#what could you have been if you weren't confined by your narrative!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

always-andromeda · 8 months

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·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Father Paul Hill x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 2925

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you."

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ okay, I haven't exactly finished a piece in a good while. so this one is sort of serving as a warm-up and if it's terrible (which I have a good feeling it is lmao), I'm gonna have to ask y'all to be gentle on me. I've loved this man for a while now and this is sort of experimental. tl;dr: I am a sensitive little baby right now so treat me as such.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), obviously a pretty massive gap in both age and power, depictions of blood and death, could be read as dub con at first (if you squint really hard) but firmly lands on the side of full con, a lot of religious mumbo jumbo (lmao let's ignore the fact that I know almost nothing about Catholicism <3), so much blasphemy, oral (female receiving), a twinge of sub!Paul, and that's all I can think of!! let me know if more is needed!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

Behind closed eyelids, all you saw was darkness. And through that darkness came white hot agony. It was practically blinding as it shot up your spine before detonating in your brain. Those little fragments of pain speckled across the inside of your skull.

You wanted to scream, hurl, cry, something. Anything to physically release the intense pain assaulted your nerves. But you wouldn't be granted that mercy. No.

For now, your suffering was confined to this unending darkness. For now, you waited in the void of your own being for the tragedy to subside.

For weeks you anxiously waited for the return of Monsignor Pruitt from his mission trip. Though spending your afternoons looking after the dementia ridden clergyman wasn't exactly your idea of a good time, it was far better than slumming it with Beverly Keane. After all, you were 99% sure that whatever Bev heard managed to make its way all around the island.

Crockett Island was a melting pot of rumors. By now you'd heard the stories; the mythology of the island's residents had woven together to form a complex tapestry. And the longer you stayed, the more you realized how little you desired to be a part of it all.

But you didn't have a choice. Whether you liked it or not, Crockett's citizens had already spun your narrative.

Everyone knew how your mother had taken you away from the island at the ripe age of five years old; saving you the heartache of being raised by an alcoholic father. Part of you had always been grateful for it despite how tough it had been being raised by a single mother who hardly had anything to her name. Yet you couldn't help the guilt that poured into your lungs like cement whenever someone mentioned how much your father had suffered before he died.

Because that was the only way you would've gone back to the island that lived in the shadows of your memory: death. And upon meeting Monsignor Pruitt, it became clear that death would also be the only way you'd want to leave.

The relationship that had bloomed between you and him was a humble one. He'd offered to talk you through your grief which you'd promptly denied. Though you attended services, you weren't much for religion and you weren't about to embrace it fresh off of the death of a father who was practically a stranger. It felt disingenuous.

Finding God is reserved for real tragedies, right?

You'd asked the question like it was a joke.

Monsignor Pruitt had merely tilted his head before replying in that lilting, raspy voice of his: Depends on what you think qualifies as a tragedy.

With a quick eye roll, you'd written the answer off as one of those unbalanced moments of his. Over the course of a few months, you'd become well acquainted with them. Going to services and keeping him company was something to do. Something other than rifling through decades of your father's clutter and further entangling yourself with the community. Something other than being reminded of your own wasted potential.

Strangely, the monsignor felt less like an all seeing eye and more like...a friend. And now, faced with his "temporary" replacement, you were finally certain of what qualified as a tragedy to you.

From the moment Father Paul had addressed the church, you were unsettled. He may have been perfectly kind and personable enough, but his mannerisms edged on the uncanny valley. It was the way he spoke during sermons and how that tone rarely changed during one-on-one conversations. Though he couldn't have been older than thirty, he often held himself as if he'd been around the block more times than anyone could fathom. It was easy to chalk it up to his nature. Of course the man of God had an eerie way of making you feel like a puny mortal.

But Monsignor Pruitt had never made you feel like that. You couldn't brush the thought of the old man out of your mind.

Every time Father Paul attempted to placate your worries, it only pushed you deeper into the depths of distrust. Somehow you just knew he was lying.

And for all of Father Paul's wisdom and mystique, he wasn't a good liar. His tone would shift as he glossed over your concerns with a quick reassurance that Monsignor Pruitt was recovering just fine on the mainland. When you felt brave enough to press him for more, he'd wring his hands or squeeze them into fists. Almost as if he had to physically stop himself from reprimanding you. After all, who were you to question him?

When your eyes finally opened, your vision was overwhelmed by the light. Softly, slowly, the light haloed around the head of a figure that carefully came into view. As your sight sharpened, you quickly realized who stood over you.

The man you held the most wariness for was kneeling over you. His long face wrought with concern, the alarm bells were already blaring in your muddled mind. But as much as you tried to force the air from your lungs to scream, you could only let out a pathetic, strangled squeak.

That was when he spoke. His voice shook with what sounded like uncertainty, "You mustn't overexert yourself. You're still coming back. But don't worry, you'll be yourself again soon. All in due time."

No matter how much you tried to speak, to move, neither of the actions came to you. All you could do is watch as Father Paul pulled your paralyzed body into his arms and cradled you. And as the potency of your helplessness settled in, you vaguely felt tears prick at your waterline.

Normally, you would've rather died than allowing yourself to cry in front of someone, especially in front of the father. This time you couldn't control the few tears that slid freely down your cheeks, landing on the father's hand where he gripped your still aching shoulder.

He noticed them immediately and let you out of his grasp long enough to stare into your glossy eyes.

You couldn't quite decipher the intent behind the softness of his gaze. But somehow it was enough to allow the nausea that had slowly been rising in your chest to subside.

Father Paul raised a hand to cup your face. His thumb carefully stroked your cheek, sweeping away the wet trails left by your despair. And whether it was from your sensitivity or the intimacy of the act, you didn't know. But your skin shivered.

As you gradually regained the feeling in your body, you realized that the first thing you felt after the pain was him. The inherent warmth of his embrace. And in some fucked up way, it was comforting. Feeling like prey, you blinked back the rest of your tears and allowed yourself to soak up as much of him as you could; anything to get rid of the dull pain that plagued your nerves.

You noticed there were tears brimming his own eyes as he smiled softly. "There, you mustn't cry. You've been so brave and in return you've been blessed."

It was then that you began to regain enough cognizance to question what was happening.

Flashes of memory played each time you blinked.

That damned question had been on the tip of your tongue again.

So you found him in the recreational center. There he’d been, on his knees, praying fervently.

Hopefully you're praying for the monsignor's return.

You regretted the words almost as soon as you'd said them. Because as soon as Paul turned, he gave you that dark look that rarely graced his features. This time he hadn't even tried to hide it with his usual discretion.

He merely stared right past you with his eyes wide and pleading.

You hadn't had the chance to see the thing that attacked you fully. But you felt its teeth at your neck. You felt your own blood dripping from your neck in such a thick stream that the dizziness came almost as soon as you hit the ground. You felt the rough, pale skin of the creature as it smothered you, greedily devouring every ounce of your life.

Of course you were surprised to find yourself lying on the sheets of Paul's bed in his modest home, but that shock was the least of your worries. How were you still alive?

He told his tale as your body mended itself. You didn't know how much time passed. All you knew is that you were enraptured with the sticky sense of dread that was growing in your stomach as he spoke.

You were acutely aware of just how much it sounded like a sermon. How, whether he was aware of it or not, he was pulling out every stop in the preacher's handbook to try and convince you. And if he didn’t sound so convinced himself, you would swear this was deliberate manipulation. But nothing else could possibly explain his youthful appearance and all that he knew. He could recite your history right back to you despite the fact that you’d never once trusted him nearly enough to give it. Only the monsignor knew your deepest fears and your darkest secrets. But this wasn’t your monsignor.

Father Paul was some new beast; an amalgamation of the sweet old man you’d once known, the deceptive preacher who took his place, and some other supernatural force that you couldn’t quite name.

Though you’d only caught half a glimpse of the creature, you attempted to express your terror. That only spurred him on further as he contended that when an angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds upon the birth of Jesus, it deliberately told them to not be afraid.

But none of that explained himself. None of it allowed you to comprehend how Monsignor Pruitt could've shed decades of life; how the old man could now stand there, blood drying on the bottom half of his face, and look at you as if you were something he could have.

You didn't have to ask. You knew by then that when the creature had had its fill of your blood, Father Paul had pulled the scraps of you away for himself. The thought hit you dangerously and made something deep inside you rumble. Like a natural disaster, this had unearthed a litany of complications that you never could’ve anticipated.

“We are at a crossroads," Father Paul said gently before letting his conviction surge again, “Now, you once said that finding God was reserved for those experiencing tragedy, correct?”

You nodded sagely.

Father Paul grasped your trembling hands in his own, “Have you not experienced one of life’s greatest tragedies? The ending of it? You fell right over the edge of life and before the waters of death could claim you, He brought you back. Hebrought us together.”

You shook your head in defiance.

“This was meant to happen. This was part of His plan, for our faiths — our lives — to be renewed.”

With your throat still stiff and dry, you croaked angrily, “There was nothing wrong with my life! There was nothing that needed to supposedly be renewed!”

He raised his voice suddenly, “Why did you come to this island?”

“Because my father died.”

“A father who was no better than a stranger to you,” he recalled your own words quickly. If the monsignor had been wise, Father Paul was as sharp as a knife, taking his jabs at you with complete accuracy. “You didn’t have to come here. You didn't have to make friends with a crazy old man. By the grace of God, you were led here. You were led here so you could be shown this truth; this gift. And you are denying this gift."

You had to admit that your draw to Crockett had been strange. At first you'd attested it to some childhood curiosity. But you'd deliberately put off taking care of your father's run down property, instead opting to spend time walking in the light of Pruitt. In truth, his companionship had been a breath of fresh air.

Though the people of Crockett adored him, it was always tinged with pity. You'd never pitied him; only admired him for his wisdom and his resilience.

Paul's expression softened as he held your face in his hands. "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you." That was when you saw the edges of his wisdom begin to lift and fall away like a second skin he'd crafted over his own vulnerability.

Underneath it...he was simply a man. A man who wanted to save you.

“Let me give you more. Let me show you how you can trust me," he whispered.

The first kiss inspired an odd mix of emotions in your chest. There was the coppery tang of dried blood on your tongue, strong enough that it took everything in you not to flinch away from his hold on you. But you remembered his reference to the angel and the shepherds.

Do not be afraid.

So you continued, deepening the kiss with a turn of your head. And for all of the worldly experiences Paul had, you became acutely aware that this sort of connection was not among them.

Whether there'd been any true romantic feelings for the aging monsignor, you couldn't quite say. But your fondness of him had transferred to the man before you. Granted, the transfer wasn't smooth, but it was there nonetheless. Somehow it was stronger than ever as he took your hand and brought it to his lips. The kiss he pressed against your palm was slightly tacky with your own half dried blood still lingering.

You brushed a lock of his wavy, dark hair back so you could properly meet his gaze. With the shroud of time having fallen away from his features you could see just how handsome the man was. It was a hesitant sort of attractiveness; as if the banner of God had prevented him from seeing his full potential.

He'd fed on your life and made himself new. And the thought of your monsignor living on in that small way...all because of you? The electric twinges that sparked in your chest were almost too much to bear.

Without fear you devoured him in another kiss. Quickly the mood turned from reverent to ravenous as Paul attempted to keep up with your fervency.

He couldn't remember the last time sin had overpowered his sense of morality. Because he knew in the traditional sense, this was pure sin. No matter how wrong he believed it might have been to let his hands roam your figure, in his bones it was a temptation that finally felt correct. There was none of that hesitance or shame or fear that he'd felt before. The pendulum had shifted on morality and he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Hardly a moment was spared as he tore into the long skirt and the underwear that had kept you modest for far too long. Perfect beauty like this had to be cherished.

So that is what he did. Planted firmly between your legs, he stared up at you with eyes that gently pleaded for permission; for salvation. With your own half lidded eyes, you nodded before spreading yourself open for him.

Like a flower, you bloomed beautifully and Paul groaned at the sight. He could practically feel the thrumming pulse before him as it waited to indulge him. His hot breath teased you and made sparks dance right beneath the surface of your skin. Still you stayed in place, patiently allowing him time to drink in the sight of your folds already puffing and glistening with slick.

Quietly, you heard him mumble something that you only caught the tail end of.

“–forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

It wasn't too long after that when his tongue found a home in that tight, warm crevice. Your hand knitted itself into his dark hair as you searched for something to ground yourself from the overpowering sensation. Something about this new condition of yours heightened every aspect of pleasure.

If you were in your right mind, it would make sense logically considering you'd felt the unbearable pain of your spine shattering and being put back together again. But this was overwhelming in the entirely opposite direction.

You experienced the pleasure on a cellular level as your climax rushed through your limbs. You seemed to feel the vibrancy of every emotion and atom that comprised your being. Nothing was spared from the glory of this blessing. Not your spasming cunt as it contracted around Paul's blessed tongue. Not your heart that was firmly on the track of restoration. And not your mind as it all at once fell apart in time with your quivering thighs. Blood pulsing, every single one of your pores felt more alive than ever as you finally embraced the higher power that had been waiting for you in the shadows all along.

At that moment, you believed it all. From the Angel to Father Paul's divine transformation to the euphoric paradise that enveloped your entire being...it was all real. And most of all, it was all yours. Thanks to the father's grace and generosity, you would create paradise with him. And that seemed possible. After all, with his head between your thighs, you’d both already created one.

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#hauntedhoedown #midnight mass #father paul hill #monsignor pruitt #father paul x reader #father paul x you #father paul x y/n #father paul hill x reader #father paul hill x you #father paul hill x y/n

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gavillain · 1 year

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how did you make a mass crossover like the one The overtakers?

Because I'm insane.

No just kidding XD Really and truly it stems from the fact that Disney has been crossing over their villains since I was a kid, and they really made a clear coded and identifiable brand around their main villains (namely Maleficent, Hades, Jafar, Grimhilde, Ursula, Cruella De Vil, and Captain Hook) and made them all sort of implied evil friends. From there, it kinda became a connecting game of finding villains in other works of media that weren't Disney who felt very much so in that same spirit and same coded brand. Like if you're looking over at Marvel, who are the villains that echo the Disney Villains the most? In my opinion, that's Loki and Dr. Doom, among others.

And so it just really stemmed, I think, from a desire to connect the villains who felt... lost and separated from each other across the boundaries of different continuities and finding a way for them to coexist in the same time and place. Kingdom Hearts gave me an excellent method for that I think makes a lot of sense and is very conducive to introducing new characters, and from there, everything just sort of worked itself out.

As a writer, I tend to enjoy juggling moving parts rather than confining myself to a straightforward point A to point B narrative, so it just lent itself well for the way my brain works to have a place where all of my ideas could go without me having to start and juggle a bunch of different fanfics as well. And having a cosmic quest for them go on also allowed me to bring in my various mythological and supernatural hobbies and interests too.

Soooo... basically:

Find what interests you and where your focus that you want to write is (i.e. mine was the Disney Villain brand) and pull from that pool.

Find a coherent method to justify the different elements coexisting and use it to keep the moving parts coherent and grounded.

Follow the story where the crossing over leads you.

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cavehags · 2 years

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Would you rec ALOTO before that episode? Or like at all? I tried the pilot but it was meh like it came off pretty cheesy in a one season NBC reject kind of way lol. But I liked all the actresses(the main woman is a bit boring but everyone else is fine)and thought the story could pick up but all the stuff I’ve seen on my dash has been a bit bland and overly focused on ships which isn’t really my thing idk.

i feel weird giving a judgment publicly without having finished it :( i did recommend it to a friend early on because i liked the treatment of history and how it didn't try to smooth over unpleasant truths, especially surrounding race, but I'm not sure how well it stuck the landing with those. i was most interested in how seriously the show took the sexist confines of society and the league system, but disappointingly, those seemed to fall out of focus as the season went on; carson becoming coach was unbelievable to me and her subsequent journey to embracing leadership was more of a girlboss narrative than i was looking for from what had seemed to be a more nuanced show. i wanted to see the women coping with what they were and weren't allowed to do in this time of history, and there was definitely some of that early on (the makeup and grooming classes, the ban on pants, etc), but by the end of the season there were no more men around and it seemed like the show forgot about that piece of its mission.

beyond that, the episodes dragged on too long and were too dramatic for my tastes. and the performances were a mixed bag for me too. i really hated kate berlant's performance and i wasn't much of a fan of abbi's either - both were way too modern, indisputably millennials with instagram accounts. but i really loved max and where her arc was going, and lupe and jess immediately won my heart.

and i love the thematic center this show shares with something like our flag means death where it's a celebration of a surprising queer refuge within history, with all the innuendo and queer references you could ever want. (maybe too many, lol. that was more wizard of oz references than i could take.) but ofmd hooked me more because it's a campy romcom and aloto hit more melodramatic notes than i personally have a taste for. so in general the weaknesses kept it from holding my interest long enough to finish.

to your points though, i don't think ships were given the amount of focus that you're worried about -- that's probably just tumblr being tumblr. i can't tell you if the story picked up without having seen the end (though what i saw of the overall plot did not impress me, max's story excluded), but if you have a stomach for dramas that can get a bit slow, it might be worth circling back.

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bbnibini · 3 years

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Fall Again (Kaedehara Kazuha)

"On this mountain path, where the red leaves lifeless lie...my heart calls for a companion, echoing the deer's cry..." (based on this)

(ao3 version) gift for @lexsssu and kei. may this humble offering make you future Kazuha havers!

The summer we shared

Fades into a blush of leaves

Bringing with it fall

Your first memories with Kazuha started when you were little. You were but one of the many children brought by the Kaedahara retainers staying within the residence; frolicking about, living the best of your young life while learning of your future duties for the clan. The end of summer brought cooler winds, and the trees in the courtyard were like blushing maidens as their leaves were dyed in sunset colour. A maple leaf had fallen on your hair, and the steady sleight of his hand startled you when he brought it to your eye level with a smile.

"I'm sorry for startling you. It was stuck on your hair."

You weren't even sure if you were allowed to talk so casually to the young master of the house. Though perhaps your younger self back then knew that a boy your age like the young master didn't care for such formalities. He only ever watches from afar as you played with the other children. Sometimes, his gaze lingers at all of you while he was taking his lessons. But when his attendants will ask him worriedly if he wanted to drive you and the other children away(you must have been so noisy to distract him from his lessons), he would plaster on a smile and decline.

"Do you want to play with us?"

You practised saying it in your head many, many times...but they were never said. Not until this moment--this blurry middleground of summer and fall that seemed to dye everything in sunset orange.

"Do you want to play with me?"

It was his turn to look startled. The way his face flushed as he clumsily tried to hide the bashful look he had with the maple leaf had been futile.

"Can I?"

You nodded and took his hand.

"Don't worry, master Kazuha. I'll share the blame with you if they ever find out."

Thinking back, that must be the start of it all. Like maple leaves falling on the ground, letting him in your heart had been your downfall.

In the many days of sunset orange, when the adults were too busy to even bother, laughter from a certain pair would fill the courtyard. It was warm enough to quell the cold that accumulated as the orange faded into powder white; it had also brought an end to those precious memories you didn't know you were already making with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cold and pristine white

Yet seeing you amongst them

Warms my freezing heart

He didn't do anything special. You understood that it was just him being him. His kindhearted parents raised him well to become the future heir, and you were merely basking in the fruits of their gentle guidance--an ordinary bystander. Even so, with every call of your name, with every smile given your way, with every look and every word, the feelings that scattered one autumn day only deepened, much like how the snow was doing right now to your feet.

You knew that they knew. You awaited the punishments to come your way, but they never did. The pang in your heart twisted and twisted; it wondered if your delusions were getting to you. What if you continued holding on? What if you got even closer with each other? Wouldn't it be more painful if this unlikely friendship would continue?

Or so you thought. You didn't have the heart to push him away--this lonely looking boy who never shared your luxuries of carefree childhood. Yet you knew you could never share these worries with him. What were you to him but some child his age? What could you know? No one seemed opposed to it, so why couldn't he enjoy his childhood, even for a little bit?

Your drifting thoughts matched the steady pacing of your feet. And it wasn't until the cold snow had reached your knees did you start to feel it through your clothes.

Where...were you? The firewood on your shoulders felt heavier every step, and the cold of winter was beckoning you to close your eyes; to rest under the pine trees a few steps away from you....just for a while--

"...!"

The call of your name coming from his lips felt like they were melting the snow on your feet. And as he brought you into his arms, the restlessness also melted away.

"Let's go back."

"Young Master Kazuha..."

You heard your name being called again--this time by your worried father who had just known that you strayed from the group of children gathering firewood in the forest. He brought the two of you in embrace, his broad and strong arms feeling unbelievably smaller than usual.

Even as the two of you were being scolded, it didn't feel so bad. His next words echoed your unsaid sentiments.

"We share the blame, after all."

He whispered the familiar words to you on secret, bringing warmth to the winter of your thoughts.

You didn't know what changed that winter. He now stood with you as you and the other children gathered around and played in the snow, laughing along. Gone were the longing gazes he sent your way, as he was finally there. The apprehension the other children had at first disappeared instantly at the brightness of his laughter.

From then on, you wished to stay by his side....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your gaze of knowing

Melts away the cold of snow

Spring begins anew

...yet even with the strength of your resolve, you knew those fun winter days will come to an end. One winter passed. Two. Three, until you lost count--you have grown old enough for such days to be regarded as your long past childhood. Along with it came the responsibilities you had as a retainer's child. It wasn't like you were going away. You planned to uphold your promise to stay by his side until the day you die. Boundaries were only meant to be made. The lines you weren't meant to cross grew even more obvious as seasons passed, and you only intended to follow along its path.

Young master Kazuha was old enough to take in a wife. He could only delay such duties for so long.

"But I don't want to get married." He told you, admiring the pink mop of cherry blossoms giving you shade overhead.

"Young master, it isn't a matter of choice." you scolded.

He wouldn't say anything back but a sigh. This caused you to sigh in return.

"Even servants have a duty of marriage to sustain future generations, young master."

"Even you?"

The rustling of cherry blossoms awoken you from your trance. You pretended not to know the implications of his questions. The pounding of your heart shouldn't ever be known, not even to the whispers of spring breeze scattering pink petals that looked eerily similar the the ones scattering in your heart.

"Yes, even I."

Ignorance is the kindest gesture you can return to him--for knowing what he meant will only lead to a thorny path.

Spring was the season of beginnings, but even you know such beginnings were only possible if something were to end.

"Young master Kazuha?"

He looked at you with the same gaze you pretended you were numb from.

"Let's not see each other anymore."

...it was a beautiful spring day, but you couldn't help but long for the harsh winters of your gentler past.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Standing tall and proud

You, with gleaming golden crowns

Waiting for the sun

Eternity.

In the land of fleeting beauty, only she remains constant. She was the pinnacle of Inazuma's legacy, as well as its stronghold. With the Raiden Shogun's rule, Inazuma in all its transience will remain with her.

Yet, were all her actions at present excusable?

The Kaedehara clan had fallen--its tragic heir had gone missing. No one knows where he had went...or so that is what most of the servants' narratives were, but you knew. Perhaps silence is the only way to protect him; their kind and gentle young master deserved freedom in this eternal land.

You didn't want to dwell on what ifs. In the blaring heat of the sun, among the sunflowers looking up at its radiance, he stood there, even brighter than summer itself.

He called for your name as he took your hands, kissing its back.

"I will always remember you."

He was a free man, freer than he was in the confines of his samurai household. Yet, you knew his life of pursuit will always remain with him, and the eternity the Raiden's land had promised was far too comforting to even consider the thoughts in your head.

'Take me with you'

'I won't ever forget you too.'

'Ị̶̛̺̜̣̝̰̣͚̫̓̾̈́̆̈́̊̔̍͂͋͛͌͘͝ ̵̢̨͉̟͖̱͚̆̐̏̚l̷͖̥̃͋͒̉̈́̈̎̃͆̽̈͊̃̈́̆̓̕o̶̡̧̡͖͙̖̙͙̥̻͍̣̗̱͖̦͍̺͙̒̏̏͛͗̌̄͊̽̓͆͌̚̚̕͝ͅv̶̧͕͔̤͚̰̟͙̭̟̠̫̞̀͆̊͗͗̅̊͠ͅͅę̶̘̦̲͓͕͂̑̕͜ ̷̡̢̯̯͙̞̣̲̥̥̞̞̺͕̲͔̆̂͆́̋̑̀̆̃̀͐̀͜͝͠y̷̧̬̜͕͉̣͉̱̩͚̪͒̓͒ͅǒ̸͚̳̠͚̘̯̼̗̳͖͉̫͇͕͔̿͛̉̈́͌̈́͐̑͌͝u̵̧̡̖̼̺̼̯̖̙̲̺̰̮̩̯̜͛̑̃̐͊͛͌̌̓͋́̒̌̚͜'

So he waited and waited for the three words he uttered on your ear to return, and even then, promised of waiting even as you parted ways--even if orange dyed the world around you again.

For like the sunflowers, you were his sun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many summers have passed, and you had left the comfort of eternity to seek out the world on your own. The Raiden Shogun and her eternity was showing its signs of fading in ironic tragedy. Yet you wondered why such fleetingness felt comforting instead.

They called the land you chose to reside in the City of Freedom. Their ruling archon was nothing more than myths and childlike wonder, yet Mondstadt thrived even in their absence.

Like the carefree breeze, its people were equally so. They did not mind your origins nor your reasons, and instead welcomed you in their land with kindness and hospitality. Often, you wondered if the Anemo Archon chose this path of rule to embody the freedom that he is--that perhaps, this might be even his wish.

"I received a vision! It's--"

You smiled to yourself as you stopped that train of thought. You knew your reasons for choosing Mondstadt as your new refuge. Deep in your heart, you were waiting too.

Rain was quite an unusual sight in Monstadt--you were far too used to sunlight and breezy afternoons that the sight of darker skies were comforting to you instead. You liked the sound rain made as it hit the roof, the smell of petrichor in the air--

"Hello?"

Such appreciative thoughts were brought to a halt at the sound of a familiar voice. But he did not speak again, so you weren't sure if you have imagined it instead. The knocks on your door however, reassured you that not everything you heard was imagined.

Your heart pounded at every step, silencing yourself from the hopeful yearning that keeps on resurfacing as you went closer to your doorstep.

But he was there. He wasn't only hopeful yearning. The orange hues of the trees from afar only seemed to deepen the sunset reflecting on his eyes. They widened as they gazed at you.

"I'm very sorry, but can I trouble you for refuge for the night?"

Laughter. You haven't shared one since that distant, summer day. You took the stray maple leaf out of his hair and echoed the words he had uttered to you on the day you first met.

"Did I startle you? You have it stuck on your hair."

..but this time, you chose to stay by his side.

That night, I listened to the hymns till dawn, not for serenity, but to seek a sliver of your soul;

That month, I flipped through all the scriptures, not for enlightenment, but to touch the pages where your fingers once lingered;

That year, I knelt on the grounds, my head embracing the dusts, not to pay obeisance to the Gods, but to feel the warmth you left behind;

That life, I wandered through ten thousand great mountains, not in search for an afterlife, but to cross paths with you –

#genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin #kazuha #kazuha kaedehara #genshin fic #genshin imagines #kazuha x reader #kazuha x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #reader insert #genshin fanfic #kaedehara kazuha #kaedehara kazuha x reader

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cryptiql · 3 years

Text

cherry starbursts

pairing: bakugou/reader (male reader in mind but is gender neutral)

warnings: none, i think?? lots of cussing though, courtesy of lord explosion murder

words: 3.6k

a/n: yuzuya's audios giving me so much brainrot...gonna be thinking about this all week. also the way this started out as god tier writing but gradually turned into shit at the end 🏃 nonetheless, i hope i did this gremlin man justice </3

a contemplative hum tickles your throat as you observe the paragraph laid out before you, the pads of your fingers tingling as you trail them across the pages. on the occasions where you've found your nose nestled deep within them, a muted scent of pears and sawdust would invade your senses, and the urge to rest your head in the plains of your chemistry textbook would become overwhelming. however, the threat of being cuffed over the head by a rolled up magazine makes you think twice about slacking off, so you begrudgingly slump back into your seat with a resigned huff. the clock in your dorm is no doubt ticking away like always; the second hand rounding at great speeds while the minute and hour hands crawl by at a sluggish pace; but you aren't there to hear it.

instead, you reside in bakugou's room, basking in the unencumbered atmosphere created solely by his diligent efforts to keep his space clean and organized. it's just the way he is, you have to remind yourself. not because you stubbed your toe on his dumbbells last week and he felt sufficiently guilty as to make sure nothing was in your path the next time you visited. that would be silly. all that considered, bakugou's room isn't much different from your own—save for the few comfort objects brought from home that give off a hospitable air—but the lack of stimulus it holds is apparent. anything that could disturb your tranquil study date has either been stored away or placed beyond your reach.

damn him, the bastard! he's completely oblivious, you silently muse, bracing your elbows on the desk to plant your face in the palms of your hands. you chastise yourself at the same moment for forgetting your headphones, but in your defense, bakugou screaming for you to hurry up had prompted a hasty departure. if he had the patience to wait two more minutes. . .

rather than finishing the thought, you pull the textbook closer, hoping that somehow the enlarged print will stick to your brain like a temporary tattoo. you only need this information long enough to pass the exam, but once it's over, you swear you'll never mention anything chemistry related unless it's the bond between you and your neighbor. the idle scratching of pencil led against paper erupts from his side of the room, lessening the static in your head by a fraction, but it doesn't last. he mutters something unintelligible under his breath as you spin in your chair to look at him in desperation.

he remains ignorant for the next minute or so, only glancing up at you briefly before returning to his notes. your nostrils flare as you reach down to untangle your laces and pull off your shoe. you chickened out last time this happened, but being ignored has successfully fed the flames of your frustration, and you simply will not stand for it any longer. you blame your sleep-addled mentality for the lack of better aim, but it stokes your pride when bakugou flinches as your shoe hurdles past his shoulder.

"the hell was that for, dumbass!?" he growls, his eyes narrowing into slits. you respond with a high pitched whine; one that would be considered overexaggerated in his opinion, but in yours, was perfectly reasonable when being held against your will to study a subject that has no business being this tedious. "sukiii, i'm booored."

the blonde makes a 'tch' sound, positioning his arm in a warning manner before throwing his pencil at you, which you manage to catch easily. you revel in the deflated expression he wears, twirling the pencil between your fingers and kicking a leg over one arm of the chair. all this, while never breaking eye contact, was sure to break through to him. you're hopeful, what with the way katsuki's gaze—gradually failing to hide his infatuation—travels over your build from head to toe. whether because you giggle at his reaction or decide to kick your feet like a giddy child, he snaps out of his trance with an all too familiar scowl and shuts his own textbook with unnecessary force. his demanding stare is fixated on you as he tosses it haphazardly to the edge of the bed.

"give me back my pencil, idiot." he completely ignores your previous statement and jumps straight into business, as always. "give me back my shoe first, hot stuff." you challenge, smirking in a way that you very well know gets him hot under the collar. the teasing endearment will either put the odds in your favor; earning you your shoe as desired, and perhaps the lovely little blush that often dusts his face whenever you flirt with him; or seal your fate in hell where the everlasting flames may burn similarly, if not just as hotter than bakugou's explosions. it has taken years of practice to uphold your smug attitude in the face of his unyielding rage; nose wrinkled and canines grinding. even now, he is the image of perfection—a powerful god emblazoned in brimstone and baneful inferno—and you, a mere lover of art. after a moment, bakugou's resolve seems to falter. his piecing glare relents only slightly to give way for a pensive expression as he sighs, gently rubbing along the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. he throws you your shoe while standing from the bed, and as you slip it on, he shuffles over to his clothes drawer to pull out his own pair of sneakers. this prompts you to raise a brow inquisitively, but your silent question is left unanswered up until bakugou claps a hand on your shoulder and grumbles.

"c'mon, i'm fucking starving. there's a seven eleven nearby that's got spicy ramen."

and just like that, all thoughts pertaining to the test have been pulverized to dust by katsuki's unrelenting fists. the promise of food after hours of relentless mental abuse has you brushing off the sudden change of inclination in seconds, meanwhile the hothead to your right mulls over it during your trek through the empty hallways, stuffing his arms into the holes of his jacket. he had been able to overlook your constant fidgeting and intermittent noises of vexation, but too soon it became obvious that you weren't getting anywhere with the session. he would have simply offered to help if not for his own inability to concentrate, which had made itself known within the last half hour when he caught himself staring at you between taking notes. so what if he found your pouting cute? just maybe, he had started to fall in love with the way your brows furrowed at the instance of a misunderstood question; the absentminded tugging of your earlobe; the way your eyes looked without seeing, as if the smallest things held the greatest importance. sure, the tapping of your nails against a desk was a bit much, but he could always put a stop to your fretting by lacing your fingers together and kissing the back of your hand. just maybe, your bashful reactions made him want to hold you closer; to see you lounging across his lap—a throne befitting for a king—with your rose hued cheeks nestled in the crook of his neck.

not that you needed to know any of that. no fucking way would he endow another reason for you to tease him when the list was already so long.

curfew isn't for another hour, but bakugou would rather not waste time dawdling, so he uses this as reasoning for hooking your arm with his and practically hauling you out the exit. he mutters something about you being "too fucking slow" and "leaving you behind if you don't keep up", but the fact that he's dragging you along at all shows that he would have no problem resorting to desperate matters. the right amount of groveling and or compromising might mean a piggyback ride to the store, but regardless of how tempting the idea is, you decide not to further burden your friend with carrying you.

the towering shape of heights alliance becomes more and more like a speck of dust as your journey continues, the weight of your thoughts heavy on your already weary mind. you eye katsuki's side profile, noting the distinct lack of malice upon his handsome features, and smile softly to yourself. friend. it was the first word that occurred to you, albeit the least desirable and in no way comparable to the term that caused your heart to flutter within the confinements of your ribcage.

you aren't together. you don't know if you'll ever be, but when the the milieu; brimming with chaotic screams, booming laughter and disorderly merriment belonging to that of your closest friends; is whisked from the narrative, katsuki looks at you differently. whatever fragments of disdain and spite tend to crumble within the first few seconds and are replaced by an emotion that was unheard of ever having manifested in the depths of his vermillion hues. it holds a semblance to adoration, perhaps even respect, and for as long as you can recall, that is all you've wanted to see from him: to be regarded like no other.

sure, it's not like how you dreamed—he isn't very affectionate in public, though you doubt he would be even if you were together, and it always stings when he shrugs your affections off with a deriding comment—but that's just it. it's not a dream. after every scornful remark; after the day has passed and the dwindling moon takes its place in the evening sky, breaking through the curtains of his dorm; he'll kiss your hand, your blooming cheeks, your lips, all to atone for it. where no one else can see, he treats you like a divine being, and part of you wishes to think that it's because he's selfish. a bit of possessiveness has lead to many nights of a shared bed, ruffled sheets and smothering cuddles, but who are you to complain? everything he gives you is more real than any well-constructed reverie.

he may not be yours, and you may not be his, but no one else will suffice for either of you, and that is the unspoken truth.

the minimal bitterness in the autumn breeze makes for a refreshing atmosphere with the only discontent being the hunger that claws at your stomach. bakugou has never been merciful towards anyone, let alone the self-acclaimed nuisance who interrupts his studying with half-baked plans of adventure, but you're ever so grateful for the rare times where he is.

you know you won't have to wait long now that the smell of milk bread and takoyaki trickles into the air, much like the faint pitter patter of raindrops on the concrete. the shower is horribly ill-timed, but you hardly mind, especially when the droplets cling to bakugou's eyelashes like crystalline gemstones; glimmering faintly with every blink as they catch the suns rays. it settles below the horizon, only a sliver of golden yellow to be seen dancing in the tree boughs above, and the fuck if the way it illuminates your not-boyfriend's visage isn't absolutely breathtaking. the glimpse of honeyed skin and kissable lips—pulled into a pensive pout—draws you in deeper, and deeper, and oh god i've been caught—

"you got a staring problem, dumbass?" he grumbles, a roseal color dusting his ears that he swears is from the cold.

even his offensive nicknames are laced with an abnormal tenderness, and knowing that you're the only one with the privilege to hear it causes your chest to swell with delight. you nibble your bottom lip, hoping that it will somehow hide the fleet of giggles bubbling in your throat, but it does no such thing. "yeah, it's weird. whenever i see something beautiful, i just feel compelled to stare at it."

you don't need to look at him to know you've struck a nerve, but you do anyways, and his face grows redder under the intensity of your teasing leer. he sputters, curses falling from past his lips like a waterfall, and rips his arm from your grasp to cradle it as if you've burned him. any sane person would have backed down the second mini explosions began flaring up from his palms, however, you are perhaps the exact opposite, as to be expected when surrounding yourself with the infamous bakusquad, who (excluding bakugou) procured one braincell to share amongst themselves. years of having to put up with and, by extension, learn how to effectively handle bakugou's fits have proven to be time well spent.

you remain none the wiser to the concerned stares of others as he spouts a line of insults; incomprehensible from behind his curled fist pressed tightly to his mouth.

"you-you can't just say that kinda shit out loud, dumbass!" and although he may seem mad, he's already dragging you down the street. you test your luck by huddling closer and resting your chin on his shoulder, your steady pace never faltering.

"is the katsuki bakugou stumbling over his words from a little compliment?" it almost feels like you've won, but then the blonde proceeds to cover your face with his still damp hand. the little shit had timed it perfectly so that your open mouth would taste the saltiness of his sweat—quite the contrary to its sugary caramel aroma—and if you weren't so preoccupied by the resonance of his cackling laugh, you might have spent the rest of the trip gagging and complaining about the whole ordeal. he hardly seems bothered, wiping your saliva on his trousers and going forth with that customary lumbering strut, which always has you torn between fawning, chortling or questioning if he has fucking weights down his pants.

nonetheless, you can't help but murmur how cute he looks as you swing your free arm in tune with your steps.

by the time you've arrived at the shop, the sun has long since disappeared; welcoming hues of purple, navy blue and hints of orange to dapple the heavens, along with the foretelling of stars. you can't begin to describe how lucky you are to be living in a city with such beautiful scenery, even when the thin clouds of smog from factories often hinder your view of it. the fluorescent lights from the 'open' sign flash sporadically, casting a cobalt glow to dance across your dazed expression. katsuki watches with intent, chuckling at how easily distracted you can get as he tugs you inside by the cloth of your shirt.

the person behind the cash register spares a customary greeting before returning to their magazine, and bakugou makes a beeline for the intended isle, something akin to excitement radiating from him. he wears it much differently, and it resembles is go-to callous guise in almost every way, but you're able to detect the slight shift in demeanor as if its the easiest thing in the world. you hardly register that he's removed himself from you until the distance grows too large to ignore, and you shuffle over to the place beside him with a newfound adrenaline. the crisp air of the corner store heightens your senses as you tap your foot to the pop song playing overhead.

the only other sound is of katsuki examining the ramen and deciding what level of spice he should get, encouraging you to ponder what sort of hellish nightmare he has planned for the rest of the group. it was just last week when he dared kaminari to try some of the noodles, and the poor boy had spent ten minutes weeping in snot-nosed agony that you would have to be insane to put something that hot in your mouth. bakugou had laughed at his misery and carried on eating with vigor, mocking the others for their weak taste buds.

after a beat of silence, you decide to test your luck again by poking is shoulder, as well as batting your eyelashes at him and cocking your head to the side.

"can we get some candy?"

bakugou waves his hand dismissively, which is all the conformation you need before rounding the corner to peruse the variety of sweets on display. you immediately spot the marked parcels of sour gumdrops and assorted licorice and giggle to yourself as you pick them out, unaware of the gentle smile the blonde wears in regards to your child-like glee.

"yeah, just don't eat it all in one sitting. you go through that shit way too fast—it's unhealthy."

you won't bother commenting on his strict, motherly advisement, because you know it's in his best interest. he's grumbled about "stuffing your body with all that garbage" on numerous occasions, and while the hypocrisy might have annoyed you at one point ("and i assume gouging yourself on spicy ramen is completely different?") you realized rationing your candy would benefit both your health and your wallet. you nod, despite knowing he can't see, and idly feel for your back pocket, wondering just how much katsuki plans to stock up. money isn't exactly an issue, so you suppose it doesn't matter, but the amount of packets he normally brings back is downright criminal.

"don't be shy," he eventually says, "i'm buying. you're responsible enough not to buy out the whole store, right?"

your confusion overwhelms the urge to roll your eyes at his sarcasm, but there also lies a hint of elation that he would offer to buy.

"i figured i'd be paying as compensation for messing with you." you stand on the tips of your toes to poke your head over the isle, feeling very tempted to ruffle his hair whilst he gathers the packages of ramen into his basket.

"nah, you can pay me back in some other way." his eyes flick upwards to meet your devilish smirk, and he turns away with an affronted noise, blood rushing to his cheeks.

"oh? i can't wait to see what you have in mind~."

and there go the sparks. they last but a few moments before katsuki composes himself, presumably because he realizes making a scene won't help the situation, but he still throws a glare at you from a distance as he beckons you closer. it seems like he's gotten all he needs, so you hastily grab whatever sweets are left on your mental list and rush back to the counter. a comfortable silence sits between you both as your items are checked out, and in that time, you observe the significant difference between pre-late-night-shopping-run bakugou and food-deprived-study-date bakugou. his shoulders are more relaxed, as is his facial appearance, and you'll be damned if you ever forget the way he smiles when he catches you looking from his peripheral vision.

it's soft and unguarded and leaves you struggling for breath as he waits for the cashier to turn away, then promptly laces your fingers together. what? katsuki takes the bag and pulls you effortlessly; like a ragdoll; a mere toy at his disposal; out into the brisk evening. his thumb brushes the back of your hand, making you jump in surprise at the suddenness of it, and he titters freely. what? the streetlamps glint brightly, flickering at random intervals as you travel onward at a leisurely pace. the roads closest to U.A. aren't as packed as the ones deeper into the city, and thus you are the only two souls to be found, save for the few cars that speed by under the faint luminescence of nearing traffic lights. katsuki squeezes your palm, then slithers his hand out of your hold to replace it at your waist, methodically caressing the skin there in a way that has your knees buckling. you sputter witlessly, attempting to catch the thoughts that flee from your mind like birds to the wind. the blonde is nothing less than ecstatic to be the reason for your flustered state, and he takes full advantage of it by leaning in and hovering his mouth just inches from your own.

"i'll take my payment now." and oh lord, you think. he doesn't have to ask me twice. your lips collide with his, molding together like melted toffee; just as sweet and addictive. you've shared kisses before; ones that left you bruised and scrambling for a coverup the next day; ones that felt like fire but were tinged with honey that soothed your throat; fleeting ones that were never enough. you were sure that your need for affection would never truly be satiated unless it was from the boy you held most dear, and with the moon as your sole witness, katsuki was happy to oblige.

"starbursts. . ." he huffs after pulling away, massaging your hip to subdue your dissatisfied hum. "you taste like cherry starbursts."

he doesn't seem to mind by the way he leans in for another kiss, and another, and another, until you're a jittery mess in his arms. you press against his chest, a wistful sigh escaping you when you part once more.

"not that i'm complaining, but where's this coming from? you're usually not so touchy." the last bit of your utterance trails off as bakugou presses his lips to your forehead and keeps them there. moments pass, and when he finally pulls away, its to hide his blush by walking ahead of you. "i should be able to kiss my partner whenever i please, shouldn't i?" he doesn't even give you a chance to catch up, because his words have you rooted to the spot. what urges your feet to move is the haughty smirk he tosses over his shoulder, and even then, the race has only begun; your demands for him to stop echoing down the street as you chase him.

cheeky bastard.

#💥.katsuki #bakugou x male reader #katsuki bakugou x male reader #bakugou x gn!reader #male reader insert #mha x male reader #gn reader #mha x gn!reader #boku no hero x reader #bakugou x you

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xtruss · 3 years

Text

A Muslim Writer on Finding Her Voice in Post-9/11, Post-Trump America

— By Aisha Sultan | 09/01/21 | Newsweek.

A new generation of Muslim Americans is making its mark. Spencer Platt/Getty

Like most Americans old enough to remember, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing on September 11, 2001 when the first hijacked plane hit the World Trade Center in New York City. I was showering when I heard my husband yelling for me. Dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, I watched in shock, along with tens of millions of others, as the Twin Towers fell, killing thousands of people inside.

Emotions from that day feel so much closer than two decades ago.

My stomach turned in revulsion. My body tightened with fear for my relatives who worked there. Dread settled like a heavy rock on my chest. Like other Americans, I wondered, who was attacking us. But as a Muslim, I had other questions too: Did the attackers claim to be Muslims? And, if so, what would happen to the rest of us?

I quickly got dressed and headed to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, where I worked as an education reporter. I talked to stunned school officials and students while still trying to process what was happening.

That evening, I checked in with my family in Texas. My brother, then in middle school, had been in class when his teacher broke the news. He became nervous and, in the teacher's eyes at least, asked too many questions. "Is this World War III? Did they bomb downtown? Are they going to bomb our town next?" The teacher told him to shut up and leave her classroom, that she couldn't bear to look at his face.

Riz Ahmed attends the "Mogul Mowgli" press conference during the 70th Berlinale International Film Festival Berlin at Grand Hyatt Hotel on February 21, 2020 in Berlin, Germany. Ahmed recently criticized “dehumanizing and demonizing portrayals of Muslims" in films. Andreas Rentz/Getty Images

My mother's co-workers at the department store where she had worked for years suddenly refused to speak to her. Cops escorted my hijab-wearing cousin off her college campus because it was no longer deemed safe for her to be there.

In the immediate aftermath of that day's horror, my grief and anger as an American was so compounded with my fear and anxiety as a Muslim that it compelled me to do something unthinkable for me: I poured my heart out to the readers of the Sunday paper.

Back then, it was unusual for a news reporter to pen a personal response to a national tragedy. This was long before social media made us all performative, confessional animals. I needed my neighbors in the Midwest to know that while Muslim Americans shared their grief and anger, we also feared whether our country would turn on us.

I ended that column with the questions my college-aged sister had asked me: "Will the government come after us like they did with the Japanese? Will other Americans stand up for us?"

I told my readers the same thing I told her: I don't know.

I wasn't sure what to expect but dozens and dozens of readers responded to her question with expressions of support: Yes, we will stand up for you, you and your family are one of us, they said, in one way or another, in message after message. There were just two negative, Islamophobic emails in the bunch.

Such an overwhelmingly positive response seems inconceivable now, given how polarized our discourse is now and how normalized hate speech has become—an irony, when you consider how heightened anti-Muslim sentiment was at the time.

Key moments after 9/11 also feel unimaginable now. Back then, a Republican president, George W. Bush, visited the Islamic Center in Washington D.C. days after the attack to tell the American people that the attacks violated the tenets of Islam—"Islam is peace," he famously said—and to defend Muslims as equal citizens worthy of respect and protection. Our last Republican president, by contrast, touted a "Muslim ban" across the country. Even my state, Missouri, now bright partisan red, was a swing state back in 2001, where Democrats sometimes voted for Republicans and vice versa.

Coming together after tragedy: U.S. Muslims sing "God Bless America" at an interfaith memorial service in Pasadena, California for 9/11 victims two days after the attacks. Lucy Nicholson/AFP/Getty

It was against this backdrop that I felt moved to share my vulnerability with readers who may never have met a Muslim before.

Their responses reassured and comforted me, but the expressions of support didn't always—or even mostly—translate into action on a national scale. Instead, the Muslim community bore the brunt of the fallout of 9/11 for years. The government targeted Muslim communities with surveillance, questioning and confinement. It seemed law enforcement and the media used the label of "terrorism" for heinous crimes only if the perpetrator was Muslim. The number of anti-Muslim hate crime incidents reported to the FBI rose from 28 in 2000 to 481 in 2001— and those are just the official numbers. Countless incidents are never reported to the FBI.

Yet, in those ensuing years, creative work by Muslims also bubbled up in the country. A trio of Muslim comedians—Preacher Moss, Azhar Usman and Azeem Muhammad—launched the "Allah Made Me Funny" comedy tour in 2003. Writer Laila Lalami's debut novel, Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits, was published in 2005. Actor Aasif Mandvi began appearing on The Daily Show in 2006. G.Willow Wilson published her first graphic novel, Cairo, in 2007.

People who had lived as Muslims in America prior to 9/11 became American Muslims, more engaged in its civic, cultural and political institutions. Muslims creatives were reclaiming the narrative and telling our own stories instead of responding to the false dichotomy of victim or villain told about us.

I was among them. Seven years after the attacks, I began lobbying my editors for a features column, a departure from a decade of straight news reporting. I had become a mother with two small children. I was trying to make sense of the confusion and isolation that parenting provokes. My first column in 2008 described a bleak winter day when I was sleep-deprived and frustrated and feeling slightly suffocated by the tight bonds of motherhood.

The author: St. Louis Post-Dispatch syndicated columnist Aisha Sultan. Elizabeth Wisemen

Again, readers in the heartland responded with overwhelming support and commiseration. I wasn't making any overtly political arguments. As readers got to know me, they appreciated the commonalities in our parenting experiences despite our differences. I wasn't trying to be an ambassador or spokeswoman for my faith or an ethnic community. I was sharing my observations and struggles as a suburban, middle class American mom who happened to be Muslim and of Pakistani descent.

An older, childless white man who lives in a conservative exurban county wrote to say I was the only Muslim he knew besides the attackers on 9/11. He said he had changed his perspective on Muslims in America after reading my column for years. We weren't just a faceless enemy to him anymore. He saw me as a person, my humanity very real to him.

We've stayed in touch for more than a decade.

Over time more Americans have become like that reader, increasingly comfortable with the idea and presence of Muslims—as neighbors and even family members. Yet simultaneously, the conservative right turned Islam into an effective political weapon and used it to bludgeon Muslims who have sought greater representation and political power.

These opposing forces once again became evident in the correspondence I got from readers, The tone and tenor changed notably in the summer of 2016 as the political rhetoric of the presidential campaign came to a boiling point. Public writers have always had our share of angry critics. But the criticism I received turned increasingly vitriolic, with a deep undercurrent of anger. People who disagreed with what I'd written weren't merely looking to dissent but to silence me.

Increasingly, pushback was laced with profanity, racial slurs and calls to go back to where I came from. Anonymous writers called me a 'raghead c*nt' and others told me to "get out of America, you towel head bigot b*tch." One reader mailed a handwritten letter after I wrote about talking to my children about the killing of Travyon Martin, the Black teenager fatally shot by a white member of a neighborhood watch patrol in Florida. She said she would make a point of cutting out my column photo from the paper every weekend so she could put it in the toilet and piss on it.

After the 2016 election, the heightened anxiety about personal safety I'd felt right after 9/11 returned, even stronger and lasted for years. It's not hard to understand why. During the period between 2015 and 2016, the number of assaults against Muslims rose significantly, surpassing the aftermath of 9/11, according to a Pew Research Center analysis of hate crimes statistics from the FBI. Over the following years, disinformation and conspiracies began taking hold in America at a level I'd never seen before. White rage was palpable online and eventually, on the streets.

The memories and feelings associated with the events of 9/11 continue to play a role in attitudes toward the American Muslim community in some quarters. Here, the annual 'Tribute in Light' memorial in lower Manhattan near One World Trade Center. Spencer Platt/Getty

And yet during this period, Muslims in America continued to create art and cultural capital at an unprecedented level. Playwright Ayad Akhtar produced his Pultizer-winning play Disgraced. Hasan Minhaj reclaimed the title Patriot Act, launching a show that became a cultural touchpoint for a generation of American Muslims too young to know firsthand how that legislation was wielded against the Muslim community. Ramy Youssef won a Golden Globe, Mahershala Ali won two Oscars and Lena Khan is directing Hollywood films. Models, pundits and Olympic athletes came into the spotlight while wearing a hijab.

At some point, I too decided that whatever the costs of speaking out, far greater was the cost of silence. If someone was going to attack me for speaking out against white supremacists, that was a risk I was willing to take. I couldn't back down from writing about controversial issues that I knew would provoke an angry backlash, even when it felt reader abuse could possibly escalate to violence.

What I've observed and experienced over the past 20 years, as a columnist and as a Muslim, perhaps boils down to this: As the politics of exclusion grow more strident, parts of the culture embrace inclusivity. Each force is a reaction to the other.

Certainly this has happened in my own relationship with readers. Even as the negative emails ramped up in intensity and bile, I still have far more readers who send words of kindness and encouragement than hatred. Many reveal their own secrets and most vulnerable stories.

My goal when I began writing a column was to give a voice to parents struggling to raise kids in this digital, social media saturated age. I hope I've done that but along the way something else important happened: I found my own voice too.

My youngest sister, who was in college when I wrote my first personal story in the aftermath of 9/11, decided to attend law school after she graduated. She eventually ran for state judge in the 113th District in Houston and was elected in 2018 as part of the record-setting number of Muslims who won public office that year.

With the benefit of two decades of hindsight and the insights I've gained from my interaction with readers over the years, I realize I could have given her a better answer when she turned to me as a frightened college student in 2001. I could have reassured her: Yes, there will be other Americans who will stand up for us.

More importantly, we will learn to stand up for ourselves.

— Aisha Sultan is a syndicated columnist based at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

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aowski · 3 years

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Changing the Narrative

It seems that death is coming at us from all sides these days. Police shootings, mass shootings, road-rage shootings, COVID deaths, and the execution spree of the last administration.

What most of us know about the death penalty in America, we probably gleaned from movies like “The Green Mile”. In our minds, we confine it geographically and historically to the old South. I propose that it encompasses more of our lives than we care to admit. We just don’t see it and recognize it as such. The sentence of death hangs over all of us. We’ve become numb to all the ways this is true, especially if it doesn’t directly affect us or our demographic today. But executions are happening daily in this country. It might help if these executions were categorized:

Judicial Execution - Death administered by the State, as a punishment for a capitol crime, usually for being too poor to afford a proper defense.

Civil Execution - Death administered by law enforcement as punishment for no reason at all except being a poor person of color.

Stochastic Execution - Death administered randomly in a public place by another person by reason of their own uncontrolled rage and easy access to military-grade firearms.

Domestic Execution - Death administered by a significant other, usually an aggrieved spouse or lover. Again rage combined with easy access to firearms. May result in stochastic execution of others.

Policy Execution - Death administered by state austerity that neglects human well-being. Reverend Barber’s “Policy Violence”.

Economic Execution - Death administered by poverty. Holes in the social safety net coupled with grievous inequality depriving people of access to food, water, shelter, and healthcare.

Environmental Execution - Death by industrial pollution, its toxic effects on food, water, or air, and climate change.

Epidemiological Execution - Death by a communicable virus that spreads like wildfire because of government negligence, politicization, assertion of personal freedom, and utter disregard for the well-being of others.

Self Execution - Death caused by our own hand. More than the act itself. The culmination of untreated depression, bi-polar illness, or hopelessness, i.e. the psychic death that precedes it.

Taken together, the result is...

Actuarial Execution - The reduced lifespan resulting from living in the United States. With a life expectancy of 78.5 years (per a WHO 2019 report), we have fallen to 40th among the world's nations in life expectancy! These are Life-years stolen! How did we get here? What is it about America that has made 39 others countries a better place, a place to live longer?

We have accepted a "culture of death", a phrase coined by Pope John Paul II. The Psalmist called it “the Shadow of Death”. In this country, the culture of death began with genocide of the indigenous, but gained an enduring foothold with slavery.

Slavery was the foundation of the economy at our country’s inception and was well-represented at the Constitutional Convention:

Let us consider the first fifty years of our national history. There was never a moment during this time when the slavery issue was not a sleeping serpent. That issue lay coiled up under the table during the deliberations of the Constitutional Convention in 1787.— John Jay Chapman

Much of our Constitution was an agreement made by compromising with slave-holding states and interests. The most notorious artifact was the “three-fifths” clause which counted slaves as 3/5 of a human being for the purpose of apportionment, thus giving the slave-holding states disproportionate representation. The Second Amendment is another concession to the interests of slavery. By the time of the Convention, “Slave Patrols” were well established in the South. There was concern that Article 1, Section 8, giving Congress the power to form and finance armies could gain control of state militias. Virginia would not ratify the Constitution unless the Second Amendment was included.

The cohesion (and fragmentation) within our society is based on identity. Too often this identity is not based so much on common interests, but on caste.

Identity is not who we define ourselves to be, but who we define ourselves to not be. More to the point, we understand ourselves to be in a hierarchy, so we define ourselves by who we are above.

They have had to believe for many years, and for innumerable reasons, that black men are inferior to white men. Many of them, indeed, know better, but, as you will discover, people find it very difficult to act on what they know. To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger. In this case, the danger, in the minds of most white Americans, is the loss of their identity.—James Baldwin

"If you can convince the lowest white man he's better than the best colored man, he won't notice you're picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he'll empty his pockets for you." —Lyndon B. Johnson

It is a human failing that we need a scapegoat to blame others for our shortcomings and vulnerabilities. White people impugn our shadow on Black people and other minority groups. Everything White America refuses to believe about itself, hates about itself, is projected onto people of color.

The white man's unadmitted and apparently, to him, unspeakable-private fears and longings are projected onto the Negro. —James Baldwin

Of all the things we want to push away from ourselves, the certainty of our death is chief among them. Yet...

Mortality the reality that we are most adept at denying.

Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have.

—James Baldwin

And, again, White America, finds it convenient to avoid the reality of death by projecting it on others:

White Americans do not believe in death, and this is why the darkness of my skin so intimidates them.

—James Baldwin

Is this is why White America has been so indifferent to the suffering and death of Black Americans? Per CDC data, life expectancy for Black Americans is approximately five years less than the population as a whole. Indifference may not be imputation, but it does translate into the lack of political will to change things.

Racism is the Poison. Although inequality disproportionately affects people of color, all working and middle-class people are struggling to survive. Compared against other wealthy Western nations, America’s systemic ills are dragging us all down into the shadows of death.

...racism is a poison first consumed by its concocters. What's clearer now in our time of growing inequality is that the economic benefit of the racial bargain is shrinking for all but the richest. The logic that launched the zero-sum paradigm-I will profit at your expense-is no longer sparing millions of white Americans from the degradations of American economic life as people of color have always known it.

—Heather McGhee (The Sum of Us)

Solidarity is the alternative and people are waking up to it:

Everywhere I went, I found that the people who had replaced the zero sum with a new formula of cross-racial solidarity had found the key to unlocking what I began to call a "Solidarity Dividend," from higher wages to cleaner air, made possible through collective action. And the benefits weren't only external. I didn't set out to write about the moral costs of racism, but they kept showing themselves. There is a psychic and emotional cost to the tightrope white people walk, clutching their identity as good people when all around them is suffering they don't know how to stop, but that is done, it seems, in their name and for their benefit. The forces of division seek to harden this guilt into racial resentment, but I met people who had been liberated by facing the truth and working toward racial healing in their communities.

—Heather McGhee (The Sum of Us)

A New Way, a way of life, a way of economic security is possible, but only if we seize the moment we are in. A moment of crisis is also a moment of opportunity. As we come out of a once-in-a-lifetime crisis, more people are facing the bankruptcy of 40 years of trickle-down Reaganomics.

Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced —James Baldwin

The politics and messaging of racial scapegoating is deeply embedded in the American psyche. Race-baiting and fear are the tools used against solidarity. The answer is a new story, a race-class narrative.

If we lead with a shared value, that means race and class, for example, ‘Whatever your race, gender, or religion, most of us work hard for our families. Every child, regardless of where they come from, deserves a chance to pursue their dreams.’ Reminding us of our common humanity (that’s a good place to start) and then saying that racial scapegoating is a weapon that economically harms all of us. You’re actually putting a shot in your listeners’ arm, inoculating them, so the next time they hear that racial scapegoating, they have antibodies for it. —Heather McGhee

This is the pivotal moment we find ourselves in. Our choices are to continue with the old story of racism, division, and death or to embrace a new story, a story of solidarity and an abundance. This can happen when we realize we are more than "The Sum of Us" (McGhee).

#death #execution #police brutality #COVID #white #black #life expectancy #zero sum #inequality #political #solidarity #baldwin #heather mcghee #identity #racism #trickle down economics #resentment #race-class #the sum of us

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scripttorture · 4 years

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Would a victim of solitary confinement be more prone to social isolation or would they try to seek out other people even if they have difficulty socializing because they've had enough of being alone? I want to go write a character who was in solitary confinement, but I'm not sure if they would attempt to reconnect with the friends they had before or try to isolate themselves; they weren't very social in the first place and isolated themselves when stressed before the experience.

Most people who survive solitary confinement have trouble socialising but that doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t seek it out. I think part of the reason they often end up isolated is because-

Socialising is a learned skill. Without the ability to practice people start to lose the skill. And then, because they don’t respond well to social cues and they’re ill, they can experience a lot of rejection when they first get out of solitary and try to socialise.

That discouragement can put people off trying. It can convince them they’re unable to succeed.

Which isn’t true. But a lot of survivors seem to feel that way.

Essentially the isolation survivors often experience isn’t just due to their own preferences or symptoms.

I think the way you’ve characterised this survivor, as someone who wasn’t social and withdrew often before, would mean she’d personally tend towards withdrawing.

But- you’re also giving me the impression that this is a character who knows what she needs. It’s easy for solitary survivors to see that their social skills have dropped. There’s no reason why a character can’t look at that and decide it’s a challenge to be attacked. A stubborn character might ‘force’ herself to socialise and re-learn these skills.

I think you could choose either depending on what fits the character and story.

My instinct is that withdrawal is ultimately more likely. If it’s part of the character’s established behaviour, and it matches with what most people who’ve been through solitary experience.

To me the socialising option seems like it would take a lot of narrative work. And I think it would be more likely if the character in question knew her symptoms were definitely due to isolation. Which isn’t exactly common knowledge.

It can be difficult to write isolation like this, especially when it’s an established behaviour, without putting blame on the isolated person.

There’s a lot of societal pressure on people with mental health problems to magically make themselves well. The refrain that people are depressed because they’re not ‘trying hard enough’, not exercising enough, not doing yoga.

I think that, if this fictional world is close to ours, this character would come up against a lot of that sort of thing. ‘Oh you’re lonely, well why don’t you just go out more?’ Even if other characters aren’t saying that a portion of your readers will probably be thinking it.

So I think this attitude is something you should address if you want to write an isolated character. Try to find ways to show, repeatedly, why it’s not that simple. Stress how difficult it is. Show readers how every small set back feeds into a downward spiral that makes the next attempt more difficult.

There’s also a lot of self-blame. People with mental illnesses often internalise this attitude and it gets in the way of recovery.

If it’s a modern setting then I’d recommend trying to portray professional help as part of recovery.

Whatever the setting support networks are extremely important for long term recovery.

So, rounding this off, it’s plausible for a survivor to isolate themselves. Many survivors do. Will their friends let them remain isolated after everything they’ve gone through? Will their family see it as a rejection or a cry for help?

Will any of the people around this character insist on contact?

This doesn’t have to be massive or done in an obnoxious way. It can be simple things, coming over to cook for them a couple of days a week. Phone calls. Something that sets up a routine of regular contact and interaction at a low level, which allows the survivor to ask for more and prevents them being completely alone. It might not sound like much but it would have a huge effect on someone’s chance of recovery, making a long term recovery plot line more plausible.

I hope that helps. :)

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#writing advice #tw torture #solitary confinement #effects of solitary confinement #writing victims #isolation #mental illness

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bluephoenixdruidicprincess · 5 years

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Shadowhunters 3x11, Lost Souls -- Review

It's that time of the year again where I put myself through the torture of enduring this show. Watching this show is like going on an endurance run. You drag your feet when you first start, when you get acclimated to the level of exercise, you think "hey, this isn't too bad" and then by the end, it's just pain...but also a sense of pride that you made it through. That's been my experience with the show, anyway. And it's basically how I felt about Shadowhunters 3x11, Lost Souls.

I would like to preface this review with saying that I am NOT a huge supporter of this show. I do enjoy certain elements of it but I'm not what would be classified as a devoted fan. For me, Shadowhunters is not a good show and I do get very critical of the show in my reviews. Honestly, for me, I watch the show because 1) I'm too curious not to and 2) I find that this show can be so bad its funny and that's how I reap enjoyment out of it. I am not at all invested in this show or its characters anymore. I'm just watching to see what happens. If you're a die hard fan and you lash out at everyone who has a different opinion than you, you might want to skip these...I'm just saying. My reviews may not be for you. If you do decide to be a total troll, well then pay attention to the below disclaimer.

This is going to be an honest review of my thoughts and feelings regarding this episode. If you're the kind of Shadowhunters fan where you only want to hear positive things about the show, this is not the place for you. If you decide to stick around and get offended by what is said, then that's on you. I warned you. Just know that if you send me any rude comments or messages, I will 100% ignore you. I find that's the best way to deal with bullies. I work 14 hour days. Do you really think I want to waste my incredibly valuable free time dealing with derogatory comments? Hell no. This review will consist of my honest opinions. Opinions are never right or wrong. I'm not telling YOU how to think and feel. I'm telling you what I, quirky and socially awkward me, think and feel. So please, lets discuss with dignity and respect. If I'm critical about this show, it's only because I want it to get better. There is, in fact, a difference between hating a show and being critical of it. I do not hate Shadowhunters, I am being critical and analyzing the flaws as I would with any other show. There are positives but there are also negatives. It's great if you want to promote positivity with this show (and I encourage you to do so) but that doesn't mean I'm not going to point out the things that are legitimately wrong with it. Also, keep in mind that despite the fact that I do like the books, me being critical of this show has nothing to do with my fondness for the books. I don't really care if the show deviates from the source material as long as the changes are good, it makes sense, and it doesn't create plot holes within the confines of the world the show has created. My problems with this show are problems I would have with any show or book for that matter. I think it's perfectly reasonable to take issue with a show that has plot holes, shoddy world building, and inconsistent characters. There will be spoilers for the books and movie.

We are at last embarking upon the final episodes of this show and if this episode is what's going to set the tone for the remaining episodes, then I'm glad it's the final episodes because...well, this episode wasn't great and is a perfect example of what I won't miss about Shadowhunters. Bland and cringey dialogue, more characters than it knows what to do with, and too much jumping across plot points. There are individual moments in the episode I enjoyed but overall, this isn't an episode I loved.

The Loss of the Mary Sue

I'm not entirely certain of the timeline in this episode. The episode never specifies on exactly how many days have passed since the 3A finale but I'm going to estimate about a week or so. Everyone believes Clary died in the explosion caused by Lillith attacking Simon.

The episode opens with Jace, Izzy, and Alec chasing after a downworlder and Jace makes some very shoddy decisions in this fight that lets you see just how reckless he's become in the wake of Clary's "death". We then get a montage of everyone missing Clary and the more significant one is Jace, that's the one they spent the most amount of time on. He's basically walking through Clary's room remembering all the times he spent with Clary...so basically three memories. Another classic example of what I've always been talking about when it comes to the adaptation changes. Clary and Jace have barely spent any amount of time together, even less actually dating and I'm supposed to believe that they're each other's one true love...not going to happen because the show didn't develop it at all. There's a moment in the montage where Jace starts looking at Clary's drawings and getting really emotional about it and I felt nothing because Jace has never been shown to take any sort of interest in Clary's artwork before. In fact, if it weren't for that one scene in 3A, I wouldn't even have known that Clary was still drawing. By the show deviating from the books in the way they did, Clace had less development but yet the show still wants to continue the aspect of Clace being hopelessly in love from the books. You can't make a significant change from the source material and then pages down the line expect to pick up exactly where you left off. By making the change, you changed the entire context of the relationship so now the entire story has to change in order to fit that new narrative. Sadly, the Shadowhunters writers have not figured that out yet and continue to make that same mistake...or they're lazy, it could be that, too. Jace eventually gets so depressed that it's implied that he's contemplating suicide but Izzy is able to talk to him and get him to think. And then she just leaves him after making him promise he won’t go through with it. If anyone's wondering, if you catch someone who you believe may be contemplating suicide, do not UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, LEAVE THEM ALONE!!! Particularly in a dark room. Being in a dark enclosed space is not the kind of place that typically sends out positive energy. But I suppose I can cut Izzy a little bit of a break. It's entirely possible the Shadowhunter world doesn't really understand how to help someone who's experiencing suicidal thoughts. They certainly didn’t help out Jace’s mother. Alec also confronts Jace about this in probably the only believable scene in this entire episode. Seriously, I've never been a Jalec shipper but I totally understand why people ship them. Matt and Dom are probably the only actors who actually have any chemistry with each other. But Alec tells Jace he's doing the memory of Clary a disservice and that if Jace were to die, it would destroy him as well. In other words, Jace isn't the only one who's going to be affected by this decision. Jace eventually is called by Luke who for some reason appears to be living in a motel room. I don't know why but whatever. Luke doesn't believe Clary is actually dead and he tries to convince Jace through some really weird conspiracy theory that probably even flat-earthers would find difficult to believe. But hey, if it leads to them finding Clary, I'll go with it. And I understand why Luke is unable to accept even the possibility that Clary might be gone for good. He can't think that about someone who he basically views as his daughter and the last connection he has to Jocelyn. Luke gives the evidence to Jace and tells Jace to at least check it out.

Simon, understandably, is also having a difficult time with all this. And Maia returns to give him emotional support despite leaving for a very particular and totally understandable reason but Simon needs her so of course she comes back for him. It's not like Maia exists for anything else but for Simon's character arc. Both Simon and Izzy kind of passive-aggressively shame Maia about leaving. And I'm particualrly disappointed in Izzy telling Maia about what happened to Simon's family as that's a very deeply personal issue and Simon should've been the one to tell her. It wasn't Izzy's secret to tell. I get that they were trying to use that scene to exposit information to the audience but there were better ways of doing that. Hell, it could've just been Izzy making an off-handed comment about Simon. Maia could've been talking to Izzy about how badly Simon is doing with the Clary situation and Izzy could've been all, "especially with what happened with his family" and Maia could've been shocked and Izzy could've been flabbergasted because she didn't know Maia didn't know. That would've been a much better way for the situation to be handled. But I'm not too pleased with Izzy saying in response to Maia not knowing, "well how could you? you weren't around." Just the insinuation that Maia should stay around and support her man and not go off and get in the right head space to properly heal herself after dealing with the re-emergence of her abuser. But I suppose I shouldn’t expect any different from Izzy seeing as she, herself, also only exists to give support the other characters. I think these passive aggressive intonations of shaming Maia are really horrible and shame on the writer. Maia, Izzy, and Simon decide to work together to find a way to get rid of the Mark of Cain from Simon's forehead. They talk to Raphael who now works at a soup kitchen in Detroit and Raphael tells them the tale of some dude chilling in the sewers of NYC who could possibly be the oldest vampire alive and may have answers to the removal of the Mark of Cain. Maia decides not to help Simon on this as its a bad idea for a werewolf and a vampire to meet and I almost forgot that was a thing, the show so rarely does anything with the vampire vs werewolf dynamic. But of course Maia has to back off to give room for Sizzy. I’m really not a big fan of Sizzy being explored here as everything that made Sizzy fun and interesting in the books has been completely stripped from the show. I’d much prefer Saia on the show. But really, I just want Maia and Izzy to have their own character arc, though that doesn’t revolve around shipping.

The Malec B-Plot

We have a Malec B-plot that I found just completely unnecessary wherein Iris returns and kidnaps Magnus because she wants to get Madzie back. She falls for the most obvious trap in the world and hopefully we never see Iris again. What it does for Magnus's story works I guess but I just found it to be a really obtrusive subplot that didn’t fit at all with the episode. I'm not sure if it's just the fact that I've been away from the show for a year so I can see the the show a little more clearly now but the Malec chemistry is no longer working for me. Maybe it's just that I've always paid more attention to how alarmingly unequal their relationship is but I'm looking at the body language they're giving off and its not the kind of body language you would expect from lovers. They're so stiff around each other and not relaxed at all.

In fact, there's a line in this episode where Malec has just put Madzie to bed as they're baby-sitting her and Alec kisses Magnus and Magnus tells him to stop because they have a child in the apartment currently. Alec kind of scoffs because it's just a kiss and Magnus is all, "You know how we get." And I'm like, "Do we really, though?" There's plenty of scenes of them talking and I can buy them as friends with that but lovers? I’m having a difficult time actually buying that now. Like I said before, the Jalec scene was way more believable than any Malec scene in this episode.

But Magnus decides he doesn't want to feel helpess ever again so he decides he needs to learn how to fight. Honestly, I was surprised to learn that this is implying he doesn't even seem to really have any basic self-defense capabilities. The way he was swinging the sword earlier in this episode lead to me to believe otherwise. Plus, Harry Shum Jr is a pretty buff dude but I guess maybe Magnus lifts weights and that’s it. Alec decides to help him out on this venture, though.

Siblings Reunited

We find out that Clary is indeed not dead and that Jonathon's back. I'll be real, here. It's kind of hard to feel sad for Jace or Simon or Luke or anyone really regarding the "death" of Clary, considering this entire episode is interspliced with moments of Clary being very much alive. Honestly, I think this episode would've functioned better if it was just about showing everyone going through all the different stages of grief regarding Clary and at the end of the episode when they've hit the acceptance stage, that's when we see Clary wake up in the apartment with Jonathon. But whatever. The show decided not to go that route so we have to make do with what we got. Clary wakes up and looking pretty damn fantastic for someone who's been asleep for days. Not a strand of hair out of place, make-up is flawless, and not a wrinkle to be found on her clothing. In fact, I think they're in even better condition than they were when Clary initially had to put them on. Clary also isn't even the slightest bit groggy, she knows exactly where she's at and everything. Clary does comas well. Jonathon tells Clary that it is indeed him, her big brother and that before Lillith was sent to hell she sent them away to Siberia, apparently. Clary plays nice for a little bit with Jonathon but decides to chance out in the cold of Siberia. It's nice to see that in her state of unconsciousness her muscles didn't atrophy from lack of movement or deteriorate from lack of food. But Clary fails in her escape, Jonathon finds her and brings her back. Clary tries to stab him with a knife but they both find out that what happens to one person will also happen to the other. So yeah, we're full in City of Lost Souls plot here which is ironically the title of this episode. Shadowhunters has never been all that subtle. This new actor for Jonathon is going to take some getting used to. Will Tudor did a phenomenal job with him so its difficult to see this new guy as Jonathon. But it also is difficult to take Clary's anger and hatred of Jonathon seriously when you think about all that Jonathon's really done on the show is kill a shadowhunter Clary had never met before and then injured Max and Max swiftly recovered. Clary is all about painting him as the worst possible being and indeed, in the books, he is but here, while he may be a bad guy who's done really bad things, I don't know if its deserving of that level of hatred. We haven't exactly seen a lot of his horrifying dastardly deeds. Another example of making a change and then thinking you can still keep the same storyline at a later point in the story. I'm certainly not saying I wanted Max to die but story-telling wise, it would make the emotions Clary's feeling here a little more believable. But I'm actually really interested to see where this whole Jonathon and Clary plot goes. In the books, it's Jace that's put in this situation so it'll be interestig to see how the show tackles Clary being in this situation. I'm also wondering, because they seem to be trying to stay away from the incest vibes here, is Jonathon going to gain an unhealthy obsession with Jace instead of Clary? In the books, Clary was who Jonathon was creepily obsessed with. He was equating possession with love and viewed that Clary belonged to him in every way imaginable. So since the roles of Clary and Jace have been reversed here, will Jonathon's obsession now change from Clary to Jace? Probably not but it would've been interesting to see for sure. I mean, if you're going to do a role reversal, you might as well go all the way, right?

The Clave Acting Shady AF

The Clave is being super shady right now. They appear to be doing experiments on the incarcerated downworlders and all I can say is, "do we really need this?" And also, "Why is it being implied that Jia knows about this and is okay with this?" The interesting thing about Jia in the books was the fact that she was the first step in the leadership to help get rid of the more corrupt aspects of the Clave and instigating change. But I suppose it's per the norm for the show to make everyone but the main group a bad guy instead of morally grey. As I've said before, this show has no concept of subtlety. I can only imagine that this is leading into the part in City of Glass the show hasn't done yet wherein the alliance rune is going to be introduced but instead of using it to fight Valentine, they're going to use it to fight Jonathon. That's what these downworlder experiments seem to be leading into as it reminds me a lot of Valentine experimenting in the books. I'm sure there was 0 social commentary intended when writing this into the show, though...but I think its safe to say it's totally social commentary. The show isn't very subtle, once again.

But good news is it looks like Ollie is gone for good so yay! I am side-eying the show, though about that. What was the point of introducing her if you weren't going to do anything with her? I'd say they probably wasted about half of 3A with Ollie unnecessarily. But maybe if this show hadn't been cancelled, Ollie would've played a more significant role? Well anyway, at least some of the fat has been trimmed.

My biggest issue, as always, is the dialogue. The dialogue felt extremely one-note. It was almost like the writer made a flow chart of what they wanted to happen in this episode and was like, "crap! I guess my characters do need to speak, here's some lines to explain what's going on." The dialogue basically existed solely for the purpose of giving exposition but the real kicker is that it was really unnecessary. I could've had this episode on silent (and that might've even have made it an improvement) and I would've understood what was happening perfectly. The dialogue really didn't add anything to the experience, it just made the episode feel more awkward than it already was. And then there continues the trend of Shadowhunters treating their awesome plans as if they’re the most clever plans in the world when in actuality, the plan is beyond obvious and it was super cringey and awkward seeing Izzy being treated as this amazing strategist for making the obvious move. And the episode was already plenty awkward with the constant cutting. It's really difficult to enjoy any particular subplot going on in this show when we only spend maybe 30 seconds to a minute on any particular moment. I kind of wish this show structured their episodes more around themes as opposed to plot. Plot is temporary, plot is always changing but exploring themes through plot gives you more of an appreciation not only for the characters but the story, itself. While I didn't mind sequences in this episode, at the end of the day, it just kind of left me feeling empty. I also think the acting felt a little stilted as well. I wasn't a big fan of any of the performances given in this episode and whereas I've never thought anyone on this show was oscar-worthy for their performances in the past on this show, their performances have always been maybe a C+ to a B. But in this episode, it just didn't feel like any of the actors' hearts were in it. Now granted, that could be a side effect of the script because, as I've mentioned before, the script wasn't great. Or it could've been the directing. There's a lot of reasons for why acting can feel stilted and it very rarely has to do with the actor or actress being bad at acting.

I've made notes about how the dialogue and acting was stilted but those weren't the only things that were. The fight choreography and the blocking felt a little off as well. For starters, the fight choreography did not feel organic. It was strangely reminiscent of season 1 fight choreography. The constant jump cuts so you don't see too much of what's actually happening and just feeling like fight scenes move very slowly. Like the reaction times between sword swing to parry were very slow and it kept on taking me out of the moment. Then you also had moments where Alec and Izzy catch up with Jace in the sewer and everyone's staring at the seelie they're trying to capture for a good 5 seconds before the actual fight continues. And then there's just strange blocking choices where a character walks to a point in the room and then delivers their line but the walk to the new mark wasn’t organic and actually made the line feel more awkward.

I'd probably give this episode a C+. It was passable, with enjoyable moments but ultimately not something I have any desire to return to. There were cute moments (primarily Jalec and Madzie), but overall as an episode, not something to be too terribly impressed with. And yes, there were moments I did like. It’s not my fault the show just had more bad parts I felt compelled to talk about.

#shadowhunters 3b #shadowhunters 3x11 #shadowhunters lost souls #rife with unpopular opinions #read at your own risk

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