the character will just come across as very petty, selfish, obnoxious or callous, things Superman generally should not be; maybe even should never be.

All that is to say that the need to pretend Kon is anything but Clark's (and Lex's) child in-universe and based on real-life standards, has nothing to do with authentic science or logic and at times doesn't even involve an agreed on continuity. You (the "asker") may already realize this (since you mentioned mental health and coping in your "ask") but many others don't seem to yet. In fact, the exact science isn't what matters, considering how the situation is fictional and therefore mostly pseudoscience anyway.

And even if it wasn't fictional, consider that animal reproduction is technically considered sexual whether two organisms had sex/copulated or not because of the act of the male and female gametes (sex cells) coming together. Based on that, can or can't Kon be considered just another typical mammal (mammal-alien hybrid?) made through a form of sexual reproduction, even if he wasn't made from the combining of male cells and female cells (typically not used in his case) nor (most likely) any sexual cells at all? Does it even make a difference in regards to his parentage? In reality, it actually doesn't and that question is only a pedantic-semantics one. All such questions are.

What actually matters here is the basics. Cells/DNA from these two beings were melded together to make another being. No intercourse was needed or involved. A large amount of people would still consider that as a child being made, with or without the added story context. (Many mythologies have had similar events happen in them, fwiw.) So why shouldn't our honest, selfless and compassionate Superman view it that way? Where is the extensive evidence that this is solely about Clark and his family's feelings anyway, especially in the present day? I'm sure that may be the excuse some writers hide behind, but let's be real here.

Clark, in multiple continuities, has had no problem giving Kon a name (twice, if you count Conner Kent too), encouraging him to have a secret identity like Clark, so he also gets to live his life outside of being a hero, has occasionally been seen spending time with Kon by choice, mentoring him, fighting alongside him, sending Kon to the boy's grandparents for raising in the calm, warm town of Smallville (where Clark himself was raised), enrolling him in school in that same town, literally considering him family...but he won't dare go as far as to call him son??

Now, don't get me wrong. Do I believe Superman knew what was going on just before and during Superboy's artificial development? No. He never knows until after Superboy is already out in the world flying around. Does that make it non-consensual and somewhat or very violative to him? Of course. But besides these adjectives/descriptors and (if you want to count it) the springing of a child from the experiments, the situation actually—again, I say—has little in common with rape.

(POSSIBLY VERY TRIGGERING LANGUAGE FOUND BELOW. If you can, pay special attention to what words I put emphasis on.)

Rape can be and is many awful things. The severity of the act can range from little to no bodily injury but major emotional/psychological harm from awareness of the unwanted/forced sexual contact you were put through, to very extreme bodily and mental harm. It can cause tearing, often-heavy bleeding and infection in any targeted orifice (vagina, anus, mouth and/or throat) that can take months to heal from or that the person never fully recovers from. It can make it painful to move and do certain positions with the body. For specifically the female reproductive system, it can lead to damage that's so horrible that a woman can no longer reproduce and so is left infertile. Or she can be left with a pregnancy that's taken root in her own body that she of course was not planning—since it was forced into her—and one she often won't feel like she can handle birthing. There's also always a chance that she could die during the months before the labor begins, if not during the birth itself.

In the case of one form of medical rape (which again, I don't believe Clark was put through, unless you're talking about a different definition for it), it's rape because the victim gets impregnated by semen that they did not agree to have used on them. So it's rape by deception, if not also due to the disturbingly forceful nature that 'fertility treatment' often comes with.

Can someone tell me what about any of that, purposefully emphasized words and all, is the same as how Kon was created? Am I really supposed to believe that Superboy's surprise creation through indirect means, is equivalent to the above in any way for any person involved? In the early years of the character's creation, it was implied or outright stated that Superboy got his Superman DNA from scientists—I believe CADMUS—stealing Clark's presumed-dead body and taking a bit from it (Kon was originally supposed to replace Clark, but not destroy him). What did they get? Maybe a hair? A skin cell from one of his arms? I'm not sure.

However, this was in the early years and the most violative it ever got. (Actually, I don't recall that version of Superman being all that shaken up over the matter compared to how some seem to think every version has been regarding Kon's creation, even though that one probably had some of the biggest reasons to be; he even reached out to Superboy first, in fact. Only to be rejected by him.) It also wasn't, and is still, not rape. It's overall more comparable to someone stealing his/her ex's or one night stand's condom off their body or from the trash to cause a pregnancy. A horrendous deed—but not rape.

I'm stating all this because your claim is built on a false premise. One that likely comes from an over-reliance on and desire for extreme comparisons/equivalencies. One that appears to be a very common opinion in the fandom, but which is still misguided. It's imperative that we try not use the word rape (or related words) to seriously describe any other different action just because we disapprove of it. It's superbly harmful and frankly, disingenuous.

Are you calling the situation rape because you truly feel that this is what happened or because it's the worst word you could think of to try to make people feel even more horrified than they may already feel about the situation, and to shut down conversation on Clark's strange behavior toward and relationship with, Conner? Is it that you do realize that sexual assault is a severe issue and definitely no laughing matter, so you use mention of it so flippantly to emphasize your point, not realizing that this is only contributing to the problem?

I often wonder if a huge reason for this is because many nowadays are, thankfully, far more knowledgable of the importance of consent, but to the unfortunate extent that they separate it from the actual acts that make sexual assault, well, sexual assault. Again, lack of consent by itself is not what makes something rape. There has to at the least be forced penetration involved, too and arguably blatant sexual intention.

Likewise: Stealing someone's wallet or squeezing all the money out of their bank account without their knowing, is not "financial rape". Beating someone to a pulp and leaving them there injured is not "punching rape". Wiping someone's mind of memories is not, technically, "mind rape" (despite how popular that term is now). Leaving a baby or puppy on someone's doorstep and hoping/expecting that the owner of the home will sacrifice their time to raise them, is not "nurture rape" (or "nurture coercion" for that matter). You know why all the previous is true? Because, again, only rape is rape!

Languages are always changing, adapting, sometimes shrinking but also expanding. We often add definitions to words that may not have been implied before and use metaphors and other figurative speak to make points. However, words have those original definitions for a reason and especially in the case of crime and morality, it is not wise to dilute the meanings of words for your personal opinions/arguments/headcanons. That is not only hurtful but possibly dangerous.

If you feel that this or that version of Clark is right to be weirded out by Conner for being created 'unnaturally' (based on average, modern human POV), just say so. If you feel some version(s) of Clark is right to be disgusted by Conner for being made without his knowledge or ability to stop it (presumed dead or alive), just say so. If you feel modern versions of Clark are in the right to reject Kon solely because of who the human parent typically is, i.e. Lex Luthor (since we all know that connection and Lex's intentions when creating Kon must somewhat play an enormous factor in some people's view of Kon's existence), just say so.

If you, for similar reasons, despise every version of Lex Luthor and believe he's an irredeemable monster (which I find understandable, even though I personally do like the character) and therefore that everything connected to him is tainted too, just say so. If you are so preoccupied with comparing Damian Wayne's (usual/modern/recent/current?) conception origin to Kon's own, to the point of only noticing possible similarities and wanting to claim the situations are exactly the same, despite the obvious differences (and despite how that makes Superman/Clark negatively appear but in comparison to Batman/Bruce this time who accepts his child, regardless of the actual sexual assault that took place to create him), just say so.

If you just have a certain set of characteristics in mind for Superman or think it should be anything goes if it entertains you, as the rule of thumb for Superman writing, then please, just say so. That way people with a different opinion than you will know what worldview they're really arguing with when you debate. You do not need to use a word (rape) with an already established definition that's important enough to be referenced in laws the world over, to emphasize your point. Your argument should be able to stand on its own without doing so.

It wouldn't surprise me if one of the biggest contributors to modern people's current view of Clark and Conner's relationship is due to largely popular, dramatic media like the animated series Young Justice. The show had a take on them that was based on certain older-but-still-modern comic interactions with the more modern look/personality for Kon and it was considered by many to be realistic/relatable in regards to Superman's viscerally perturbed reactions toward and avoidance of Kon. However, some others saw it for what it also was: An excuse to seep out as much angst as possible to make us feel for Kon, but at the expense of Superman's characterization.

Compare their relationship here to the one they had in the DC Animated Movie Universe film, Reign of the Supermen (a sequel to The Death of Superman movie from the same universe; both are based on the 90's Bronze Age comic(s) that I've mentioned already). It was Lex in that movie that was being unquestionably vile toward Kon. As you might expect! And it was Clark who, only after knowing Kon for a short period—probably 20 minutes at most in-movie and a few days in their world—showed the poor mentally-abused child compassion and immediately took him under his bright red cape of hope and, as often happens these days, got help from Kon's grandparents in raising Kon. As you'd definitely expect! Although it wasn't exactly explicitly said in the movie whether he considers Conner his son or not, their relationship there was still handled infinitely better from the jump than was the case with alternate versions of their relationship. The reactions from these two men from different media that are supposed to be the same character, are like night and day! It's almost like they're not the same character (hint, hint)!

There was no unnecessary drama or hypocrisy on Clark's part in ROTSM (remember they'd both be seen as dangerous in the eyes of regular earthlings). Beyond a moment of eyebrow raising, and some possible annoyance or hesitance, Clark seems to grow accustomed to Kon's existence very quickly (after Lois already had, without his realizing!) and starts acting sensibly about it afterward (while still coming across as a warm but stern and outraged father; again, as you'd expect!) which I think was a good thing and arguably just as realistic as the reverse, with the added benefit of not making Clark look douchey, un-empathetic and unreasonably judgmental. We should be way past acts of actual!superdickery in this day and age, imho. Considering the universe he exists in, Clark should be ready to take on whatever is thrown his way, even a hormonal teenage "clone" of himself, no matter if they have a human parent or not, and even if Clark doesn't get along with that parent. Seriously, more writers need to remember that. The DC world is insane and anything could happen; so the characters ought to be mindful of that at all times.

Which leads me to ask: Why should Clark be extremely upset almost every single time Kon pops up anyway? Why does he have to be extremely upset at all? He didn't get a choice to thumb up or thumb down Kon's creation but beyond that, what was forced on him? As I noted earlier, he didn't get forcefully impregnated or even deceived. No one made him let Kon into his life either and Kon is a good kid anyway who wants to be the best superhero he can be and who's typically no worse than cocky. (Though some versions of Superman surprisingly need to be convinced/reminded of Kon's innocence.) Less honest people will try and dance around the elephant in the room, which is that they wouldn't think what was done with Clark's DNA was a big deal if Kon hadn't come from it. "Well, duh!" you might say. Duh indeed, because without Kon's existence, literally no argument can reasonably be made that Kal was harmed in anyway. (Unlike with physical attacks, which are obvious. The harm done to him would then, at most, be emotional/psychological but only if Clark acknowledges on some level what/who Conner is (his son!) but struggles to accept him/rejects him despite/because of it. Superman (and the fans that do the directly-above), should focus their ire on the true wrong-doers, not a victim. I mean really, Conner has only done wrong to Clark and his family/friends once, while brainwashed by somebody else!! (It was Lex Luthor, of course.)

This means that they know Kon is his own person with endless potential, who is vulnerable and always at risk of manipulation, who deserves sympathy regardless of how he was made and who just needs an outstretched hand from someone who cares and wants him to stay on the right path, despite where he came from. Which means they also know what it says about Superman for him to neglect Conner, but just accept it as "a blind spot" as opposed to calling it out as the horrible writing decision that it always is. Kon in the ROTSM movie is the biggest victim in that scenario and it's made clear there. In that movie, Superman didn't turn his back on or avoid Superboy at any point and dived right into a father-son relationship with him. Thank goodness.

I repeat: The parent in the movie that actively created him without the other parent's knowledge, treated him like fresh garbage, like a toy that doubled as a tool/weapon, like an object. The other parent on the other hand refused to do the same and instead did right by him and took him in. Kon's feelings and needs were acknowledged as they deserved to be. Clark was called dad by the boy and he more or less stood in his role that wasn't gonna change whether he wanted it to or not, nor whether he accepted it or not. A parent is a parent the moment they have a kid, even if they choose not to be there for them. Adoption is one way of becoming a parent that I admire (as long as no cruelty was committed for it to happen) and I'm happy for those happy to be adopted. However, mind you, Clark or The Kents raising Kon who is one of Clark's own bio kids, would be regular parenting/grand-parenting; not adoption or fostering.

He also did have a choice btw, when it came to that movie, as he always does and like everyone else has/would. He could have chosen to ignore/avoid Kon and left him to teach himself how to swim, but this is Superman we're talking about here and he, more than anyone, would ideally never behave that way to someone in need (least of all a child/his own child!). Even if other people in his place would unfortunately be unable to (which I understand and can sympathize with). Superboy did appear to be physically younger (if not emotionally) in ROTSM than he was in YJ, but my point still stands for both stories and related.

In fact, if memory serves right, (as briefly referenced earlier) the 90's version of Superman which the TDOSM and ROTSM movies are loosely based on somehow wasn't near as avoidant around or upset by the 90's Kon-El Superboy (Kon sure was annoyed by him though) as the character was in some later writers' stories, despite supposedly being of the same continuity and despite the fact that Superboy became a better person and hero as years passed. Which actually kinda adds to my point about how ridiculous this behavior/flaw from modern versions of Clark is. Funny. It also sort of reeks of higher-up interference to me... Almost like they needed an excuse to keep the two apart; very separated and in their own books with rarely any overlap, before eventually deciding to recurringly erase one of the characters from "canon" and/or their connection/closeness to the other more prominent character...

Which, finally, is what the reasoning for constantly excluding and distancing Kal-El from Kon-El really all comes down to. Seven things actually, which are all often/always connected: 1. Keeping tradition going which often causes 2. Plain old homophobia to win when it comes to writing decisions, but also usually leads to 3. Clois favoritism, both of which are due in part to 4. Fear of trying anything new and 5. Peeving off the fanbases within the fanbase, whose members all have their own version of Superman in mind (think about the YJ vs ROTSM example), which brings about 6. Laziness and simplicity for simplicity's sake and we can't forget 7. That probably more than anything else (and where the other seven stem from) there's the issue of THE FOCUS ON $$$ [profit, with as little effort and change put forward to gain it as possible, or in some cases too much effort used on the wrong thing(s)].

The need to always hold on, in some way, shape or form, to tradition is a tale as old as time and an obvious reason for Kon's constant alienation from Kal and the larger Superfamily.

I mean really, think about it. Although I focus a lot on how Conner is treated by DC and specifically Clark, he's not the only child from his life that Clark's failed to raise or be there for to the best of his ability. It's just the most glaringly obvious with him.

Every reappears-in-"canon" minor (so not imaginary story character) that pops up at Clark's doorstep gets the short end of the stick, often multiple times at different points. In fact, it's happened so many times now that it's becoming a fandom "joke" and is even—for me at least—starting to become an expected outcome on Clark's part. And guess who it began with?

That's right; Kara Zor-El aka Supergirl: Cousin of Kal-El/Superman.

In the earlier Silver Age comics, Superman got up to some very weird or borderline abusive acts that he often involved Supergirl in. From refusing to take her in and keeping others from adopting this innocent teenage orphan, to forcing her to play pretend as his love-interest (likely as a not-so-veiled excuse to kiss her on the lips), to admitting he actually wanted her in that way, but couldn't, solely because of Krypton's cousin marriage laws?? Supergirl admittedly came across at times like she had an unnatural attachment of her own to her cousin but all the same, she was far younger—even underaged by many standards—traumatized and in need of guidance, yet that version of Superman didn't notice or care and even took advantage of this fact.

The tradition has been, for a while, to have Superman treat/neglect the children in his care so horribly that any chance of them having something of a father figure-child type relationship or mentor-student relationship is nullified. In one of the most recent issues of this current run of Action Comics (2016), Superman has once again come across a child, no, two children in fact, and actually took them both in. This isn't the first time he's done that (Lor-Zod/Chris Kent ring a bell?) but knowing how every other attempt at parenting by main universe Clark has ended, I'm hoping and praying that his sweet, impressionable, ill-raised, adopted twins named Otho-Ra and Osul-Ra (girl and boy) aren't destined for tragedy. Or outside involvement that cuts their childhood short. Or somehow still getting rejected in the end after the fact because it's not convenient enough for Superman/Clark and Status Quo. Considering how cluttered the current Action Comics's Super-Family is starting to seem...it wouldn't surprise me one bit if any of these options happened to them in due time.

Now, the homophobia. Do I really need to explain this one? The closest we've ever gotten to a gay/bi main-universe (not alternate) Superman...WASN'T EVEN SUPERMAN. Not really. It was his son who I bet you the editors at DC wanted people to confuse for the other when it came to the news article titles. Perhaps as a sort of "test" to see how much they could get away with doing with the real deal. I don't say this to shade Jon, only to tell is as it appears. Clearly a large amount of the fanbase failed the test. So although we do get to have a bi-Jon now (And possibly a basically-bi-Kon? Bicon?) whether or not some people hate it, the backlash over that Superman's coming out (and maybe even the anger over his secret identity being revealed) is proof enough for DC that Clark literally cannot come out, even if he wants to. Decades of subtext be damned.

Clois is and always will be the favored partner for Superman by writers. There's nothing wrong with that imho. It truly is the quintessential superhero comic romance. The issue is that any deviation from this (even if just for a short amount of time) is often met with outrage from a huge (or just loud) portion of the fanbase, causing writers to have to find a way to backtrack, cutting back on creativity. Now it often seems they're scared to try anything genuinely new and fresh with Superman. Who could blame them? They have previous examples that prove what will happen if they do.

It should also be noted again that keeping characters as separated/distant as possible (in this case, Superfamily characters) allows for DC to have each of those characters to have a series of their own so more comics can be made and sold!!

I understand we all have a version of Superman in our heads that's "the correct one" but that's exactly why arguments about what's "right" or what could "work" for the character often go nowhere. It leads to the quality of stories being affected and the companies putting in less effort into creating, knowing that simple and typical is what's wanted anyway. It's like: Why even bother?

So to reiterate one more time: The #1 concern will always be about making as big a buck as possible through as little a means as necessary. If editors and co believe lack of change is the way to achieve that, then that's what they'll do. Them continuing into the present day to stop just short of acknowledging what Kon actually is to the Superfamily likely has very little to do with the usual excuses, and a whole lot to do with the aforementioned, with everything else leading back to it.

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rainbowfey · 7 months

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Day 7: Porch Swing

@flufftober

Tobirama glanced at the window and nodded satisfied when he saw that the sky was light gray but not covered in rain clouds like the past couple of days. It was one of his rare slow days and he finally found the time to do stuff that he had delayed doing for weeks and even months now. The enormous light brown package in the corner of his living room was a glaring reminder of his procrastination and Hashirama didn’t fail to remind him of it every time he came over. Tobirama carefully moved his shoulder blade that he had injured in a fight a couple of days ago but this time, he didn’t even flinch. That meant that the wound had healed enough to start moving his shoulder again. At least that’s what he decided. He had spent the past days resting as much as he could but it turned out that this was not one of his many skills.

With a groan, he picked the giant package up and conveniently ignored the pain flaring up in his shoulder. Panting, he dragged the heavy package through his hallway. The door turned out to be an even bigger obstacle than he thought. In the end, he settled on opening the door, pushing the package – which was as tall as he was – in the doorway and then slipping through the small gap between package and door. Afterwards, he tugged and pulled at the package until it came free. He flinched as the door fell shut behind him and his man-sized companion. He stared at the door for a moment, then he shrugged and dragged the light brown package fully onto his porch. The wooden slats creaked below his feet and for a second, he gave way to the irrational fear of breaking through the floor. Then he snapped back to his light brown reality and gave the package a nudge. After he had positioned it, he carefully let it sink down until it laid flat on his porch.

With a relieved sigh, he pulled a kunai out of his pocket. Groaning, he knelt down next to the package and slit it open. He pulled the lid off confidently – and slumped down when he saw the hodgepodge of brown and silver parts that followed no apparent order. Increasingly desperate, he searched through the components but he didn’t find the oh so simple manual anywhere that Hashirama had praised so much.

“It’s super easy to assemble,” Hashirama had said with a bright smile. “You just have to follow the instructions in the manual and you’ll have it set up in no time.”

“Super easy,” Tobirama parroted him in a rather disparaging tone. “Set up in no time!”

He shook his head and groaned. Hashirama was one of the best people he knew – but also one of the few who could infuriate him to a point where he wanted to tear his hair out. He sat back and stared at the pile of parts that didn’t even resemble what they were supposed to be when set up. The manual-free box grinned back at him.

It took Tobirama a while to gather enough willpower to get up and start assembling the different parts. At least that’s what he attempted but even after an hour of intense trying his effort didn’t remotely come close to the desired result. With a deep sigh, he let himself sink down next to the monstrosity he had created. He leaned against the wall behind him and shut his eyes.

“Having trouble, little Senju?”

Tobirama’s eyes flew open at the sound of the familiar voice. He could see the amusement in Madara’s black eyes when he examined the ravel of poles, ropes and fabric looming over Tobirama.

“Need a hand?” Madara asked but before Tobirama even got the chance to reply, Madara had already climbed the two steps leading up to his porch. He curiously walked around the monstrosity. When he finally came to a halt, he furrowed an eyebrow and stared at Tobirama. “So, what’s this supposed to be?”

Tobirama sighed and closed his eyes again. “A porch swing. Hashirama gifted it to me.”

“Looks more like failure to me,” Madara said under his breath.

Tobirama opened his eyes and grimaced at Madara’s words. “I can hear you, you know?”

Madara shrugged and gave him an indifferent look. “If the shoe fits …” he muttered. “Let’s see, this big thing right here should be the lying surface. And this other one might be the backrest.”

Tobirama got up with a groan and shot Madara an indignant look. “I figured as much, genius. Will you tell me next that the ropes might be the suspension?”

Madara didn’t even bat an eye at his sarcastic question. “Since you don’t seem to be making any progress yourself, you better not have a big mouth.”

With a pensive expression on his face, he grabbed the ravel at two opposing parts and before Tobirama could even register what he was doing, he matched two components. “Hold this,” Madara ordered him and since Tobirama didn’t have anything better to do, he followed his commands. And before his astonished eyes, the porch swing started to take shape.

After half an hour, Madara stepped back, clapped his hands and gave Tobirama a triumphant stare. He pointed to the beautifully assembled porch swing that gently moved in the breeze. “What did I tell you? This wasn’t even hard. You should do better than failing even the easiest project.”

Tobirama cursed under his breath but since Madara had indeed saved his ass, he refrained from hurling insults at him. “Thanks,” he growled instead and tried to force a grateful expression on his face.

Madara eyed him for a moment before he said in a snippy tone, “You look like you have constipation. Why don’t you stop pretending and go grab some drinks?”

Fuming, Tobirama stomped inside and towards his kitchen, leaving Madara standing on the porch. From the corner of his eye, he could see the taunting smile on Madara’s face before the door blocked his view.

When he came back outside carrying two drinks, Madara had positioned the big cushion on the porch swing – and he had already taken a seat, looking at Tobirama expectantly. Tobirama stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him. “What’s that about?” he asked incredulously.

Madara raised an eyebrow and took one of the drinks out of Tobirama’s motionless hand. “Isn’t that obvious? This is the reward for my help.”

Tobirama stared at him blankly. “So, you just decided to invite yourself to stay?”

Madara nodded confidently and took a sip of the sake. “Exactly”, he said and leaned back, the porch swing below him following his movement softly. He gave Tobirama an asking look. “Are you going to take a seat or do you plan on just standing there?”

For a split second, Tobirama worked out the probability of him being able to usher Madara out but then he gave in with a sigh of defeat. With a helpless shrug, he sat down next to Madara, carefully minding the distance between them. To his dismay it turned out that the porch swing was comfortable and big enough – for one person. It most definitely wasn’t meant for two grown men though and he couldn’t help sliding a bit closer to Madara who seemed entirely unfazed by it. Unimpressed as always, Madara took another sip from his sake and nodded slightly. “I knew you had good taste as well.” Tobirama turned to face him and flinched when the sudden movement made him slip even closer to Madara. “As well?” he asked, slightly distracted by his clandestine attempts of keeping his distance.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Madara eyeing him a little vexed. “I’m talking about myself, of course. I have good taste.” He paused and scrunched up his nose. “Why are you so restless? It’s driving me nuts.”

Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Tobirama’s shoulder and pushed him against the backrest. “Just relax,” he said in annoyed tone before he leaned back as well, their shoulders now touching.

For a moment, Tobirama stayed stiff like a board but when Madara reassumed drinking his sake and mostly ignoring him, he slowly relaxed.

It’s no biggie, that’s what people do nowadays, he told himself but even his inner voice sounded less than convincing. He tried to ignore the weird feeling in his stomach and because he didn’t have any better idea, he took a big gulp of his sake. He had to stifle a cough when the alcohol burned in his throat and even though Madara gave him an amused look, he kept quiet for once. And while they peacefully sat next to each other, the porch swing moving softly beneath them, Tobirama noticed that Madara’s warmth next to him did indeed feel quite nice.

#flufftober 2023 #day 7 #naruto #madara x tobirama #madara uchiha #senju tobirama #enemies to lovers #teasing #fluff #porch swing #autumn #writing #naruto fanfiction #fanfic

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canis-or-cannotis-lycaon · 7 months

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TIMING: Early August LOCATION: A Latte to Love PARTIES: Gael (@lithium-argon-wo-l-f and Wynne (@ohwynne SUMMARY: Back to work perhaps a little sooner than they should considering everything that happened at the barn, Wynne struggles with overloading emotions and unreasonable customers. Fortunately, Gael picks up on this and offers to help. CONTENT WARNINGS: Nnnnone, I don't think

It was absurd to be back here. To stand behind the till and take people’s orders and write them on cups and then to hand the cup to their colleague and to then ring the order up and then ask cash or card? and then wait until they chose and then click the right button and let them pay and tell them to have a good day. Again, and again, and again. Wynne had once liked this monotonous rhythm, had liked the small talk, the breeziness of it all — but now they felt like they were going to collapse if one more person very expressly said they wanted that with oat, you hear me, not cow’s milk.

Admittedly, they had messed that up a few times this week. But it was hard to care, when they had nearly been transformed into what others called a spawn, when they had almost died of blood loss. Wynne kept retreating to the backroom, trying to do breathing exercises and failing at them. They were afraid they were going to get fired and then thought so what?

But the day went on. A quiet stretch of time followed. Janeen went to take stock in the back, telling them to call if things got busy. Wynne stared into space. They dug an icecube from the freezer and let it melt in their hand, because that too was an exercise they’d read about. And then the door opened and they dropped the thing, sure to make the ground wet, eyes flicking up at the new patron. They had liked predicting what drinks customers would like, and with this man? They’d been almost right the first time he’d entered. His face wasn’t wholly unfamiliar, but his features were the only thing they remembered about him at present. “Hi, welcome to a Latte to Love,” they said, trying not to drone the words. “What can I get ready for you today?”

—

Ahhh he felt full of life. Between his progress with Ren, hanging out with Alan on the full moon and the conversation with Regan, this was the best Gael had felt since… well, the accident would be too long, but definitely in the last month or so. It was always one of Gael’s goals to let his expression and demeanor betray the sunken features on his face, the stylishly-disheveled hair that flopped over his forehead and his loose-fitting clothes that accentuated comfort over professionalism. He was in hobo mode right now, satisfied with where he was in life and committed to wandering through town with his aching bones, sore body . Gael had werewolf friends, that was fine and he’d do everything in his power to empower them, make them feel safe from murderers who ran around calling themselves ‘hunters’. He didn’t doubt their capability and strength and he certainly didn’t disparage them for their strange quirks and what they called themselves. He tried to be that way with everyone. Including today, where Gael decided to visit a Latte to Love, the place that already held memories, both good and bad - he’d talked to Cass in the corner where he looked as he entered the establishment about her interest in rocks and good vs. evil. It was also where he’d gotten drinks with Leticia before that night where he carelessly put her and the jaguar in danger. Right now was a chance to make another hopefully good memory and he approached the counter, his dark eyes dancing over a young - out of habit, his eyes darted over the pins on their vest - individual with exciting hair and eyes that seemed like normally they should’ve been much more full of youthful vigor. Nevertheless, he gave them a warm smile that easily reached the corners of his eyes; he treated retail and food service workers with a special kind of care. “Hi.” Gael said softly, giving the employee a soft look. “How are you doing today?” This part was a toss-up; half the time, they gave him a look like they really didn’t want to engage in small talk but he always took that risk just in case that wasn’t what happened.

—

He was just being polite, they told themself. He was just asking out of habit. And it was a good habit, a kind habit, one that could make a difference in someone’s day — but it was still habit, wasn’t it? He didn’t want the full answer, the ugly and gritty. He surely didn’t want them to open their mouth and let out a sound rather than a verbal response, because some mangled noise might be the best answer to that question. But Wynne didn’t do such a thing.

No, even if this was a customer who was generally kind and patient, they knew that he wouldn’t want them to be truthful. There was no room for it. And yet, their mind got stuck on it, that question and their answer. Bad, their mind answered, I’m doing really bad. I wish I hadn’t dropped my ice cube. I wish I knew how to do this thing called life. I’m questioning existence itself. I almost died! I am not doing great today and we are out of oat milk and people keep being mad about it. Someone spat out their almond croissant on a plate and I had to clean it. I almost died. I have to wear this scarf because having my wound on display will upset customers, or so my manager says, and I don’t want questions to be asked but it’s so hot! But I’m also very cold at the same time. I almost died I almost died I almost died I almost died, I’m not doing okay.

They said none of it, though.

Why couldn’t he just tell them his coffee order, so they could punch it in and let themself fall into the rhythmic and familiar movements of making the coffee. Wynne blinked at the customer, realizing that they’d been quiet for far too long. They wiped their wet hand on their apron. “Oh, haha, you know, fine,” they said, lacking conviction. “Little tired, maybe? How are you?” Their gaze turned to the cash register, then back to the other. “What can I get started for you? Um, just so we know, we are out of oat milk.

—

The employee was quiet for a long moment, longer than someone who wasn’t thinking about something somewhere else, a different time, place, person. They weren’t daydreaming though, Gael could also tell. Something was on their mind, obviously. The professor inhaled, letting his dark eyes dance over their figure, their hair, the exhaustion under their eyes; he was familiar with that. He was also familiar with wearing articles of clothing that were unusual for the weather, as he eyed the scarf around their neck when it was hot outside and comfortable in the shop, not to mention he knew how uncomfortably warm it could get behind the counter when business picked up; they were hiding something. An injury, maybe, or a deformity. So, perhaps in an attempt to resonate with them, Gael adjusted his position on the counter, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small paper hat made from a shiny silver gum wrapper. He placed it on the counter with his left hand, the hand that had the snakelike trail of scarring that wrapped around his wrist, the back of his palm and a couple of his fingers. “It’s a little hot to be wearing a scarf,” He muttered, giving the employee a look that implied that he’d been there, done that. With that, he leaned back casually and glanced up at the menu. “What do you recommend? That doesn’t have oat milk, of course.” He laughed. “I’ll only bother you for a little while longer, I pizza with toppings.”

—

They misinterpreted that. This was a fault Wynne had, though it was something they were often unaware of — there were so many nuances in the way people spoke and acted that were lost upon them that it was hard to keep track of all they missed. Especially now. Especially at work. When the customer pointed out the scarf they just thought he was trying to ask why they were wearing it. Thinking it suspicious or strange. The look in his eyes meant nothing to them, because they didn’t even want to think about people being able to relate to this.

They looked at him for a moment. “It’s fine, it’s pretty cool in here with the air conditioning. I have a little throat issue.” It wasn’t even a lie, but it became one when they added: “It’s scratchy. A summer cold, maybe?” Wynne lifted their shoulders, nervously playing with the frills at the end of the scarf. It wasn’t thick. It could just be a fashion statement. Underneath it, muscles moved with nervousness and threatening upset, skin pulling at that ugly wound. There was a glassy quality to their eyes now.

“Uh, any iced latte. Elderflower syrup goes nice with the weather,” they said, a recommendation given to plenty of people. Their voice jumped an octave, trembling as they continued, “Pizza … we don’t have pizza, sir. Just like the oat milk. But … well, we never have pizza.”

—

He shouldn’t have pushed, he was being too nosy again. Of course it was their business what they wanted to wear, regardless of the superficial medication Gael could smell under the scarf. Something was on their mind but it wasn’t his business; for all the help he could try to supply, it didn’t do anything if whoever he was talking to just… didn’t want to talk about it. “Uh, yeah. An… iced latte with elderflower syrup sounds nice.” Gael offered a smile after he stuttered out the first syllables of the sentence. What kind of iced latte? It didn’t really matter. Then he scoffed, looking down and tracing the scarring on his hand absently. “Sorry, that’s… a phrase I came up with with a good friend of mine. She doesn’t like ‘promise’ so we say ‘pizza with toppings’.” He glanced at them, easily picking up the wavering in their voice. “Like this: I don’t know what you’re going through, but I pizza with toppings that you’ll be okay.”

—

Maybe if they were more fashionable this would be something they could pull off without raising eyebrows. It did seem somewhat of a personal failure all of the sudden and Wynne was trying really hard not to be frustrated with themself at the moment. “O-okay, and what kind of milk would like like with that?” Reiterating that they didn’t have oat seemed rude, so they didn’t.

They had half-punched in the order, not able to finish it as the options of almond, regular, rice, soy and whatever-else still blinked at them. Wynne looked at the man as they started preparing the shot of espresso that was fundamental in near every drink, his story an anecdote that made them think he was kind. And that he had to know about fae, or at least know someone who knew about them. “And that makes sense, for you, that’s cute.”

And there he went, promising they’d be okay because it was the simple and kind thing to do. Wynne watched the coffee machine finish its shot of espresso and then promptly burst into tears when it did. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I – I’ll get it done. I'm just – you're really perceptive and kind and — well, the coffee, I'll get it done.” The tears kept flowing, and their shoulders shook as the smell of fresh coffee filled the air.

—

While he was anticipating some form of emotional release - indeed, they had it practically written all over their face - he wasn’t expecting them to abruptly start crying. “Ah, there we go.” Gael breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the espresso and he motioned for the barista to at least go off to the side of the counter, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that there wasn’t anyone immediately behind him. Fortunately there wasn’t. “Don’t worry about the coffee.” He said gently, softening his voice and reaching into his messenger bag that hung comfortably around his shoulder. “Okay, how can I help?” He asked, pulling out a travel pack of tissues and placing them on the counter for them. “What’s your name?” Gael asked, keeping himself from thinking too far ahead - he didn’t want to get up on a pedestal and start preaching, not to this poor worker who obviously had something pressing on their mind. Instead, he focused on them entirely, almost giving the impression that the rest of the coffee shop didn’t even exist at that moment and he was ready to snipe at anyone who thought about giving them a remotely hard time.

—

It seemed like something had snapped, ever since the barn. Wynne had been struggling with emotional control since settling in Wicked’s Rest. There were bouts of what they figured to be depression, nights where they wept themself to sleep — but at work, they had usually been their contained self. But then their throat had been ripped open, and the floodgates had opened.

So they wept, shaking with it. They wept when a woman yelled at them, a week ago, because her pastry was too sweet. They wept when the machine burned their hand. They wept even harder as the customer offered kindness and gentleness. They followed his gesture, stepping away from the coffee machine, glad there were instructions of sort. They took the tissues, unfolding one of them and pressing the paper against their nose. “I’m Wynne. I’m — really sorry.”

They looked up, all glistening eyes and increasing puffiness. They wanted the ice cubes, to press them against their wrist and eyes and become less of a red, snotty thing. “I don’t know, you’re already helping by — by not getting mad.” They let out a laugh that wasn’t humorous at all. It sounded like a sob. “And the tissues. Thank you. And I — well, it’s not your fault, okay? I just have … been very stressed.”

—

“Hi, Wynne.” Gael said softly as he adjusted himself to be placed between them and the rest of the cafe in some effort to preserve their pride. He recognized their name as well, the one who was talking about the jello from the hospital then they started talking about soup. He realized with a small pang of guilt that he never actually responded to them. “It’s nice to meet you in person.” He opted to say instead. They laughed, a wet, humorless thing that was more of an emotional burst of sorrow than anything and Gael gently reached out and placed a hand on their trembling arm for a few moments; they were warm. He heard their heartbeat in his ears though it was slightly better now that they were actually allowed to express themselves - he’d been around long enough to know that emotions were like a pressure valve, which was probably why he was always so open about his. “Don’t apologize, you’re okay.” He encouraged removing his hand and placing it back on the counter in front of them, not wanting to crowd them too much. “And yeah, I can tell!” Gael chuckled this time, not mocking but in an attempt of his own to show them that he was listening to them and empathizing with them without joining them in their despair. Sometimes, in his experience, it really helped to have some levity. “You shouldn’t be here, you should be at home healing. Eating jello or something even better. Spending time with loved ones. That sort of thing! Not here dealing with me and everyone else.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “If it’s money, I gotcha covered for the rest of your shift.” He offered, looking at her with his eyes - the same offer he made for Van, the same offer he’d make for anyone else.

—

The other was broad in a way that was, in this situation, not imposing but rather comforting. Wynne was able to use the other as a shield of sorts, where their tears were only reserved for them, the customer and the little corner they were in. “What’s your name?,” they wondered, realizing they hadn’t asked for it yet and trying not to chastise themself for it. “It’s nice to meet you too.” It was, in a way. Even if they were crying.

There was an arm on their shoulder, a warm and comforting touch that they didn’t respond to with a flinch or distrust. Maybe if they weren’t crying, they would have done so, but right now Wynne was craving comfort of any kind. They wanted to believe him, this kind professor who told them that they were okay but even that sheer concept of being okay seemed foreign. Like something fictional that people spoke about, just another pop culture reference they would never fully get.

He mentioned jello, so they must have spoken online. They assumed as much anyway, not wanting to overthink on that kind of thing when there was already so much else to overthink on. “I’m … fine, they say it’s good to get back to work and daily routine,” they murmured. Wynne had heard that said. But they also worked as a barista, which was probably not good for anyone’s mental health. Being with Ariadne would be better. “You …” They looked at his wallet, blinking teary-eyes at it and then looking at him. “Why would you do that? I don’t – I mean, I know you because you come in here for coffee, but we don’t really know each other.” It was about the money, though. With Zack gone, rent had gone up, and Wynne was terrified of pissing off their landlord.

—

Wynne. They might’ve had it on a name tag but Gael was never the type to read ahead and use it to someone’s advantage, even though he understood that asking something as innocuous as ‘what’s your name’ carried negative connotations nowadays. He did it because a name felt more personal coming from the mouth of whoever owned it; he liked hearing how people said their own names, even now when they said it between cries. “That’s a pretty name.” He smiled. “I’m Gael. The pleasure is mine, Wynne.” Yes, even that day, even as they had a breakdown at work because of some imperceptible weight that crashed onto their small shoulders. Speaking of work… “Yeah, they also ask if you can come into work if you tell them you’ve broken your leg.” Gael replied gently, keeping his dark eyes with their perpetual dark circles under them on them studiously. He’d also been there and done that, choosing to work even though he really wasn’t in the mood or didn’t feel like he could truly handle it. He was a workaholic but he’d been around the block enough times to know that that certainly wasn’t how most people were. “That’s how I heard it told to me before; treat a hurting mind like you would a hurting leg; both are important and need to be tended to. “And… I’m offering because I understand what it’s like.” He gave a light shrug. “I obviously don’t know whatever you’re going through specifically - everyone’s scenario is different and I don’t wanna pry - but I do understand just… wanting to go home. Knowing you need to work, stressing about the things you can’t control.” He removed a twenty and ten-dollar bill from the wallet and placed it on the counter, sliding the money towards them. “I also like to help. A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met.” He leaned back and placed a hand on his lower spine briefly as he straightened up. “That’s what I like to think, anyway.”

—

The compliment to their name was strange, if not kind. Wynne liked their name, but it was intrinsically and undeniably connected to their former life, to that person they had been supposed to be. Welsh heritage carried through in their name. “Oh, I think we talked online, maybe?” About their love for the jello, and the fact that they’d been to hospital. Suddenly the lies about their scarf seemed even less convincing, and their stomach sunk. It was one thing to have an injury, it was a whole other to have it look the way this one did.

Their face revealed their confusion at that statement, and even as Gael went on to explain it they didn’t get it. “But you can’t stand on a broken leg, most of the time.” Sometimes you could. Wynne pushed their lips together. “I’ve always believed that it’s best to keep your head up and keep going.” People had looked to them, before, and they’d not allowed themself to look weak, scared or saddened — but clearly they lacked the strength they had had back at the commune, now. “Which is easier said than done, I guess.” They laughed humorlessly again.

He was pulling out money and they weren’t sure what to do, wanted to fold the notes up and push them back into his wallet. They didn’t want to owe people. They thought of Metzli, paying all those hospital bills, and their stomach sunk. “It’s okay, really. I’ll just … I can cope!” They added a smile to that. “And I get it, I like to help strangers too, but I’d just … feel bad if I left, we’re understaffed and it’s back to school, so my colleagues …” Wynne glanced at them, feeling bad about potentially leaving even if the thought made new tears jump to their eyes. They wanted home. Ariadne. “It’s alright.”

—

“I think we did, too.” He replied, keeping his dark eyes on them as he gauged what they were going to do with the money as they gave another empty laugh. Gael wasn’t sure if this was a case of forcing oneself through the pain out of necessity or if they took it literally, but he was reminded of Ariana and how he had to be very literal. Of course one couldn’t stand on a broken leg, but a lot of people, whether they were like Ariana or not, didn’t treat their brains like the important, tender organ that it was. He didn’t want to dwell on it, though; they weren’t here to get a lecture from him, regardless of the intent. They also didn’t want to seem to want his money, something that he found a lot more common around there; was this another case of pride? Gael wondered if maybe he was doing something wrong or if he should’ve gone about it a different way. Then again, it never seemed to be a problem before he moved to Wicked’s Rest. Reluctantly, catching their smile as well as the fresh tears that spiked the corners of their eyes in a conflict of incoming information, he tilted his head and retracted the twenty-dollar bill but kept the ten on the counter. “Well, take that one, at least. It’s a gift.” He lowered his head, glancing up at them with his best puppy dog impression he could, keeping his expression gentle. “And if you reeeeally don’t want it, then give it to someone you care about. Or spend it on someone you care about.” He paused. “Is there… anything else I can do to help, kiddo?” He asked.

—

“Well, it’s good to meet you! Sometimes people say you shouldn’t trust people online, but you seem like a real trustworthy … person,” they said, adding a smile to their statement. This was a true one, at least, contrary to them saying that they were quite alright, actually. Gael did seem like a really polite and kind man, just as he had online, and Wynne was glad for that at the very least. Even if some of that kindness was hard to accept.

They watched him leave one of the bills on the counter and hesitated a moment before taking it. “Okay. I’ll … get something nice for dinner, I think! So I can just relax when I get home. And not cook.” Or they would get Ariadne and themself a bunch of candy and eat that instead. Their appetite was still a little lopsided. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

What could he do to help, though? “I um, think you’ve done enough, just by being understanding.” Not everyone was. Some people just wanted their coffee and didn’t care who made it or how they felt, as long as it was done ASAP. “Maybe I can still make you your drink? I’d feel better if I at least helped you with what you wanted.” Wynne meant it, too. They didn’t want him to leave empty handed. And so they exhaled, moving back to the till. “What milk … did you want with your ….?” They paused, chuckled almost truly amusedly. “I don’t remember.”

—

Their smile, one that actually held positivity behind it, offered some relief to Gael who took that as his cue to straighten up once more. The feeling was only helped as they actually accepted the money he offered and he nodded. “Dinner, snacks. Just something to help relax.” He paused. “I’m a beef jerky fiend, myself. Sometimes with blue raspberry Air Heads. Love when they turn my tongue blue, it’s always so exciting.” He leaned back now, keeping his dark, sparkling eyes on Wynne’s diminutive frame. They looked almost doll-like and his gaze danced over their features for a moment before he smiled. “I’d love that.” Gael took a couple of side steps until he was over near the register once more and he glanced up at the menu. “Let’s see, what was it you said earlier… ah! An iced latte with elderflower syrup. Right. I remember.” He paused before giving her a slightly mischievous look. “Do you have any oat milk?” He could barely get the sentence out before his grin turned sheepish in spite of himself. “Sorry, too soon. Whole milk is fine.”

— “I think I can figure something like that out, yes,” they said, already thinking about sharing a nice snack with Ariadne while curled up. Of course, it would be their girlfriend’s presence that would relax them most of all, but a treat always helped. “I don’t know those, the Air Heads, but I will look for them. A blue tongue, that sounds like it would be funny.” Wynne wanted funny, mindless and stupid funny. Elderflower syrup, that was it. They nodded, putting the order into the till and waiting to hear what milk he wanted, only to gaze up with wide eyes at the mention of oat milk. Luckily, he was joking. “Oh!” They let out a breathy laugh, one that sounded like they were relieved. “Okay. An iced elderflower latte with whole milk.” They clicked the button for a 25% discount, then proceeded so that Gael could pay and they could start with the drink from scratch. It took a minute or two, but eventually they offered the cup to him (adorned with the name Gale, despite them having read his name online). “Thank you for stepping by. And for being a patient customer.” Wynne hoped to see a world one day filled with more people like that.

#wickedswriting #writing: Mourning Coffee #writing with: Wynne

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morgana-ren · 1 year

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*Oh boy. Like this community needed another bite night scene. Mostly just playing with the idea of a secretive, "modest" paladin OC. I'm not super great at building tension (normal or sexual flavor) so any notes you have feel free.

Face to Face

He's definitely staring at her again. She can feel it.

She'd like to say it's her Divine Sense. Granted, the tadpole had definitely left her weaker than before. Her Divine Sense was practically nonexistent when she first awoke on the beach. Her pool of healing was the smallest she could remember it ever being. No, she could not honestly say this was a warning from Him.

The pale elf had made a particularly bad first impression having abused her Oath and held her at knife point. She shrugged the conflict off shortly afterwards, playing the part of the ever forgiving Ilmatari and the honor bound Paladin. After all, they were only so recently all abducted and...violated by Ilithid monsters. They were all vulnerable.

Still.

Forgiving the transgression and forgetting that was his first instinct were two entirely different things. Tav was kind, but she was no fool. Astarion may believe differently but that mattered little to her.

No, the itch in her skin was all her. One didn't need a sign from God to see that Astarion was not a good man. Though she could not yet say he was an entirely evil man either.

With a deep sigh that echoed from within her helm, Tav turned to look at the elf. Instead of looking caught rudely staring , he suddenly straighten up and smiled as if having finally been noticed by an inattentive servant. Still he said nothing. The paladin gave it a few more beats before asking.

"...Can I help you?"

"You know..." he raises a finger to his chin innocently enough. "I just realized we've been traveling together for days now and...I've yet to see your face. I'm curious. "

Nonsense....was what she wanted to say. Yet, she could not honestly do so. So she said nothing.

"I don't even see you take it off to eat. You take your meals elsewhere I've noticed. Are you going out of your way? Are you..." he lets out a theatric little gasp. "Are you hiding something, darling? "

"You also take your meals away from the group. Are you?" He seems slightly offended by that.

" I've seen you sleep fully armored up against a tree."

"Lae'zel also does that. "

The githyaki ahead of them glances back at the mention of her name, narrowing her eyes before returning to her marching. Wyll, who had just been casually talking himself, glanced back with her.

"Doing okay back there? "

Astarion smiled and answered with a confident "Of course!" and a flourish of his hands. Tav gave a simple nod.

Wyll raised an eyebrow and returned his attention to Lae'zel. Astarion returned his to Tav. He lowers his voice an octave. His voice is smooth and...admittedly suave.

"So. What are you hiding under all that armor?"

Her embarrassingly red face for one.

Tav scolds herself for blushing like some virginal acolyte from the convents. She could bury herself in as much plate and mail as she could stand to carry but the moment her light, lilting tone echoed out from beneath her helm people became curious. She disliked the attention.

"Skin. Bones. Blood."

He chuckles into his hand at that.

"I mean, what do you look like under all that metal, darling? You have such a... sweet voice. "

"Hideous."

He raised an eyebrow. He wasn't expecting that.

"Oh? Is that true?" Tav sighed. Perhaps sharing the parameters of her Oath with the group was a tad misguided.

Irritating man.

"...I'm hideous by someone's standards, I'm sure. Right, Lae'zel?"

The githyanki doesn't even turn around this time. The one occasion Tav actually wants to hear her disparaging remarks. Wyll sneaks a look back, trying and failing to not look curious himself. These people are a trial from the higher plane, nothing could convince her otherwise.

Tav thanks the Broken God when Lae'zel calls the group's attention away from her and to some carrion along the road.

---------

Holy water. She needs to make holy water.

Tav wondered if she'd be able to perform the ceremony necessary with the current tadpole situation. The rest of the hike to camp was tense. The knowledge there was some undead creature lurking in the forest near their camp left the group quiet. Even that Astarion fellow seemed put off by the discovery of the poor, drained boar. Once they arrived the whole camp quietly discussed their findings. Tav added little to the conversation. Choosing instead to contemplate.

It made little sense to her. Vampires didn't just wander the countryside. They needed places to hide from the sun when it rose, thinking creatures to feed from, vampire covens nested in cities where there were plenty of both. However the creature came to be here, the truth of the matter was that it was stalking around out there and quite possibly desperate if it was feeding from wildlife...

Tav once again feels her skin itch and looks up to catch Astarion nonchalantly walking towards her. He's been noticeably quiet since their return, as well.

"You've been awfully quiet..." he makes a show of dropping his shoulders and pouting. "You see, this is why I didn't want to say anything! You're all...tied up in knots, poor thing. "

"Just thinking. Do not worry yourself. "

"Thinking about?"

"You."

He freezes for a moment and cocks his head at her. ".... Really? Darling, I'm flattered. "

She chuckles a little at that. "Don't be. It was a joke." He huffs at her as if offended but visibly relaxes.

"How funny. Well, I'll be keeping watch tonight so you don't worry your pretty little...tin head." He gave her helm a light tap with his knuckle with the last part. No doubt a little barb to remind her he hadn't been completely distracted form their earlier conversation. Irritating man.

She gives him a silent nod of acknowledgment and begins gathering materials. He doesn't immediately go away and, judging by how much her skin itched, hadn't stopped staring either. She gets up to fetch water without a word and returns without him even acknowledging she had ever left. He almost seems a little awkward hovering over her like that. It was actually beginning to amuse her a little.

"Can I help you? " She doesn't bother looking up.

"Going to take a bath? I'm sure you're rather ripe after spending the last few days baking in all that metal." He makes a rather foppish gesture as he says it, hovering closer than she liked. Not that telling him such ever did anything.

"I'm going to make this water Holy."

He stills at that. Perhaps the reality of the situation is dawning on him. As vicious as he seems, he's still just some noble from Baldur's Gate. She almost feels sorry for the fellow.

"It's just in case. Don't you worry. " she says quietly.

"... You're not worried? "

"No. I'm not."

She dips her fingers in the now holy water and flicks it at him. He jerks back so quickly she fears she might have gone too far. He looks momentarily startled but quickly clears his throat and straightens his jacket. Tav was thankful he couldn't see the smile it brought to her face. He reminded her of some sort of fancy cat trying to avoid getting wet.

"You said you were taking watch tonight? " She asks. He nods. "I'll sleep better for that. Thank you. " she says sincerely. He gives her a tight lipped grin.

"Good. Sweet dreams, darling. "

Tav usually sleeps like the dead. Having traveled for so long with the Order, she was used to sleeping anywhere and everywhere. Between strange dreams, she feels something pull her awake. She's slow to realize the gentle pull she feels is her helm slowly being pulled from her head. The moment it clicks into place, she jerks awake and looks straight at the offender.

"....Shit." the perpetrator pulls away from her the moment she looks up.

Astarion.

The unbelievable nerve of this pompous, entitled ass! There are tadpoles in their brains. They're stranded up the Sword Coast. There's a God's forsaken vampire lurking about and he thinks to pull a stunt like this. For what? To see her face? She could've killed him! In what world-

"No, no! It's not what it looks like! " Tav stood straight up at that and he followed. He looks nervous. He should be. "I wasn't going to hurt you! I- I just needed....well, blood." He finally admits, sounding defeated. Tav goes completely still with this admission.

By the Broken Lord, how did she not see it?

His deep, red eyes. The polite tight lipped smiles to hide what are now quite obviously very sharp fangs. She thought his picky eating was a quirk of his noble pedigree. His pale skin from having never worked in the sun a day in his life. She had assumed so much. She curses herself for doing so. Curses her Divine Sense for failing her. Failing this group.

She won't fail now.

She quickly grabs for a weapon but Astarion is just as quick. He slaps it from her hands indignantly.

"Oh no, there's no need for that!"

Astarion tries his best to look proud, even under the faceless gaze of the paladin's helm.

"I'm not a monster! I only feed on animals, I swear! Deer, boars, kobolds.I need to hunt but I'm... just too weak right now. If I only had a little blood, I could fight better. Think clearer! I only needed a taste. I promise....please? "

Tav hesitated at that. Vampires were powerful, charming undead creatures. Tav never heard of one politely asking for blood. She also never heard of them walking in daylight.

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

He looks at her like she'd spoken in tongues. "Why would I tell an Ilmatari Paladin? What could I say? I feared you'd chase me away or drive a stake through my ribs. No. I needed you to trust me. And you can! Trust me. Please. "

In that moment, they're both reminded of their tadpole stowaways. They both wince with a sudden foreign wriggle behind the eye. A twinge of forced sympathy connects them. Tav feels sick with fear, hunger, and shame. Astarion has a look of resigned distrust, perhaps expecting her to capitalize on the situation. Simply bracing for whatever she has planned.

He is undead. Unholy. She should run him through. Strike him down. Yet.

Yet, he has been feeding on animals. He asked to join this group. While he complains near constantly, he's proven capable and willing to help them survive. He has obviously not charmed anyone. Save for Wyll, the group could hardly stand him most days. No children from the grove have gone missing. No one has awoken with holes in their neck. Was he an incorrigible ass? Yes. Was he a monster? Tav was much less sure.

"....I do. " she says quietly.

Astarion perks up at this. Surprised and unsure how to proceed. They hear one of their group suddenly choke on a snore and both freeze in place. When the moment passes and there's no more noise the two both relax. Astarion swallows before continuing.

"Good. Do you think... you could trust me a little more? "

The audacity of this man. Honestly.

Tav crosses her arms in warning. Astarion looks up waryily at her for a moment before doubling down.

"We don't have a choice! I need you alive and you need me strong. " he catches himself and softens his tone. "....Please? It'll only be a taste. I swear. "

Tav stares into his eyes from beneath her helm. Blood red. She shames herself again for not noticing his unholy nature sooner. Her chest aches whenever he looks at her with those...eyes. She's gone out of her way to avoid his gaze. She knew he was... dangerous when she first looked into those eyes but it wasn't until now realizes truly why.

With the feelings from their brief connection lingering in the back of her mind, Tav found it harder to steel herself. The longer she looked at his face, somewhere between pleading and begrudging, the less she saw a monster and the more she saw...well, Astarion.

Irritating man.

Tav sighs and reaches up for her helm. Astarion looks confused before his eyes widen in realization. She was agreeing.

"Not a drop more than you need."

She wants to cringe at how different her voice sounds. What little the metallic echo of her helm did to roughen her voice was completely lost. It was difficult to be imposing or commanding when you look and sound as she did. She felt vulnerable.

"O-of course! I'll be as gentle as a lamb." He slips back to his usual posh tone so easily, she almost forgets what she's agreeing to.

Almost.

Thankfully, Astarion keeps his expression unreadable. She watches his eyes dart around her face, taking in every detail. She keeps her eyes trained on him while standing stiff as a board. Daring him to say something. He cautiously approaches the paladin, as if she'd change her mind and run him through at any moment. When she was finally close enough to touch, he gently reaches a hand up to touch her face. She slaps the hand away with no resistance. He's not the least bit offended. If anything, it only seems to amuse him.

"Let's make ourselves more comfortable, shall we?"

Tav feels her exposed face grow unbearably hot. She feels the situation is quickly slipping out of her control. He gently presses his fingertips into her shoulder and she practically jumps in the opposite direction. He smirks at her reaction. A little tit for tat for the holy water earlier that night. He begins herding her towards the ground. The paladin resists.

"What do you think you're doing?"

He shushes her like a spooked animal. "Darling, I think it best if you lie down for this."

Tav sighs in annoyance and defeat. She lays back down into her bedroll, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to ground herself. She realizes the ache in her chest has been replaced with a rapid drumming. She places her hands against her pounding chest and lies there like she's awaiting her last rites. When she feels Astarion fall to his knees beside her, she opens her eyes to the sight of him over her. Her entire body somehow goes both unbelievably hot and worryingly cold. She wants to brings her hands up to his chest and push him away. Ask for time to think about it. To reflect. To pray. She knows she should. Yet, when he leans in close and she feels his weight hovering over her, his breath against her neck, she is lost. It was too late.

He strikes so fast it takes a second for her to register what had happened. It was like a shared of ice in her neck. A sudden sharp stab that bloomed into a dull throbbing. Her heart somehow begins to beat even harder. She can almost feel every inch of her skin light up beneath him. She was suddenly very aware of every inch of his body and how close it was to her. She felt his mouth against her neck and realized she could feel him drinking from her. Consuming her. The realization sent her head spinning. She begins to squirm against him and lets out an humiliating whine when she feels his hands press her down in response. It's just too much. Overwhelmed, Tav tries to say enough but her mouth is shut tight, terrified of what other noise might come out. She tries to take deep breaths to calm herself, but they quickly devolve into ragged pants. When she feels the chill begin to creep up her body she knows this has to stop.

"A-astarion."

He didn't stop. In fact, he seems to be getting more lost in her as each moment passes.

Tav tries not to panic.

" E-enough. Stop. I need you to stop."

She manages to press her hands up into him this time and feels him jerk back into the moment. He releases her with a gasp. Leaning over her a few moments longer as he collects himself.

Despite having successfully detached the vampire with blood to spare, Tav was as tightly wound as ever. Her eyes still closed, she focuses on the sound of his panting over her, feeling even warmer than before. When she hears a breathy chuckle escape him she opens her eyes to see him genuinely smiling, her still warm blood dripping from his mouth. A feeling she doesn't wholly recognize washes over her body and she swears she feels her heart miss a few beats. This should disgust her. She should flinch at the sight. Yet.

He distracts her from her turmoil when he finally does gets up. He's quick to stand over her, and Tav can't help but feel even more vulnerable because of it. Unable to do anything else, Tav simply manages to sit up and look at him.

"Gods, that... that was amazing. I never realized..." he's still composing himself as he speaks. "I feel so strong. Confident! ...Happy."

Strangely enough, this actually made the Ilmatari feel somewhat better about the decision.

There is a noticeable difference in him now. Tav wonders how long he'd gone without before tonight. How long he'd been going without when she met him. He looks healthy. She didn't think him a corpse when they met, but seeing him now made her realize just how dead he looked before.

He finally looks over at her to catch her staring. Still dazed, Tav doesn't look away. She just continues to study this new Astarion. He studies this new Tav in turn. Without looking away, he wipes the blood from his chin and licks it from his hand. Tav can't seem to bring herself to look away either. He lets out a contented sigh when he finishes the last drop. Tav feels herself swallow with him. He chuckles in that low tone Tav hates.

"Well, darling. You are invigorating, but I need to find myself something a little more...filling."

Tav simply nods. While Astarion has recovered himself better than ever before, Tav still sits dazed on her bedroll without words. He seems to hesitate a moment when he turns to leave. Perhaps suddenly feeling some obligation. Tav waves him off.

"I...look forward to seeing you in a fight now. "

He laughs. "Won't be long. So many people need killing and now I can fight with all my weapons." He flashes her a smile with no fear of showing his fangs. It's new. She has to keep herself from smiling back.

"Now, if you'll excuse me."

She nods her head to him and he gives a courtly bow. It earns a chuckle out of her. His dangerous smile widens even further. He turns to leave but stills for a moment with his back turned to her.

"....Thank you, by the way. "

With that Tav watches him stalk confidently into the night. No longer trying to save what little face she has, Tav collapses back into her bedroll. Her head is now swimming and her heart still racing. She clumsily removes her glove and traces her fingers along the punctures in her neck. She drifts off with one hand on her neck and the other over the dull ache in her chest.

#submission #Astarion #Morgana and friends #Friend writing <3 #WHEW checked the inbox for the first time in a lil while today and I got some GEMS in here boy!

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vavandeveresfan · 3 months

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"‘Barbie’ is bad. There, I said it." Thank god, someone I can agree with!

Opinion by Pamela Paul for the NYT, January 24, 2024.

We can all agree 2023 was a good year for the movies. Critically and commercially, several movies did well, and only one of those successes took place within the Marvel cinematic universe. Even the 10 Oscar nominees for best picture, announced Tuesday, included nine actually good films.

Is it safe now to call “Barbie” the outlier? Can I say that, despite winsome leads and likable elements, it didn’t cohere or accomplish anything interesting, without being written off as a) mean, b) old, c) hateful or d) humorless?

Every once in a while, a movie is so broadly anticipated, so welcomed, so celebrated that to disparage it felt like a deliberate provocation. After “Barbie” so buoyantly lifted box office figures, it also felt like a willful dismissal of the need to make Hollywood solvent after a season of hell. And it felt like a political statement. Disliking “Barbie” meant either dismissing the power of The Patriarchy or dismissing Modern Feminism. You were either anti-feminist or too feminist or just not the right kind.

Few dared rain on Barbie’s hot pink parade.

Those who openly hated it mostly did so for reasons having to do with what it “stood for.” They abhorred its (oddly anachronistic) third-wave feminist politics. They despised its commercialism and dreaded the prospect of future films about Mattel properties such as Barney and American Girl dolls. They hated the idea of a movie about a sexualized pinup-shaped doll whose toy laptop or Working Woman (“I really talk!”) packaging couldn’t hide the stereotypes under the outfit.

For those who hailed it, there was a manic quality to the “Barbie” enthusiasm, less an “I enjoyed” and more of an “I endorse.” How fabulous its consumer-friendly politics, its I-can’t-believe-they-let-us-do-this micro-subversions, its prepackaged combo of gentle satire and you-go-girl gumption. They loved it for reclaiming dolls and Bazooka-gum pink, its Rainbow Magic diversity, its smug assurance that everything contained within was legitimately feminist/female/fine. They approved of the fact that Weird Barbie’s quirks could X out Stereotypical Barbie’s perfection on some unspoken political balance sheet. That by being everything to everyone, a plastic doll could validate every child’s own unique and irrepressible individuality. To each her own Barbie!

And now there is a new Barbie cause to rally around: the Great Oscar Snub and what it all means — and why it is wrong. Neither Margot Robbie nor Greta Gerwig was nominated for best actress or best director, respectively. “How is that even possible?” one TV host exclaimed.

“To many, the snubbing of the pair further validated the film’s message about how difficult it can be for women to succeed in —<em> and be recognized for </em>— their contributions in a society saturated by sexism,” CNN explained. Ryan Gosling, nominated as best supporting actor for his role as Ken, issued a statement denouncing the snubs and hailing his colleagues.

But hold on. Didn’t another woman, Justine Triet, get nominated for best director (for “Anatomy of a Fall”)? As for “Barbie,” didn’t Gerwig herself get nominated for best adapted screenplay and the always sublime America Ferrera get nominated for best supporting actress? A record three of the best picture nominees were directed by women. It’s not as if women were shut out.

Every time a woman fails to win an accolade doesn’t mean failure for womanhood. Surely women aren’t so pitiable as to need a participation certificate every time we try. We’re well beyond the point where a female artist can’t be criticized on the merits and can’t be expected to handle it as well as any man. (Which means it still hurts like hell for either sex — but not because of their sex.)

Robbie had far less to do in “Barbie” than she did in “I, Tonya,” for which she justifiably got an Oscar nod. In this movie, she was charming and utterly fine, but that doesn’t make it a rare dramatic achievement.

With “Barbie,” Gerwig upped her commercial game from acclaimed art house to bona fide blockbuster. She was demonstrably ambitious in her conception of what could have been an all-out disaster. She got people to go back to the movies. All of these are successes worthy of celebration. But they are not the same as directing a good film.

Surely it is possible to criticize “Barbie” as a creative endeavor. To state that despite its overstuffed playroom aesthetic and musical glaze, the movie was boring. There were no recognizable human characters, something four “Toy Story” movies have shown can be done in a movie populated by toys.

There were no actual stakes, no plot to follow in any real or pretend world that remotely made sense. In lieu of genuine laughs, there were only winking ha-has at a single joke improbably stretched into a feature-length movie. The result produced the forced jollity of a room in which the audience is strenuously urged to “sing along now!”

A few reviewers had the gall to call it. The New York Post described it as “exhausting” and a “self-absorbed and overwrought disappointment,” a judgment for which the reviewer was likely shunned as a houseguest for the remaining summer season.

In our culture of fandoms, hashtags, TikTok sensations, semi-ironic Instagrammable cosplay, embedded anonymous reviews, sponsored endorsements and online grassroots marketing campaigns, not every critical opinion is a deliberate commentary on the culture or the virtue-signaling of an open letter. Sometimes an opinion isn’t some kind of performance or signifier.

There’s a crucial difference between liking the idea of a movie and liking the movie itself. Just as you could like “Jaws” without wanting to instigate a decadeslong paranoia about shark attacks, you can dislike “Barbie” without hating on women. Sometimes a movie is just a movie. And sometimes, alas, not a good one.

#Barbie #Barbie salt #barbie critical

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vizthedatum · 12 days

Note

What disability do you have and do you have state aid? It’s rough

I have endometriosis, PCOS, PMDD, interstitial cystitis (IC) (the bane of my life), IBS (but thankfully, this has been more managed than ever lately), interrelated conditions, and just pain/fatigue issues all over my body (my mom has fibro, so maybe that?). I've had lower back surgery in my mid-twenties and have had very minimal back/spine issues since then, for which I'm thankful. My IC can get so bad sometimes that I often have recurrent UTIs (I'm hoping that this will be more managed over time). I also am auDHD and have a PTSD diagnosis. And depression and anxiety diagnoses, meh.

The trauma states can get so bad.

I'm often not doing well, but my whole life, I've been pushed to go past my disabilities. I am now in my thirties, and I'm extremely burnt out. Since leaving my ex-spouse, I have regained more and more of my functionality, but I'm still juggling to make it all work.

I have an immense amount of community support. My younger brother is on state and federal disability aid, but I am not.

I am, at the moment, pushing myself to work full-time (remote thankfully - most of my work can be done on the computer) with disability accommodations (at my place of work).

Unfortunately, money/finances can go a long way to accommodate disability - but it is also hard to get that money.

The reason why I'm working so hard is so that I can clear my debts, do meaningful work in my field (disabled people have A LOT to contribute, and I do research in healthcare), and save up for my future for when I may have to apply for state/federal aid.

I have worked really hard to gain my degrees and knowledge. I also want to live a good life, so I'm trying to make it work with the disabling conditions, my desire to live a full life, and my desire to have a comfortable life in my later years.

I've said this before in my blog, but my high school counselor told me a couple of times that I may be homeless due to my behavior (my disabilities... *eye roll*), and my parents have disparaged me similarly. It has stuck with me, and I am deeply afraid. I truly don't think anyone will ever take care of me. My parents failed to, and after being discarded by my ex-spouse, I have come to realize that no one can and no one will want to. I am not a child anymore, and many of my long-term ex-partners viewed me as a sex object who did things for them (eventually being a person they weren't attracted to anymore, eventually being a person who was too dramatic and too disabled to be in their life). My friends help when they can, and that's all I have.

It's just me, until I can't juggle everything anymore.

And sadly, I like having material things and being able to enjoy my hobbies (which cost money, materially)... so I work.

#anon ask #disability #healing #neurodivergence #trauma #disabilities #disabled #actually disabled #interstitial cystitis

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whoinventedwhat · 1 year

Text

I’m just going to say it in a very nice way, because you know what? I wasn’t that nice when I first said it. But I stand by my point.

I think it’s fair to be angry at certain fans who think Buddy Daddies plagiarises SxF. That is certainly not the case.

But I also think that it’s disrespectful to say that certain fans think SxF created the Found Family Trope. This is certainly also not the case, and there are enough crossovers between SxF and different animes/mangas before Buddy Daddies even came out to prove that this statement is so wrong. It is disrespectful because that implies that fans are stupid to be angry, and that they are angry at nothing, when they do have a very legit reason to be angry, or at least, to feel icky. When you look at the timeline, PA Works made their choices. It’s not illegal, but certainly is questionable. But it’s okay that you think it’s something normal and people shouldn’t care much about it. I’m not going to change your mind, but you will have to accept that there is a possibility that some people won’t feel better just because Buddy Daddies is not a carbon copy of SxF.

I still think PA Works took the risk - if there isn’t the SxF manga, and if the manga is not such a commercial success even before SxF got animated, it could just be a coincident. And you know what? You can still enjoy Buddy Daddies because that’s just an educated guess, but it’s still a guess nonetheless. You can interpret the timeline in a very different way. You can totally disagree with me. You can even think this is no big deal.

I’m not saying that some fans are not overreacting. And I don’t think it’s worth it to be that angry, because not even SxF creators care that much. However, if your point is that people should be allowed to enjoy both shows, and that they should stop arguing, disparaging others and making them sound stupid is not going to help. At this point both sides are just arguing about different things, and keep pissing off more and more people.

This is me trying to end the argument, knowing that it would fail miserably.

#buddy daddies #spy x family

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slusheeduck · 4 months

Text

For Want Of A Wish

[I] [II]

III. Crossroad

“Falerin, darling, let me see your gloves.”

“Is this the time?”

“After seeing the way you got caught in those brambles just now? Obviously.” As Falerin handed them over, Astarion tutted. “I knew I should have reinforced the stitching yesterday. All that custom work, unraveled by some piddling little thorns.” He took a needle, already threaded, from his bag, and quickly stitched up a hole right at the fingertip. A few moments later, he shook his head as he handed them back. “There’s no fixing the embroidery, but your hands will be safe. At any rate, are you sure we’re going the right way?”

The sun had just dipped beneath the horizon when Falerin and Astarion left their home, Gale in tow, but the Neverwinter woods were already dark—hence the bramble situation just a moment before—with a chill in the air as they made their way through the trees. They made for a quiet party, and Falerin had fallen back into leading the group as they picked their way through. This time, at least, he actually knew what he was looking for.

“This is the way I went last time, so yes,” he said. “My mentor–a dwarven wizard, wonderful fellow–told me to take care out here in the woods because of the fey that like to flit between worlds here. So, naturally, I decided to not take care.”

“If he was a wizard of merit, he should have known better than to say that,” Gale said. “Not to disparage your mentor, of course, but saying ‘don’t do this’ to an acolyte practically guarantees it’s going to be done. I can’t tell you how many singed robes and late-night healings came from well-meaning teachers warning against trying spells outside of my skill level.”

Fal smiled over his shoulder. “Fineas was a great teacher, really, but he underestimated how desperate I was. He told me how to use Faerie Fire to see where fey had been–handy for finding crossroads, which I should definitely never ever approach.”

“So why did you go the fey route?” Astarion asked, eyes flicking around them. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned it. But there must have been plenty of devils willing to give you some more time.”

“I liked my chances better,” Falerin said, giving a little shrug. “With devils–as we all know with Raphael and Mizora–you’re always going to lose. With fey, you have the slimmest chance of catching them on a good day and gaining their favor.”

“Which is what you did?”

“Mm. I was very lucky.” Falerin stopped suddenly, listening. After a moment, he continued walking. “I think my patron thought I was very funny when I first came in, demanding a place in her court.”

“Demanding?” Gale and Astarion echoed incredulously. Falerin glanced back at them.

“Y…es? Is that a surprise?”

Astarion crossed his arms. “I’ve lived with you for three years now. In all that time, and in all the Absolute bullshit we dealt with, you’ve been painfully easy-going. I don’t think I’ve heard you demand a single thing, outside of when absolutely necessary.”

“It made you a very good mediator,” Gale added. “If…muddling your morals here and there. But you’re very lucky indeed if she didn’t opt for, I don’t know, turning you into a chair to be used for her courtiers.”

Falerin’s mouth turned up. “It tempered me, living there,” he said. “When I went in, I was so angry. And very rude, since I thought I didn’t have enough time to make manners worthwhile. They broke me of that very fast.” He looked back at them. “It kind of dulled over time–I was kept very well, and there was less to be angry about. I don��t think it really came back until…well, when your siblings came to our room, Astarion.”

“You did knock out a man via headbutt,” Gale mused.

“You what? You failed to mention that after my rescue.” Astarion made a show of fanning himself. “Just when I thought I couldn’t be more attracted to you.”

Fal chuckled, and he just started to turn to comment before he suddenly stopped. His face went blank, eyes staring straight ahead but mind clearly a million realms away. “Do you hear that?” he asked, voice airy and vague.

Gale tilted his head, listening curiously, as Astarion frowned. “Hear what?” the vampire asked.

Falerin gave a funny little smile. “Laughter.” He stifled down a giggle of his own, as if it were infectious. “Nearly there.”

Astarion sent a glance over at Gale, who returned it just as dubiously. The wizard shook his head—clearly he didn’t hear anything, either. Astarion sighed, but continued after Falerin. Suddenly, though, he stopped, head cocked.

“Not just laughter,” he said, reaching forward to grab Falerin’s collar. “Someone’s there.”

Falerin’s smile faded, and as they stood still, another set of footsteps continued on. Astarion looked between the two of them, then drew his blade and pointed to himself. “I’ll take care of it,” he mouthed to them, then crept toward the steps, his own feet silent on the forest floor.

He went still for a moment, simply listening. Then, quick as anything, he darted forward, rapier going right toward their unwitting companion’s throat. He was met with a bronze-scaled dragonborn, outfitted in what was clearly bardswear, staring up at him with pupils that had nearly consumed his entire eye. His hands went up; in one, he carried a lyre.

“Oh, I’m not…I’m not any trouble!” he assured quickly. “I’m just on a quest. Little personal quest, nothing dangerous!” His eyes flicked about, then suddenly the pupil got even wider. “I-I don’t have any money! The most valuable thing I have are my clothes!”

Astarion rolled his eyes as he stepped back, sheathing his rapier. “We’re fine,” he drawled back to Gale and Falerin. “It’s just an idiot adventurer.”

“Well, I…I’m a bard, actually,” the dragonborn said. “Barger the bard! Isn’t that catchy?”

“It’s certainly…alliterative,” Gale said, ducking under a tree branch as he and Falerin caught up. Fal walked up to Astarion, giving his side a light little whack.

“You’re scaring him, Astarion,” he whispered.

“I’m not doing anything. His face is just like that,” Astarion shot back, gesturing to Barger. The dragonborn’s eyes were flicking between all three of them, and he suddenly sucked in a loud breath, startling all of them.

“Oh my GODS,” he exclaimed. “You’re the heroes of Baldur’s Gate!”

“Oh, how lovely. We have a fan,” Astarion said flatly, looking none-too-thrilled.

Falerin gave an awkward smile. “We’re…look, we’re just trying to…”

“Hahaaa, you can’t fool me,” Barger said, tapping his snout knowingly. “We have the Wizard of Waterdeep…”

Gale tried not to preen, failing spectacularly. “Well, guilty as charged, I suppose.”

“Contempt of the court,” Astarion muttered, swiftly taking the wind out of Gale’s sails. The wizard sent him a flat look.

“Really, Astarion?”

“Don’t use phrases like that in front of a magistrate, darling. You can’t expect me to help myself.”

“And you’re the Pale Elf!” Barger interrupted, pointing to Astarion. His finger then turned to Falerin. “And the Gallant of the Underdark!”

Falerin blinked. “Is…that what they’re calling me?”

“Well…yeah. You’re a drow.”

“I’m a half-drow, and I’m from Neverwinter!” Falerin rubbed his forehead. “Gods, this is why we moved. Did Volo come up with this?”

“Mm-hm. I’ve just come from Baldur’s Gate, I was able to actually meet him,” Barger said with a dreamy sigh. “He mentioned you the most—said you were like an up-and-coming Drizzt Do’Urden!”

Falerin wasn’t looking at Astarion, but he heard the excited inhale from just behind him. He held up a hand before the vampire could speak. “If you make the Drizzt Don’t’Urden joke, I’m going to fucking divorce you.”

“You’d have to marry me first,” Astarion said, then startled as Barger let out a loud laugh.

“Oh, you’re funny! I didn’t expect that,” he said. “I thought…well, I mean, I thought you’d be a lot more tortured. You know? With the spawn thing and the Cazador stuff?”

“I certainly feel tortured right now,” Astarion muttered, then took Falerin’s arm. “At any rate, our days of adopting whatever strays we’ve found are behind us. Shoo.”

“Oh, but I won’t be a bother!” Barger said as the three resumed their trek into the forest. “Really! And every party needs a bard.”

“We…didn’t have a bard, did we?” Gale asked, looking to the other two.

“Not unless you counted Karlach’s caterwauling after a few too many pints,” Astarion said. He grimaced as Barger gasped—he was following after them.

“Karlach? The Fury of Avernus? Is she here with you? She’s my favorite.”

“She should be,” Falerin said, shooting Barger a little smile. “She’s the best. But no, she’s not with us this time.”

“I personally would love to see her in the Fey court,” Gale said. “I think her brand of…forthrightness would be a breath of fresh air.”

Falerin snorted. “I’d pay to see it,” he said, scanning around. “Fey as a whole are…well, they thrive on chaos, but they don’t really know what to do when chaos finds them.” He jolted as Barger’s snout popped over his shoulder.

“Are you…going to the fey court?” he asked, voice hushed. Falerin blinked.

“Er, yes.”

“Why are you telling him—” Astarion started to complain, only to be cut off by yet another gasp.

“I’m going to the fey court!” Barger said, then gave a few strums on his lyre for emphasis. “I heard there was a fey crossroad here, and I’m setting off on my own adventure.”

“Are you now?” Falerin glanced back at him. “Well, it’s, uh, it’s probably not what you’re expecting.”

“Oh, I know it’s not all pixies and unicorns,” Barger said with a little huff. “I’m fully ready to take on the dangers of the fey. But if I can charm them with my music, I’ll be golden.” He paused. “Well…I’m already kind of golden, but you know what I mean.” He gave a dreamy sigh. “And if I can find the favor of one…”

“You want to be a warlock, then?” Gale asked, with no small amount of distrust. “There are better ways to be able to wield magical power, you know—no offense, Fal.”

“None taken.”

“But dedicating yourself to magic as a craft, truly understanding the Weave and all it entails, being able to use your own abilities to shape it as you will can…”

“Oh! Oh, no. No, I don’t want to wield magic. I want to be famous,” Barger said. “I, uh, I’ve never been good with magic. Or weapons, really. But I figured learning the lyre was easy enough, and so I decided that I’d be a bard. And if I can get that fey favor—you know, there are kinds of fey that can give you inspiration with just a kiss! So if I can do that, and get their favor, I can have unimaginable talent and join the likes of Volo.”

Falerin grimaced. “I…don’t know if that’s the right way to go about it,” he said. “Working with the fey isn’t…it’s not something where you put tokens in and get favor out. They’re temperamental.”

“Yeah, well, so is my mother!” Barger said with a laugh.

“Mm.” Falerin’s expression didn’t lighten, but his faraway look returned. “She’s laughing.”

Barger looked around. “Um…who?”

“My patron. She’s laughing. That’s…rarely good.” Falerin’s gaze fixed on Barger, purple eye unnaturally bright. “I’d turn back.”

“And miss the chance for a Feywild adventure with Baldur’s Gate’s greatest heroes? No way!” Barger gave his lyre another strum. “I can even give us some traveling music.”

“Strum that again and your hand is as good as mine,” Astarion said flatly. Barger started to laugh, but the look he got—and the threatening fiddling of Astarion’s blade—cut him off.

“Ignore him,” Falerin said. His mouth turned up a bit. “He’s just feeling a little peckish, and dragonborns are his favorite.”

“What?” Barger’s scales paled, and he cowed a bit as Astarion sent him a thoroughly menacing, very pointy grin.

“You know, now that I think about it, we did have a bard, didn’t we?” he said.

“We did! Pennyrose—lovely dragonborn with rose-gold scales, bard just like you. Shame about her. You really ought to feel terrible about that, Astarion.” Fal tutted.

“Oh, darling, I just couldn’t help myself. And she hardly suffered—I’m very neat with my meals.”

“Meals?” Barger echoed weakly.

“Defeating the Absolute’s hard work,” Falerin said with a shrug. “We had to make sacrifices.”

“And even a vampire spawn’s quite the contender if they’re well-fed.” Astarion stepped just a little too close to Barger, making the bard swallow nervously. “And dragonborn blood has just the zest needed to really get me at my best when fighting. In fact, we don’t know what dangers are ahead of us. I could just…”

He leaned in closer, and Barger showed where he’d gotten his name—he barreled forward, nearly taking Falerin down as he sprinted away. Both the half-drow and the vampire burst into laughter as he bolted off into the forest. Gale, meanwhile, gave a long sigh.

“Just a little uncalled for, I think,” he said. “Now all of Baldur’s Gate’s going to be buzzing about how we were cannibals.”

“Oh, please. You know how bards are; he’ll tell everyone we were the best of friends,” Astarion said, waving his hand.

Falerin grinned at Gale. “It’s the kinder thing, anyway. Now, he’ll probably steer clear of the fey.” He paused again, head tilting. “The laughter’s louder now. This way.”

The moon was well and truly high by the time Falerin finally held up his hand, stopping the other two. They had reached a clearing within a copse of trees, with a few stones scattered about. They looked around, and Astarion glanced at Fal. The half-drow’s eyes were wide and far away; he’d be no help, then. He looked to Gale.

“Are you seeing something?” he asked the wizard, voice soft. Gale squinted.

“Not seeing, but…definitely feeling. It’s a strange and wild sort of magic in the air. Makes the hair stand on end,” he whispered back. “Surely you must feel something here as well.”

Astarion pressed his lips together. The air did feel…staticky. “A bit of something…odd. So I think we’re here.”

“We are.” A funny sort of smile crossed Falerin’s face as he looked back at the two of them, purple eye glinting. “Astarion, get your flute out

Astarion nodded, reaching into his little bag. As he pulled out the thin flute, Gale suddenly frowned.

“Wait a moment. Is that from my contingency plan?” he whispered. Astarion looked up.

“Waste not, want not,” he said. “It was Fal’s idea.”

“I wanted a reminder of the experience,” Falerin whispered.

“Of my death?”

“Of how godsdamn overcomplicated you make things. But we’ll discuss this later…well, probably.” He shook his head, then gave Gale a wide smile. “Anyway, I think you’ll like this. Watch.”

With a quick murmur and a wave of his hand, a scattering of bright purple sparks flew up into the sky. The Faerie Fire slowly rained down over the clearing; most of the lights disappeared like sparks after a firework, but a good number settled over…something. It was large, though, and as more sparks illuminated the outline of it, it appeared to be a large archway, asymmetrical and made with some type of stone.

“Oh. Oh, this is…” Gale gave a breathless little laugh as he looked at the archway, eyes very bright. “Just think of what’s through there.” He started to take a step forward, almost hypnotized, but abruptly stumbled back as the ground trembled.

The trees surrounding them twisted and writhed, and with a burst of light, the archway in front of them suddenly came into full view—it was made of jagged gray rock, but while the world around them was dark, and the woods empty, what could be seen through a shimmery, curtain-like mist was a bright summer day, with flowers of all colors beneath a canopy of green and showered with golden light. It was welcoming—more than that, it was beckoning them forward. Come in, it said. Your happiness lies within. Come to a place where summer days never end and you’ll never die.

Abruptly, Falerin gripped both Gale and Astarion’s arms before they could so much as move, breaking the spell. Astarion shook his head while Gale gasped in a breath, and they both looked to him.

“That’s the first test,” he said under his breath, looking at them both very seriously. “If you have the wherewithal to resist going in, you meet the guardian. When it appears, you must have nothing but the best intentions. Speak clearly and honestly when it addresses you.” His odd eyes flicked to Astarion. “Especially you. But the guardian should…”

Falerin was cut off by another great shake through the earth, nearly throwing them all to the ground. From beside the archway, one of the trees seemed to be growing, gnarled roots pushing their way up like arms. The branches and trunk twisted, leaves rustling and falling as the top of the tree shot down to the ground. Finally, when it stilled, what stood before them was…well, not quite a tree and not quite a creature.

The leaves that had stretched overhead now looked more akin to a coat of fur, still rustling as the guardian shifted. Gnarled branches rested on the floor, with too-long fingers stretching toward them. From beneath a wave of leaves, there seemed to be a face made from the knots and swirls of bark. It sat very still for a moment, then suddenly, two eyes opened, large and glowing with unnatural green light. It shifted forward, looking over the three of them. Astarion’s hand started to go toward his rapier, but Falerin caught it.

“Don’t,” he breathed out.

The face tilted, still regarding them. It shifted down owlishly, pausing as got closer to Falerin.

“You wish to cross into the Feywild.” The guardian had no mouth, but its voice was clear as anything—whispery yet filling the entirety of the copse. “What do you seek within?”

“We seek a Wish,” Falerin said, back straight and voice clear. “We ask to pass.”

The guardian stared at him silently for a moment. “Fey-favored,” it finally said. “You may pass at your leisure.” It turned to Gale. “Mage. Do you wish to pass?”

The struggle was clear on Gale’s face. Knowledge, new magic, unspeakable opportunity…all of that was in the sun-soaked land beyond the gate. But, finally, he shook his head.

“I cannot,” he said. “I…wish to see my friends off, and leave without disturbance.”

The guardian tilted its head curiously. “Very well. You may remain, but not pass.” It turned its gaze to Astarion. “You bring death with you to a deathless land, vampire. What do you seek in a place that does not welcome what you are?”

Astarion swallowed. Good intentions, honest words—tall order for him. His eyes flicked to Falerin, then back to the guardian.

“I come seeking a Wish,” he said, voice even. His brain raced, trying to word what he wanted without giving away his plan. “To…to restore a full life.”

The guardian was unreadable, wooden face offering nothing for him to gauge whether it accepted his answer or not. Astarion gripped the flute in his hands tightly, not daring to breathe.

Before it could say anything, though, there was a sudden rush of footsteps from outside the copse. Falerin, Gale, and Astarion all immediately whirled around, tensed and ready for a fight.

“I…I wish to cross!” called an unfortunately familiar voice.

“Oh, fucks sake,” Falerin muttered.

Barger stood at the edge of the clearing, breathing hard and holding up his lyre. Somewhere in his mad dash, he’d lost his hat. The guardian watched him; its face was still unreadable, but there was an undeniable air of curiosity coming from it.

“Very well,” it said. “What do you wish to gain, bard?”

“I…I wish for fame and fortune,” Barger said, eyes bright. “I wish to become favored by the fey.”

The guardian stared at him. “Then show me your heart.”

Barger hesitated. “My…my heart?” he asked.

“Do not waste my time.”

“I-I won’t! I won’t! I just…” The dragonborn’s eyes flitted over to Falerin. The half-drow rolled his eyes, then mimed playing. “Oh! Yes, of course!” He gave a strum of his lyre, then grinned up at the guardian. “Get ready. This is an original from Barger the Bard.”

Barger began to strum at his lyre, plucking out a tune. Technically speaking, it wasn’t bad. Easy enough on the ears. But it had a strange…emptiness to it. No real enthusiasm in the music.

Gale caught sight of what was happening first. He sucked in a breath, pointing at Barger’s feet, but Falerin quickly grabbed his hand and shook his head. “No interference,” is all he said. His voice was oddly hollow, and there was an odd glint in his purple eye as he watched it unfold.

As Barger played, roots crept up from the ground, wrapping around his ankles. As they climbed up his legs, bark spread over his limbs. He was so focused on his playing that, at first, he didn’t notice. But as he tried to shift his footing, he looked down as he stayed in place. His eyes bulged in panic, and he looked up at the guardian.

“I…I…what’s happening?” he asked, fingers faltering on the strings. The guardian watched him, impassive.

“You have not shown me your heart,” it said. “You have merely shown me your ambition. There is nothing for you within.”

Barger dropped his lyre, trying to claw at the roots as they continued to climb up his body. “Help!” he cried out, fighting against a root that wrapped around his neck. He whirled around best he could to look to the three beside him. “Help, please! You’re heroes, you can…”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Falerin said grimly, giving a shrug.

“No, no! I don’t want this! I can’t…!” His cries became muffled as the bark spread over his face. Where the dragonborn had been just a moment before, a tree now stood in his place—still and silent, lyre sitting at its roots. For a moment, the clearing was quiet; Astarion and Gale stared in horror, while Falerin shook his head, face hard.

“I warned him,” he said, voice soft.

Before they could shake off what had just happened, however, the guardian returned its gaze to Astarion. It leaned down to look at him.

“Will you suffer the same fate?” it asked, so close the green light of its eyes reflected off his pale skin. “Show me your heart, dead one.”

Astarion stared up at it, then took a long, shaky breath. He lifted the flute to his lips, then started to play.

His own playing wasn’t quite as good—a bit warbly (breath control was hard when you had the shit scared out of you) and uncertain—and he simply played a tavern song he remembered from…gods, probably a century ago. But Falerin had said if he remembered why he’d wanted to be a bard, he’d be safe.

But that was the thing. He couldn’t remember. That had been lifetimes ago. He’d been a child. It hadn’t been for love of music, he knew, and he’d never been the type to swayed by the joy of art or anything so maudlin. So…

His tune faltered as he glanced down, catching roots climbing up his ankles. Oh gods. He did remember why he wanted to be a bard. It was for the exact same reason as Barger—fame and fortune. Recognition. That visceral desire to not be seen as someone forgettable, going about it in the most selfish way.

He wasn’t showing his heart. He was showing his pride.

“Astarion!” Gale shouted, causing him to drop his playing altogether. He stared at him and Falerin, eyes wide as the roots continued to climb up his legs, and he frantically dropped his flute to pull at the roots.

“Help me,” he shouted back to them, voice cracking. “I…I fucked up, I fucked it up. Help, damn you!”

Gale looked to Falerin. The half-drow’s face was grim, gaze oddly impassive. “Falerin,” he hissed.

“No interference,” he repeated.

“The hells with no interference! We are not letting our friend—your partner—die,” Gale snapped. He gripped Falerin’s arm, giving the warlock a shake.

He looked over at Gale finally. His gaze was faraway and vacant, purple eye practically blazing. Oh. It wasn’t him watching the scene.

Gale took a quick breath, then set his jaw as he grabbed Falerin’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Falerin, there’s not much time. So you need to come back, right now, or I will be forced to take drastic measures.” He turned Falerin’s head to look at the scene before him: Astarion had given up calling for help, instead pulling frantically at the roots that had begun to climb his chest. He looked up at them desperately, meeting Fal’s gaze.

“Please, love,” he said, voice weak as the roots wrapped around his throat.

Falerin blinked, face suddenly softening. He looked as though he’d been roused from a dream for a moment, then his eyes widened in horror.

“Astarion!” He yanked his head out of Gale’s grasp, and his eyes looked wildly around the clearing. He looked up at the guardian, then frantically pulled off his gloves. He threw them down in front of the guardian, slightly unraveled embroidery and stitched up fingertips glinting in the pale light from the moon.

“There!” he called up to it. “There’s his heart!”

The roots, curled around Astarion’s jaw, suddenly stilled, and the guardian leaned down to look over the gloves. It regarded it silently as all three party members held their breath. Suddenly, the roots and bark surrounding Astarion seemed to wither, turning brittle enough that one quick jerk freed him in a shower of wood chips. He stumbled forward, coughing, as the guardian sat up straight.

“So it is,” the guardian said. “Your motives are pure, dead one. Proceed at your leisure.”

The guardian shifted back to where it was before, the green light of its eyes dimming, and it seemed to unwind itself. Roots buried themselves back into the earth, and branches turned back to stretch into the sky. Soon enough, it was nothing but a tree again.

They took a moment to take a collective breath, then Falerin all but launched himself at Astarion, hugging him tightly.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. You almost…sorry.”

Astarion pulled back from the hug, sending Falerin a frown. “What was that? You looked at me like…well, like you hardly knew me.”

Falerin swallowed. “I-I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I just…it was like I spaced out for a moment and suddenly you were…well.” He furrowed his brow.

“It seemed like a more…severe version of when your, ah, fey-touched nature gets the better of you,” Gale said. He looked between the two of them. “Will that…be a problem, do you think?”

Falerin shook his head. “No, no. Not in the Feywild.” He gave a hesitant smile. “It was…probably just a fluke, being so close to the crossroad.”

Astarion watched him for a moment. “Must have been,” he agreed after a moment, voice light. “At any rate, nothing worse than a few splinters for me.” He consciously didn’t look at the tree with a lyre at the foot of it, instead turning to regard the crossroad. “So…we just step through?”

Falerin nodded. “Just a few steps and we’ll be in, yes.”

A heavy silence fell over the group, their goodbye hanging heavy over it. Gale suddenly cleared his throat.

“Before I forget!” He dug around in his pockets for a moment, then pulled out a little amulet bearing his sigil on it—same as the one on Tara’s collar. He held it out to Falerin. “It’s admittedly not much, but it’s…it should help, if the need arise.”

Astarion peeked at it over Falerin’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“I’m glad you asked! Think of it as a more versatile version of a spell scroll. One of my colleagues at Blackstaff came up with it; it has a certain amount of my magic charged on it, so to speak. So, while you may not personally be able to pull off a very high level spell, simply give this a tap, and it’ll be like I’m right there with you to cast it.” Gale gave them both a smile. “And, if nothing else, it’s a…a nice token, I think, to remember me by. Just in case…well.” We never see each other again hung between them, unspoken but still very clearly there.

Falerin gave a little smile as he looked over the sigil. “Thanks, Gale,” he said, voice soft. He looked up at the wizard, then pulled him into a tight hug. Gale returned it, equally tight, and he let out a sharp little huff. After Falerin pulled away, Gale looked to Astarion, arms slightly splayed as his eyebrows rose.

“Well?” he asked. Astarion deliberated, then rolled his eyes before letting out a terse little noise between his teeth.

“Fine. Though I’m hardly in my right mind after that near death experience,” he said. He stepped forward, somewhat awkwardly, only to be pulled into a tight hug. He tensed immediately, but ultimately softened and returned it—perhaps not as tight, but still earnest.

“Best of luck,” Gale murmured, low enough for only him to hear. “If anyone could pull this off, it’d be you.”

Astarion swallowed at that, then gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod against Gale’s shoulder. He drew back, and Gale cleared his throat, looking a touch misty-eyed even as he put on a smile.

“Well, Zel will be duly spoiled, as I said,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “And I fully expect to see you both at my tower to celebrate a job well done within the next five years.”

Falerin gave him a smile. “We’ll send a little notice, just in case we’re early,” he said, then looked to Astarion. “Well?”

“No use dallying, I suppose,” Astarion said, brushing off a bit of bark from his shoulder before bending down to pick up Fal’s gloves. Falerin smiled as the vampire handed them back, then gave a Gale a wave before taking a breath and linking his arm with Astarion’s.

They walked forward, in-step with the other, and crossed the boundary into the Feywild.

[Next Chapter]

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #bg3 tav #astarion x tav #bg3 fic #gale #fairies #IT'S TIME FOR FAIRIES #Also I'm still alive!#This holiday season was ROUGH but hopefully we'll be a little more regular around here #No lemon this time guys

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groovesnjams · 1 year

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..................number11 ....................of50

“The Linden Trees Are Still in Blossom” by Jens Lekman

DV:

Unfortunately I may have said everything I had to say about “The Linden Trees Are Still in Blossom” back when we initially covered it, and I stand by all those ideas: this is still the rare sequel that deepens and enriches the original, and one of the most complicated songs I heard all year. It’s also art about itself, which puts it into a weird sort of conversation with the year’s most prominent piece of self-critiquing art, Nathan Fielder’s The Rehearsal. Where The Rehearsal is a work of art about how works of art like it should simply never exist, “The Linden Trees Are Still in Blossom” is a work of art about how art binds us together, connects us, gives meaning and purpose and value to our lives. It makes me cry every time I hear it, which is probably because I’m getting old but whatever I’m leaning into it, and enjoying hearing Jens lean into the emotion and vulnerability of it too. It’s fundamentally optimistic and hopeful, in the way that only a message in a bottle can be.

MG:

I have a very long list of “drafts” on my personal blog, a sort of shadow portal of myself that only I can see, and in there was something I rage wrote and decided better of, but I think it fits with “The Linden Trees Are Still in Blossom.” I despise in memoriams when people die. I hated them when I did them at The Singles Jukebox and I hated every last Mimi Parker public eulogy. I don’t mean to disparage the people who write these things (myself included) because they are grieving and well meaning and trying to communicate something about the importance of a life lived. What I hate is their note of finality. We will not have more Mimi Parker public eulogies next year though her contributions to music will still be just as vital, her loved ones will still be mourning fiercely, and her life and her death will still be meaningful. One day, one week, of outpouring is not enough and it makes these people feel very dead in a way that they would not if we could still talk about them from time to time.

“The Linden Trees Are Still in Blossom” kind of steps back over a line Jens Lekman crossed when he inserted Nina into his art but since she’s there forever I’m extremely heartened to hear him return to her, to share her story with us again, as bittersweet as it will always be. Nina is a complicated figure; in both stories she wants, as much as possible, to be unobserved and unseen, to hide herself first from her father and then from her old friend, Jens. Whether he succeeds is up for debate, but Jens is attempting understanding and failing that, he’s offering to listen. Ultimately, my sense is that Nina probably does not want to be the centerpiece to another Jens Lekman masterwork but it’s already much too late to undo that brush stroke. For the rest of us, and for Jens, it feels necessary that she remain vital -- never left behind or forgotten.

#gnjsoty2k22 #the linden trees are still in blossom #jens lekman #music

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scotianostra · 11 months

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On June 6th 1891, Sir John MacDonald, the Scottish-born Canadian statesman, died.

John MacDonald was born in Glasgow, the son of a merchant who migrated to British North America in 1820. The family settled in the Kingston area of what is now Ontario, and Macdonald was educated in Kingston and Adolphustown. In 1830 he was articled to a prospering lawyer with connections that were to prove helpful to Macdonald, who rose rapidly in his profession.

MacDonald is considered to be the architect of the Confederation of Canada and served twice as the first Prime Minister of the unified Dominion, between 1867-73 and 1878-91.

Already an experienced local politician, he helped form the 1854 coalition with Upper Canadian reformers and French Canadians, creating the Liberal-Conservative Party. Within this coalition government, Macdonald was promoted to be attorney-general, and later acted as co-premier between 1856 and 1862. In 1864, MacDonald accepted that constitutional change was necessary for Canada, and spent that summer preparing proposals for a Confederation.

He was a leading delegate at all three Confederation conferences, and was knighted for his work towards union. The stamp you see in pic two was issued to mark the 200th anniversary of his birth in January 2015.

MacDonald undoubtedly laid the foundations of modern Canada, but he also personally set in motion all the most damaging elements of Canadian Indigenous policy.

It has been said that Macdonald basically had Indigenous people locked down so tightly that they became irrelevant after 1885. When Macdonald took office for the second time in 1878, the plains were in the grip of what is still one of the worst human disasters in Canadian history.

The sudden disappearance of the bison, caused largely by American overhunting, had robbed Plains First Nations of their primary source of food, clothing and shelter. Suddenly, all across the prairies were scenes reminiscent of the Irish Potato Famine only 30 years prior.

Around what is now Calgary, Blackfoot had been reduced to eating grass. White travellers described coming across landscapes of up to 1,000 Indigenous so starved that they had trouble walking.

Macdonald did not cause the famine. Nor did he draft the Indian Act or most of the West’s treaties, which had been created under the prior Liberal government but he did capitalise on prairies wracked with famine.

Macdonald’s Indian agents explicitly withheld food in order to drive bands onto reserve and out of the way of the railroad, another source tells us that his policy towards the native population was driven by submission and starvation.

We can't overlook things like this, and I personally try to give a two sided view when putting these posts together.

Under his, and other governments control the plains people's population fell by about a third.

After a failed rebellion MacDonald wrote....“The executions of the Indians … ought to convince the Red Man that the White Man governs,”

He was however a man of contraries, and in one way Macdonald was oddly more progressive on Indigenous policy than his contemporaries.

On the eve of the North-West Rebellion, he had proposed a measure that would extend voting rights to Canadian Indigenous — a measure that Canada wouldn’t actually adopt until 1960. He wrote “I hope to see some day the Indian race represented by one of themselves on the floor of the House of Commons,”.

In a particularly remarkable quote from 1880, Macdonald did something that would be quite familiar to the Canadians of 2018: He disparaged his forebears for the awful plight of Canada’s first peoples.

“We must remember that they are the original owners of the soil, of which they have been dispossessed by the covetousness or ambition of our ancestors,” he wrote in a letter proposing the creation of the Department of Indian Affairs.

“At all events, the Indians have been great sufferers by the discovery of America and the transfer to it of a large white population.” so he knew what he was doing and how it came about, again it shows how contrary he was.

Defenders of Macdonald contend that he was merely guilty of negligence. He was a man in his 60s heading up a shaky new country while simultaneously orchestrating one of history’s largest infrastructure projects. The fate of whole peoples was in the hands of a man who had no idea what the West even looked like, and had no time to care.

Macdonald won the 1891 Canadian General Election and started his sixth term as Prime Minister. However he then suffered a severe stroke, and died a week later on 6 June 1891. His state funeral was held on 9th June, and he is buried in Cataraqui Cemetery in Kingston, Ontario.

#scotland #scottish #glasgow #glaswegian #canadá #prime minister #politician #history

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counttwinkula · 1 year

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On Horror and True Crime

The idea of moral purity through media consumption has been troublingly prevalent on all forms of social media lately, particularly visible on Tumblr through DNI lists and catalogues of “irredeemable” media that are, frankly, laughable. I feel like the attitude toward true crime is another iteration of this same phenomenon, and I find it troubling for a couple of reasons.

Perhaps the most obvious problem here is the vast overgeneralization these statements make. Not only is there a worthwhile question as to what is and isn’t ethical (I have trouble buying the idea that we must all have identical ethics to one another), but even if we pretend that the problem of ethics is far simpler than it is, the genre of true crime is by no means homogeneous. Yes, there is true crime media that extends too much sympathy for the perpetrators, media that fails to properly consult the survivors, media that we can call copaganda. Should the failures of certain works condemn the whole thing? When you decry the entire genre of true crime because of careless works like Dahmer – Monster you are mostly showcasing your ignorance of how diverse true crime is.

What actually spurred me to write about this, however, was a post that generalized the audience that consumes true crime, reducing the whole viewership to “true crime freaks” or something similar. I think we’re all familiar with the image such a phrase is supposed to conjure: serial killer flower crown edits and RPF, or the devotees who harass families of victims in misguided amateur attempts to solve unsolved cases. With the massive fandom that true crime has garnered in the last couple years, it should obviously be laughable to assume that everyone consuming this media falls into those categories. Certainly, there are audience members who behave poorly—can’t that be said for every form of media?

True crime is often blamed for sparking disproportionate fear and paranoia in its viewers, especially with regards to race, class, and gender. The stories that are told most often generally focus on demographics who are not at the highest risk for violent crime or murder—what’s been dubbed Missing White Woman syndrome. That is certainly worth criticizing. However, I think we oversimplify the way true crime fans respond to the stories this media covers.

This feels like a good place to begin talking about the similarities between true crime and horror. I believe that the vast majority of people who have seen Psycho experience a certain amount of anxiety taking a shower for the first time after watching the film. Intellectually, the audience member knows that they are at no greater risk of being brutally murdered in the shower post-Psycho than they were before, but the film has opened up the possibility in their head. If we can accept that the horror viewer can hold a multi-layered reaction—entertaining anxieties that they understand, on some level, are unfounded—then we must consider that the true crime viewer can have a similarly complex response, even if the source of their anxieties is nonfiction.

In many ways, horror and true crime are two sides of the same coin. These stories are intended to shock and repulse and terrify the audience. The audience is drawn in to bear witness to dark and disturbing events. Yes, the acts of violence in a horror film are designed to thrill the audience, but they’re also designed to disgust and frighten them. The depiction of such heinous acts are meant to entertain the audience, but that does not mean the film endorses these acts. After all, horror generally also features a hero who must mourn the fallen and cope with their losses while trying to evade and even defeat the perpetrator. Again—if we can understand these complexities in horror, we must be able to extend similar possibilities to true crime as its soul sister.

Horror has long been disparaged and censured, often with similar arguments to those you hear leveled against true crime. With regards to the audience we can go all the way back to the earliest Gothic literature and find that it was railed against as schlock—and we understand that part of that reaction was an elitist backlash to the readership of these novels, an audience that was largely middle class and female. In the 20th century the audience of horror comics and cinema was largely understood to be composed of undesirables, especially the newly constructed demographic of teenagers, who were the perpetual subject of moral panic.

The position horror has been relegated to—considered subcultural, turned away from the mainstream, refused serious consideration as meaningful art—has allowed it to be particularly subversive. As a genre, horror has been able to depict things that would not fly in a more socially acceptable space. Even when the representation leaves much to be desired, horror films often present alternative sexual behaviors and gender styles that would never see the light of day otherwise.

I bring up the demographics and transgressiveness of horror because I think those two factors create a fuller picture when we’re considering why horror has been repeatedly the subject of moral panic. It’s about more than the blood and the violence, it’s about repression. When you stamp out horror (or at the very least make it difficult to access or produce) you are also suppressing the ways horror challenges societal norms.

In his discussion of the literary monster, how monsters serve as allegories for societal anxieties, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen asserts that the monster “polices the borders of the possible”. In other words, tales of the monster (or horror object) exist to discourage behaviors that society deems unacceptable or taboo. At the same time, however, Cohen states that “fear of the monster is really a form of desire”. According to Cohen part of the social function of the monster story is providing the audience with a venue to vicariously experience the very actions it warns us against. In other words, horror provides us with temporary relief from the constraints of society, a space where we can indulge the socially inappropriate parts of ourselves before packing them up again. Doesn’t true crime serve a similar function?

Ultimately, I think the main driving force of this moral crusade against true crime is discomfort. Honestly, more often than not discomfort is the driving force of any of these moral crusades targeting media. Stories of guts and gore, violence and torture, crime and murder are designed to make us uncomfortable. Some people are uncomfortable at the very thought of others enjoying those stories, and instead of investigating why they feel that way, they decide it’s a moral failing on the part of those audiences. It’s a dangerous groupthink—instead of encouraging people to develop good critical thinking skills and use their own ethics to assess each piece of media based on its own merits, we prefer to give blanket statements of what is bad and therefore should not be touched.

I want to wrap this up by returning once more to the complaint I see most frequently: that the true ethical failing of true crime lies in how it treats and depicts the victims, survivors, and other people touched by these tragedies. I think it’s a good instinct to want to protect these people, to try and shield them from further suffering that may result from a media spotlight. It’s okay if that’s the moral line you want to draw in the sand for yourself.

The issue is the endless posturing and vilification. It becomes a moral imperative that each user takes a stand against the Bad Media, makes clear that they disown it and that anyone who fails to do so is a heartless degenerate. Perhaps my least favorite symptom of this trend is that because the Bad Media becomes so immediately radioactive, you must decry it without actually consuming it. How the hell can anyone actually analyze and diagnose the problems with a single work—nevermind an entire genre—if you’re forbidden from actually touching the thing? Its complexity becomes obscured behind an opaque curtain manufactured by moral panic, and thus you must trust the judgments of other people based entirely on hearsay. Put that in the context of an internet culture dominated by a tendency for piss-poor media literacy (how dare you say we piss on the poor?) and you find yourself in this mess.

I’ve been drafting this for a couple weeks now and I just saw someone trying to argue against the horror genre saying nothing more than “a lot of horror is based on true crime” as if that objection should speak for itself. This is exactly my problem: horror is a precious, transgressive genre that represents societal fears in a complex allegorical way. Horror is maligned because of this, because what the commentary it presents threatens the social order. Horror makes us uncomfortable. True crime makes us uncomfortable. It is okay to be uncomfortable, it is okay to object to things, but is foolish to decry an entire complex and varied genre over a moral panic.

#horror #true crime #long post

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imkeepinit · 2 years

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Facebook post by Georgia McBride, September 13, 2016

I'm angry and hurt today. I've read some of your posts on my feed in recent weeks. Said nothing. Felt the sting of your words, but said nothing. Long post to follow. Please forgive typos. Feel free to share. My posts are set to "public. "Today, I will speak. I will speak because some athletes not standing for our flag doesn't affect you. Sure. It might anger you, but it does not affect the quality of your life. But every time a black person is gunned down and the video is played over and over on national and international TV, it affects me. It affects my kids and my family. And we're not criminals. We aren't walking down the street wearing hoodies and carrying Skittles and Iced Tea. You know, like a criminal who deserves to be killed. And when YOU defend that action, it affects me. It affects all of us. And you know what else? It affects my husband. It makes his job a lot less safe and it makes him a target of additional violence and hatred. If you want to "unfriend" me, go right ahead. If you want to label me, I assure you, I have been called worse than anything you can fathom. I have been treated BY COPS in the most disrespectful and blatantly racist ways. I don't speak about it in public to protect my husband. One day, I will, to protect my children. If you don't get that we have a problem in this country with the way blacks and whites are treated, you and I aren't really friends to begin with. It isn't a difference of opinion. We don't "disagree." It is a fundamental underlying point of view that sets you above me in a position to determine whether blacks have a legitimate right to be heard on their grievances and have those grievances addressed. And because those grievances don't directly affect you, you dismiss them and employ the same tactics as those who victim shame women who are sexually assaulted, raped and beaten. Ryan Locthe went to represent the United States to the world in another country. He committed a crime, lied about it and fled prosecution. This is a true disgrace to our country. The Constitution doesn't protect his right to commit crimes in other countries or flee responsibility for them. I never once saw anyone call him a criminal, anti-American or refer to his race when referencing the crime. No real outrage except to dismiss him as dumb, a tool, a jerk. Yet, more people are outraged that an American football player who represents his team, not the United States, refuses to stand for the national anthem. More people are concerned that Gabby Douglas didn't place a hand over her heart during the anthem than they were about Ryan Locthe's criminal behavior. Several other athletes (white) never covered their hearts during the anthem and crickets. No outrage. None from the Internet patriots. No posts about how lucky they were to be chosen to represent the country and how they failed to show gratitude. Fast forward. All ppl posting negative comments re Colin Kaepernick, meet Georgia McBride. Let me address what I've seen you call the man "and others like him." I'm not a spoiled millionaire athlete. I'm not "ignorant." I don't hate cops. I don't hate America. I'm not leaving America - tho nice try. I stand for the anthem. I'm not "brainwashed" by Black Lives Matter. My mother does not have 20 kids by 10 different men. My father never abandoned us. I am not on welfare. Don't know anyone who is. I am not on drugs. Don't know anyone who is. I'm not racist. No really. I'm not. 95% of my friends are white. I come from a family of Ivy-League and City and State college-educated people. My husband is a cop as was his father and uncle. My brother was a cop. My father was in the military. My cousins are in the military. I was never a latch-key kid. I don't know anyone in a gang. My cousin is a politician. I have never lived in the "projects." I have teachers, nurses, businessmen, former FDNY in my immediate and extended family. So what will you call me? How will you disparage me? My kids? My family? My friends? How will you discredit me? How will use my skin color and background to prove I'm wrong and uninformed? How will you convince the world that I am brainwashed by Black Lives Matter? How will write me off as a gang-banging, welfare-loving, no-father-in-the-house-having, Black Lives Matter racist terrorist? I owe my entire life to protests - both peaceful and violent. To civil disobedience, and acts of courage and defiance that seem inappropriate or un-American and at the time, were illegal. Neither laws nor minds nor hearts are changed by silence and compliance. Think about that. Maybe it is disrespectful to kneel during the national anthem, but the Constitution protects that right same as it does for civilian gun ownership, which you all know I am fervently against. Back to protests. Were it not for brave protests like this one, my life and that of my family would be vastly different. I ask you to think about that next time you label something a "joke" or "disgusting" or "wrong" or post disparaging memes and comments about a few young men doing what they can to change the lives of many and who are giving a voice to those without one. I ask you NOT to judge them on what YOU feel they should be doing, but rather what they are doing. Would you risk your job, future income, personal safety and that of your family and friends to bring attention to injustice in this country? How do you not realize that this is what they're doing? Should I have to risk my job, my home, my life just to have the same rights afforded to you? Just to be able to have my kids walk down the street in their own neighborhood without being suspected of being a criminal or worse, shot to death? All those people saying he is disrespecting the military - think about this. This is HIS way of fighting. He has no protection. No training. Few people on his side. He is fighting here, in the United States, as people have threatened to kill him and his family. People burn his jersey on YouTube, football fans are filled with so much hatred that they are vowing never to watch football again in order to bankrupt the NFL. Why? Because a few black men kneeled or sat during the national anthem. These people are more concerned with this than WHY the men did what they did. Think about how YOUR comments and YOUR actions impact those around you. Think about how the memes which started out as calling him anti-American have now have turned blatantly racist. THINK ABOUT THAT. Think about how your lack of concern for the people he is speaking out for reflects on you. Think about all the smart white people telling the not-too-smart black people how to solve problems in "the black community" as if they have any clue at all? And the kicker? Posting the one or two black people who share your POV as proof that the millions of other blacks and whites are actually wrong. Please stop. PLEASE STOP. You stand for the national anthem at sporting events. Big deal. I'm guessing you don't when you're out to eat and a game is on. Or when you're watching the game at home. Nope. Only when people can see you and judge you for how patriotic they think you are. If it weren't for people calling bullshit on this country, our kids wouldn't be in school together. I wouldn't have my own business. My husband would not be allowed to be a cop. I would not have been allowed to marry my husband. It would've been illegal for me to have both my kids. As a woman I would not have been allowed to have credit in my own name or to have property such as a house or car in my own name. We would not have equal pay for equal work. I wouldn't be able to live in the neighborhood that I currently live in. Local friends, we would not have a female Chief of Police. I reprimand and punish my kids because I love them. To teach them that what they did was wrong so they won't do it again. Does this mean I hate my kids? I'm anti-children? If my spouse does something to hurt me and I tell him about it - I ask him to change - it isn't because I don't love him. If someone has an issue with a teacher or a doctor - do they hate teachers and doctors? Are they anti-education and anti-medical science? If someone has an issue with a cop's behavior, this makes him anti-cop? Un-American? Oh wait. We need to get right in this country. We need to recognize the problems we have and address them, no matter how painful. No matter if they don't affect us. Feel free to speak out against an athlete not standing for the national anthem because yeah - that's the change we need. All will be right in this country once NFL players return to showing respect for the national anthem. That's sarcasm.

#BLM #civil and human rights #Black Lives Matter #Georgia McBride #Facebook

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