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dubsxreader · 3 years

Text

worship the king //.o1 // shigaraki tomura x female!reader

summary: after the soul crushing realization that you're not meant to be the Hero you've spent your life training to be, you hunt down the most indiscriminate killer you know: Dabi. his man-child of a leader being there only makes the task easier, right? too bad Shigaraki has a knack for seeing things in others they don't see themselves. wc: 3,312 playlist: here!

rated: M for dark and mature themes; future lewd tw: suicidal ideation (seriously don't read if you're in a bad mindset this probs won't help), depression, toxic thoughts, manipulation, the start of a v dependent, idolizing relationship ie "worship" in all definitions of the word haha. Shigs taking advantage of a mentally vulnerable hero basically; dead dove do not eat for that reason.

a/n: this is something I wrote almost year ago now, when I first fell head over heels for Shigs and really felt like bnha was saving me from insanity haha. I have 15 pages of notes for this fic, but for now, for the King's birthday, this is my thank you to him and a year of loving Shigaraki Tomura <3 also to the xreader community for being my gateway into every fandom that takes over my life haha. will be posted to ao3 later

You stand on a cracked, littered rooftop, sullenly looking over the calamity you figured would be destroying the lives of every day, happily unaware citizens tonight. A slight sigh of relief leaves your chewed-to-hell lips, hidden to your own addled mind but glaringly apparent to any of your fellow heroes who’d commented on your state of mind the past few months.

You appreciated their care, you really did—for all the surface level care it could give, that is. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t understand. They were simply more Heroic than you, official capital and all. More driven, stronger, faster… But you’ve been doing the absolute best you can, and you were sure of that. Days–weeks months?–of harshly honest self speculation assured you of your failures and of the fact that, simply put, you weren’t cut out for shouldering multitudes of lives every time you stepped out your door. Heroism didn’t just end when you took off your costume; no, it was an ideology that should be ingrained into the soul of the costume wearer, and you’d come to the jarring conclusion that, after all your special training, you just weren’t up to snuff.

You couldn’t even save yourself from your own demons. How the hell were you supposed to save those more deserving of life if you couldn’t cope with your own shit?

A small, condescending snort leaves your nostrils as you observe the blue flames engulfing the area below you. Fucking worthless. What was the point, then? Hours of support Hero's work on your items, costume—wasted. The countless words of love and support from friends and family. Ha. Your eyes track the small movements of the current chaos’ perpetrators with a keenness you've found twisted comfort in recently. A familiar, all encompassing fixation gears up that brings you out of the cloud of self-doubt, hate, and deprecation that was so, so wrong to feel as a Pro-Hero in today’s society. In this bubble there's a solution, so it's okay. You let out a numbing breath.

Maybe you could give the Villains +1 morality in the eyes of whatever twisted being rested on their laurels, idly watching as you drive yourself insane.

A swift gust of wind knocks the empty cans and bottles from their peaceful resting places as you leave your perch, descending into the empty alley below to begin your last stand against yourself. Resolute and heavy steps echo in the widened, deserted streets of the city you vowed to protect—a small, still aware part of you thankful it’s so late at night that most would be sleeping. Your targets (saviors?) usually moved when they would make the most social impact, but you’d been tracking a certain member that didn’t seem to adhere to their strict schedule.

Whoever they were behind the obvious moniker, they seemed to kill liberally. It should be easy. You take a numbing breath.

The stench of burning flesh and ash is suddenly all too pungent, assaulting your senses enough to kick your mind into another, more logical plane and question how stupid you’re being. How disappointed everyone who knew you would be. Izuku and Hitoshi, especially, had been trying their hardest to devote extra time to you recently, you knew that—fuck, how selfish were you to bring their attention away from a goal they’d fought so hard to achieve?

The flames are smoldering char on concrete when you arrive at the end of another alleyway, just as dirty as the one you’d come from… But the incineration just seemed to have cleansed the way of its trash. You nearly sigh again in morbid relief when you see two men still standing there in the aftermath. You can see from behind that the man you’ve been tracking, Dabi, still has his left arm extended, as if relishing the memory of his flames destroying the ones he deemed unworthy.

Hands in your hero costume’s pockets, you steel yourself in your usual Hero emotions: indignation, conviction, disgust at the idea of them feeling they had a right to do anything going against the grain of the society you were indoctrinated into. You clear your throat with the last of your practiced confidence, bringing the sights of the two Villains to your own frame shadowed by the bright street lamp at your back.

“You two aren’t planning on getting away with this, are you?”

Your simple, deadpan drawl has both men scoffing to themselves and sharing a look of exasperation and annoyance. They clearly want nothing more than to be done with whatever the hell they were doing; your gaze sharpens in acknowledgment while their own take note of your hero costume. This is it. This is really it. You’ve done it. Is it really what you want?

Your eyes ice over, hardening to protect your vulnerabilities when they meet those of the second man’s own carmine flecks, so unflinching and so, so bored from behind his trademark hand.

Yeah. This is it.

Resignation freezing the rest of your visage and nothing left to say, you dash forward with simple physical speed, locking onto the Villain you recognize as the leader of the League of Villains himself. Sure, Dabi was a proven relentless killer, but you figure if you go after the leader himself there would be even less hesitation or time to think on either side. They were both reportedly unflinching, ruthless, uncaring and absolutely evil, but Shigaraki’s devilishness was practically beaten into you at this point. He was the obvious candidate, the oddness of his presence meaningless yet welcome at this point.

Your eyes never leave his as you take those last three lunging leaps, your arm cocked back in a hopeful show of some impressive power you might possess, in a display grand enough to paint yourself as a threat if not at the very least an annoyance.

Blue flames lick at the back of your costume. You’d somehow been faster than Dabi’s flames, which made no sense at all—you weren’t fast in any capacity if you were to judge yourself. It must’ve been a misfire. Lucky you’ve targeted the faster acting Villain.

Something distinctly odd flashes in his previously disinterested eye as you rush him, your Quirk barely powered yet still reflecting in his observation as you aim for the mask. Your own, in contradictory spite, slows as your mind races, brushing the hand enough to feel the inexplicitly soft and leathery texture, knocking it clean off the face of the man you’d targeted. Maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's the anticipation of the end, but you don’t feel anything near what you thought you’d feel when his living hand grazes your outstretched arm. If anything, it feels like an angry wasp had come at your elbow in some sort of misguided revenge attempt. Bearable.

Fucking livable.

You skid to a shaky stop feet behind them, your glare going to the small hole in your costume’s arm where he’d made the briefest of contact. The skin had only begun to crack and decay from a central point; nothing near the scale and intensity you’d been warned about by your superiors and peers. What the fuck gives?

A desperate rage threatens to erupt at the lack of damage. You feel cheated. Your eyes shift from the minimal damage to the apprehensive yet notably curious eyes of your chosen euthanasist. Was he just not taking you seriously? You didn’t blame him, but…

“I thought the League was the best of the best?” The sting in your arm is mockingly there and you scoff, barely hiding your indignation at his unfulfillment of the role you’d forced upon him. You take it and use it to fuel the crumbling foundation of your resolve, ashing it to the ground yourself and focus on the slightly slumped figure topped with white-blue hair.

His eyes are now magnetized and piercing, never wavering from your own, adding to your rage and confusion. Just what is he getting at, looking straight at you in the fucked up state you’re in and just–just fucking seeing–?! You aren’t looking for pity, fuck all if it's from the person you’ve deemed would have the balls you didn’t to end this shitty nightmare you live in. With a primal, anguished and utterly guttural scream you dash forward once more towards Shigaraki Tomura, hand erupting in a more accurate show of your true power.

Once again, he simply guides your attack away from him into empty space, this time with a deft shove of his index finger. Silent and calculating. You stumble on your feet as you land, ignoring the insulting sting, and turn to face them at a pace you know isn’t up to Hero standards but unable to even fake it anymore. Your eyes, though.

They fucking call to him.

How could he dust you? A Pro-Hero, coming at him alone, a deadly ally at his side, with what he knew from his research to be nowhere near their quirk’s power and potential?

Nevermind the look in your eyes he’d recognized immediately—this Hero was asking to be killed. Cracked lips twitch to grin at the situation. His mind works at full throttle to balance the possibilities.

“Heh…” The small breath leaves him, a smirk winning out and pulling at already taught skin, “You’re looking to die, aren’t you, Hero?”

Your brows furrow in… Fuck, you can’t identify your feelings at this point–they shouldn’t matter–they’d become obsolete the moment you took a swing at the supposedly impulsive and irrational Villain in charge. All you can feel is the overwhelming sense of weight, of pressure, of absolute and total CHAOS destroying any semblance of unity you’d pulled together to end this.

“What the fuck does that matter to you, Villain?!” Your glare is full of a rawness you can’t recognize, let alone mask, “Fucking fight me or die!”

His smirk, now fully on display, stretches to the smuggest of smiles as he takes his experimental first steps forward, casually retrieving the hit hand and placing it safely in his trench coat pocket. You weren’t immediately attacking him—hell, you weren’t even defending yourself! You’d only be more obvious if you’d delivered yourself to his doorstep tied in a bright, blood-red ribbon labeled “do what you want, I don’t care anymore!” It made his blood simmer, his skin itch in excitement at all the optional routes opened up before him.

Quickly, too quickly to deploy your defense {even if you wanted to}, he’s in your face and encircling your neck in a four fingered grasp. Your eyes vaguely mark Dabi looking on with a detached interest, and you can’t help but mirror his lack of understanding—your emotions and thoughts unfortunately too far past controllable to be hidden behind the usual Heroics.

“You could still serve a purpose, you know.”

Narrowed (e/c) eyes meet piercing, analytical rubies set to freeze and crumble enemies. You have no answer to that, none at all—if you hadn’t come across another anything while you’d been searching in earnest, how could it be tossed into your lap from the hands of a Villain? Your clear disbelief doesn’t deter him in the slightest. It only gives him the subtle signals he needs to ensure a dedicated new member of his team. This situation could only go well for him and the League, if he plays it right, and he’s thankful Dabi knows when to shut the hell up and take the back seat when he truly should.

He’s never seen Shigaraki’s version of recruitment before. After Dabi's climate destroying display, he could use a lesson.

On the edge though this Hero is, the line is thin and the touch needed is delicate and calculated.

“You can make a real difference in this rotten world,” Shigaraki slowly lowers his defensive arm and loosens his grip on your neck, conveying his intentions to calm you. He notices this strikes an especially sore nerve that you’re too unhinged to recognize. You’re taken over by your emotions, unable to distinguish that you’ve offered your weaknesses to your enemy on a silver platter. Disgusted rage he’s now certain is self-focused meets him, only bringing him a step closer to your frozen and highly panicked figure. His free fingers fidgets on the clammy skin of your neck, tapping a pattern across your throbbing pulse, expectant and soft while the other stays loosely, carefully, against your clavicle.

It's constant.

It's… calming?

No, it's fucking overwhelming and uncomfortable and— As if your body’s acting on the last vestiges of your studies, you struggle in his grasp and pull your dominate arm back, channeling all your sadness and panic you’d been unable to expel into the attack you hoped would just fucking end this fucking end this it’s done—

Another four fingered grip captures your wrist, directing your power away from anything important and only ruffling Dabi’s clothes as he watches on. You choke on a cry, near your mask’s end with Shigaraki’s unexpected patience. You’d been told this was nothing more than a spoiled, raging, calloused young man entirely unable to connect with any feelings other than his own selfish need to destroy all Heroes he came in contact with. The only conclusion your racing mind can come to is that he doesn’t even view you as a Hero worth destroying. Thick and torrid tears rush from your eyes, betraying your need to be recognized and being denied that luxury in your final moments.

“I can’t even get what I need from you fuckfaces—!” Your cry rings out, eyes shutting tightly, shaking with the force of your emotions finally finding the breaking point they need to crash through into the real world, “What the fuck can I do to make a fucking difference?!”

Shigaraki pauses to assess your sobbing. You’ve all but folded into yourself; you would’ve disintegrated against his hold on your neck if he hadn’t been paying attention. No… he sees you. He sees you. His fingered grip on your neck slides up to force your head to follow, meeting his sure gaze. You’re lost. You’re anxiously grasping at anything you can to stop the burning, itching need to destroy your own mind… And he gets that. He knows what it took to hook him tightly into his own mindset. He knows of seeing a seemingly impossible goal set before him, of feeling unworthy and needing to prove himself to his peers and himself. If anyone could reshape you... it would be him. If anyone were to reshape you... it should be him.

“It isn’t fair, is it…?” He starts slowly, voice dripping with cooing understanding, gauging your expressions and body, “You work so hard to be what others want you to be… And never feel enough, even when you put your all into it.” Your whole being shudders at his words, breaking down and melting into the pressure of your expectations for yourself. You choke on another messy sob, tears blinding you, snot nearly reaching your lips, a trail of drool unknowingly slipping from the corner of your grimacing lips.

“We’d never expect more than you can give, you know,” He all but whispers into your ear, his words echoing with staying power. You miss the tiniest bit of excitement he lets slip into his tone at the thought of corrupting a fairly strong Hero to his cause with mere psychological one-upmanship. The power over your entire existence is an intoxicating prize and he’s not about to let go of it if he can help it.

A sad cross between a whimper and a cry escapes you as you crumble even more into a hold you’d only come to for annihilation. Why wasn’t he killing you? Why weren’t you dead? You’d wanted to die, needed to just stop everything and just—just STOP, finally, just stop. He was a hardened criminal with no need for heroes, what the hell kind of use did he see in you? You still the tiniest bit. You just need a use, a tangible use, is that what you’ve been missing? A clear direction set before you by an overwhelmingly liberating, intelligent, capable force… Could he see it through all the absolute shit you covered yourself in?

A tentative spark lights the furthest parts of you as you finally meet his confident and knowing gaze. Fuck if you don’t feel seen for the first time in your life, finally seen and accepted for the absolute mess you see yourself as. The conflicting, philosophical doubts you’ve had about Heroism, and your own heroics in the existential race you call a life, find a peaceful place in Shigaraki Tomura’s vision.

It's an alien calm, a powerful sedative on your mind, leading you to melt into his look—telling him all he needed to know and more. The grin he sports widens and his eyes shift to give a silent command to Dabi, still (surprisingly) observing quietly, before changing your life indefinitely, “Follow me, little hero. You'll never be lost again.”

A deep, swirling purple warp gate you’d only seen in footage appears at the entrance to the alleyway.

The loose grip on your neck finally leaves completely, giving you ample room to escape up and out across the rooftops. You’re frozen in your battling thoughts at the suddenly very real decision in front of you.

You knew you weren’t good enough to be a Hero. You’d been struggling with the core beliefs on what the word even meant, if the world you’d been taught was even so black and white. Did you even want to die or did you just need someone to come and give you a purpose, some great refocusing direction? Someone to swoop in, recognize and acknowledge your pain before wiping it away and giving you something definite to live for? You knew you couldn’t make it as a Hero. You were nothing in that world. But maybe you could make that nothing existence, doomed to the weaker, better…?

Eyes nearly blinded before blinking down more streams of tears, you sniffle and take a tentative step towards the man looming tall over you, an umbrella shielding you from a brightness you couldn’t stand to be seen in. You harshly wipe your falling tears to watch Dabi walk swiftly into the portal, an unlit cigarette of some sort dangling from his patterned lips. Shigaraki steps to it much slower. He stops before he reaches it, twisting subtly to look at you from over his shoulder. He shouldn’t have to say anything more for you to follow, if his assumptions are correct—

They are.

Your first steps are slow but pick up speed quickly, feet nearly throwing you into his right side, at the mouth of the portal to a place described by your thoughts as no return. His eyes widen in delight, a manic grin following as he places the fingers of his left hand onto your head in a semblance of comfort. More than he ever got. His right arm wraps confidently around your waist, absurdly consoling to your rapidly evolving morals and needs.

It allows you to let it all go, though. It tells you someone more capable, more prepared is there. That he sees you and is keeping you alive because you’re useful to him. You can’t seem to care why when the overwhelming realization that such a powerful man saw you as you were, truly were, and still found a profound use for you in a world you were dying in takes a strong hold. You’re practically weightless as he guides you into the inky blackness of his caretaker’s portal, mind clicking into place and recognizing the distinct choice you’re making with a calm acceptance of this development in your life.

You were a useless hero. Perhaps this is your chance to prove you could make a difference to someone as a villain.

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a/n: thanks so much for reading!! :) hope you enjoyed~ happy birthday, Shigster! maann I wish he'd take me away ;w; drop of a hat, I'm gone lol. the ultimate escapism... yandere!Shigaraki! xD annyway, I hope you have a wonderful day~ <3

#shigaraki tomura x femaie!reader #shigaraki x reader #tw sucidal ideation #tw depression #tw manipulation

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ouyangzizhensdad · 3 years

Note

what’s ur opinion on the whole ancestral hall thing because I’ve seen many takes on how wangxian were in the wrong and how jc was right to be mad but I always thought that his anger during that situation stemmed from a place different to that of what everyone seems to think 😶

Hi anon,

I do not hold all the cultural knowledge to be able to be a definite resource wrt how wangxian’s behaviour would have been perceived “in-universe”. So take my thoughts on the topic with a grain of salt, and please do not mind that I will focus more on what can be found explicitly in the text itself.

My understanding from what others have explained is that bringing to the ancestral hall someone who’s not from the “family”, in this case LWJ, is generally disrespectful. Considering WWX’s inner thoughts, where he’s literally asking JFM and Yu-furen to witness their bows, I think that perhaps WWX was so caught up in the fantasy/idea of LWJ as his future spouse that he might not have registered as much how, in the current situation, LWJ was not family.

It does however make me pause a little that, until JC’s appearance, the narrative does not seem to present the situation in such a manner that we might think that it was extremely presumptuous of LWJ to kneel alongside WWX, and accompany him in burning incense. Considering that LWJ is known to be someone who is very proper, and that WWX is not unaware of the rules of propriety (even if he does not always follow them), I do find it interesting that there is no hesitation from either of them.

To make up for his thoughtless words, he lit up three more sticks of incense. Just as he raised them above his head, still apologizing in his mind, it suddenly got darker beside him. He turned to find that Lan Wangji had also kneeled down beside him.

Now that they were in the ancestral hall, for the sake of courtesy, of course he had to show his respect as well. Lan Wangji also took three sticks of incense and, sweeping his sleeve to the side, and ignited them using one of the red candles. His movements were proper, and his expression was grave. Wei Wuxian tilted his head to look at him, his lips curving upward almost uncontrollably. Lan Wangji glanced at him and reminded, “The ashes.”

The three sticks of incense that Wei Wuxian held had been burning for quite a while. A bit of ashes had already accumulated at the top, close to falling off. However, he still refused to insert them into the tripod, instead saying, “Let’s do it together.”

Lan Wangji didn’t object. And so, each with three sticks of incense, the two of them kneeled among rows of tablets and bowed down to Jiang Fengmian and Yu ZiYuan’s names together.

Once. Twice. The movements were exactly the same. Wei Wuxian, “That’s it.” He finally placed the incense into the tripod.

In the end. Wei Wuxian glanced at Lan Wangji, who’s kneeling as properly as ever beside him. He put his hands together and uttered in his heart, ‘Jiang-shushu, Yu-furen, it’s me again. I’m here to disturb you two again. But I really did want to bring him here and show him to you. Let the two prostrates we just did count as prostrating* to the Heavens and the Earth, and to the Father and the Mother. Please help me reserve the person beside me for now. I’ll owe you the last prostrate for now, and find some chance to make up for it in the future…’

I am not certain as well how WWX having left the Jiang sect affects his “right” to be there. JC does seem to suggest that, as an “outsider” who was, still according to JC, “kicked out of the sect,” WWX doesn’t a have right to be there. I cannot tell whether that is an entirely fair assessment due to my lack of cultural knowledge, since JC demonstrates that he is not above bending the truth to fit his own narrative (ie when he says that WWX was kicked out of the sect when we already know at this point in the narrative that this is not what transpired).

However, it is also important to keep in mind that a character’s anger, just like real people’s, is not always motivated by rational concerns or that these rational concerns might become entangled with other grievances, some of which might not be as motivated. JC’s initial reproaches directly indicate that he considers it a faux-pas at best and an insult at worst that WWX decided to come and take LWJ with him.

“Wei Wuxian, you really don’t take yourself as an outsider, do you? You come and leave whenever you want. You take with you whomever you want. Do you perhaps still remember whose sect this is? Who’s the owner?”

This is reinstated a little bit later:

Wei Wuxian threw him a sideways glance, speaking in a calm voice, “I’m only here to burn some incense. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Jiang Cheng, “Burn some incense? Wei Wuxian, are you really that dense? It’s been so long since you were kicked out of our sect, and here you are taking unwelcomed people with you to burn incense for my parents?”

That being said, it is interesting to note that WWX calls these remarks “vulgar“ and “obliviously malicious”. Now, the question is, is it because he’s fiercely protective of LWJ that he takes these words so badly or because in this case it is transparent that JC is intentionally overly spiteful?

Oher reproaches levelled against WWX, or the two of them, also have nothing to do with them burning incense in the ancestral hall. Indeed, JC brings up grievances he still hold against them, some of which we know are not exactly fair. As well, his own insecurities and issues fuel his anger, something directly acknowledged in the text.

Jiang Cheng mocked, “Look how forgetful you are. What does unwelcome people mean? Then let me remind you. It was because you played the hero and saved Lan-er-gongzi, who’s standing beside you right now, that the entire Lotus Pier and my parents went down with you. And that wasn’t enough. With the first time, soon comes the second. You even had to save Wen-gaos and drag my sister down with you. What a person you are! What’s more, you’re even so generous as to take the two to Lotus Pier. The Wen-gao’s strolling in front of my sect’s gates; Lan-er-gongzi came here to burn incense. You’re here on purpose to remind me, to remind them.” He continued, “Wei Wuxian, who do you think you are? Who gave you the face to take whomever you want into our sect’s ancestral hall?”

Wei Wuxian knew that Jiang Cheng had to settle this with him no matter what.

For Lotus Pier’s destruction, Jiang Cheng thought not only that Wei Wuxian responsible, but also that Wen Ning and Lan Wangji were responsible too. He wouldn’t give a friendly look to either of the three, let alone when they were walking right in front of his face at the same time inside Lotus Pier. He was probably infuriated.

[...]

“Jiang Cheng, just listen to yourself. What are you saying? Is it appropriate? Don’t forget who you are. After all, you’re a sect leader. Insulting a renowned cultivator in front of Jiang-shushu and Yu-furen’s spirits—where is your discipline?”

His original intention was to remind Jiang Cheng to at least hold some respect for Lan Wangji. However, Jiang Cheng was the most sensitive. From those words, he managed to make out the notion that he was not fit to be a sect leader.

Of import to the context of the scene, JC suggests also that WWX insulted the memory of his parents by “fooling around” with LWJ in Lotus Pier, suggesting that their hug (and romantic feelings) “dirtied their eyes and contaminated their peace”. He spells it out once more, a little bit later.

Jiang Cheng pointed outside, “Mess around outside however you want, whether under a tree or on a boat, hugging or otherwise! Get out of my sect, get out of anywhere my eyes can see!”

Especially so because we get the contextualisation from the narration (one of the few times we are told things that WWX cannot be privy to) that JC had been following them for a while, stewing, until he exploded.

At once, he was almost certain that the two really were in that kind of relationship. He could not turn around and leave, yet he did not want to say a single word to the two, so he continued to hide himself as he followed them. Every single look and movement that passed between them seemed different in his eyes. For a while, the shock, absurdity, and slight disgust that he felt combined to overpower his hatred. It was only after Wei Wuxian brought Lan Wangji into the ancestral hall that the long-suppressed hatred was awakened again, devouring his courtesy and rationality.

I’m too tired to go check the original chinese to see whether the translation conveys well the connotations of the text, but like... “absurdity”, “disgust”, “hatred”, “devouring his courtesy and rationality”: as a writer, if I wanted to show that a character was engaging in a bout of rightful anger, that’s certainly not how I would present their emotional and mental state before they lashed out.

Now, WWX is not blameless for the situation, as he is quick to react both because of his over-protectiveness of LWJ and his own insecurities regarding his feelings toward him, which make him loose his cool and start the escalation that JC is too happy to continue

Wei Wuxian raged, “Hanguang-Jun is only my friend—what do you think we are?! I warn you. Apologize right now—don’t make me beat you up!”

Hearing this, Lan Wangji’s expression froze for an instant. Jiang Cheng laughed, “Well, then I’ve never seen ‘friends’ like that before? You warn me? Warn me against what? If you two had the slightest trace of integrity left, you shouldn’t have come here and…”

Seeing the change in Lan Wangji’s expression, Wei Wuxian thought he felt insulted by Jiang Cheng’s words. He was so angry that his entire body was shaking. He did not dare think about what Lan Wangji would think after being shamed like this. The rage from his heart rushed to his head as he threw out a talisman, “Have you had enough yet?”

The talisman was both fast and powerful. It exploded at Jiang Cheng’s right shoulder, causing him to stagger. Jiang Cheng didn’t expect Wei Wuxian to attack so suddenly. His spiritual powers hadn’t recovered completely yet, either, and so the talisman hit its target. Blood seeped from his shoulder as disbelief flashed across his face. Zidian immediately unravelled from his fingers, lashing out with sizzling light. Lan Wangji unsheathed Bichen to block the attack. The three began to fight inside the ancestral hall.

To me the text seems to suggest, as you did, that JC’s anger and lashing out is not actually about the incense burning in the ancestral hall in itself--that he let his hatred overpower any sense of courtesy and rationality, as the narration suggests. It is easy to ponder whether JC would have been that upset if, when he had gone to look for WWX, he had not found him being happy in LP with an ‘outsider’ like LWJ, but on top of it all, acting like he is in love with a man. Would his reaction have been the same if he had just happened upon them kneeling in the ancestral hall? Would his reaction have been the same if he still did not blame WWX, and so many others, for all the misfortunes that ever befell him and his family? As well, one could also easily wonder how in a similar situation a character who is not as prone to anger and flying off the handle like JC would have reacted to the same actions.

TLDR: I do not have the have the cultural knowledge to tell how much “in the wrong” the characters were, however I think it would be disingenuous to suggest based on what we are presented with in the text that JC’s reaction was 100% motivated and rational, particularly since the text literally includes the line “the long-suppressed hatred was awakened again, devouring his courtesy and rationality.”

#mdzs meta #mdzs #wwx #jc

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letters-from-eros · 4 years

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Hiiii! I love your page and uh, is wondering if you can make either a Bakugou or Shouto (whoever you're more comfortable writing) fic where their girlfriend is amazing at singing/dancing and is super sweet and nice but then one day they were given a task to teach other students and it's just [+100 strictness] [+100 anger] [+100 seriousness] like 'oh you didn't put your arm 90° up to the air? Do it again.' 'Oh you practiced 5 hours yesterday? Cool, next time practice up to 8 hours bcuz you still suck.'

Hope you doin well!❤ And tysm if you ever do my request!

A/N: Hello!! Thank you so much for your kind words, they mean so much to me! I can relate to this request because I can get angrily passionate about the things I really like and my patience has to potential to get cut in half! I went with Todo for this one since I have written anything for him in a while!

Pairing: Shouto Todoroki x Reader

Form: Oneshot.

Genre: Fluff.

Warnings: There's like.. One curse word.

Snap, Snap, People!

All aspiring heroes have that one thing.. That one thing that sets them off into a passionate frenzy. Whether it be hero work like Deku and Katsuki or a certain aspect of their quirk and past, like Todoroki.

For you? It was dance. Dancing was something you primarily kept to yourself, but it was far from a secret. It was something that ran through your veins whether you liked it or not. It flowed all the way to the battlefield where your movements would be precise and graceful, looking as though it was choreographed amongst the many crazy and sporadic fighters 1A accommodated.

Shouto knew of such fact, of course. He took pleasure in knowing all the small details on you. He never saw you actually dance, though, it was a topic you would bashfully deny with an embarrassed smile, something he found absolutely adorable. That being said, he never pushed you to show him but the fact that you were still a dancer never went forgotten.

Up until the school festival, no one knew that Y/n L/n, the sweetest girl that always had a smile gracing her face, a nice tone hanging from her words.. The same person who has gotten to class late on so many occassions because she was trying to get a cat out of a tree could turn into a raging dancing beast with patience as thin as hair and a tongue that dripped venom.

"Who are you and what did you do to our Y/n?" Was a question everyone wanted to ask when they first were getting instructed under your strict ruling but they all were too scared to.

Even Bakugo was intimidated. To a (hidden) degree, of course.

In contrast, Shouto was more neutral, as always, if not a little curious. This was the first time he's seen this side of you. It was new, sure, but Todoroki was nothing if he is not resilient. It was far from his first time dealing with tough, overbearing teachers. Compared to his past experiences, this was nothing but a pinch on the cheek.

"The hell is wrong with you all?! You can fight villains but you can't hit a single beat?!" Your yelling was loud and jarring, Shouto was dazed.

"Speak for yourself, you extra!" Katsuki clapped back, the only one who could find courage to speak, which didn't shock anyone. Katsuki had slightly stumbled over his words, anyone who knew his speech patterns knows he doesn't call anyone in his class an "extra." The insult was forced, as a way to protect any pride that could be left.

"Go shove an explosion up your ass, you anger fueled, arrhythmic bastard. If you want to stomp about this stage blindly, do it when I'm not looking."

Has...

Has anyone ever spoken to him like that?

Everyone's expressions were priceless, including Katsuki's (who was speechless for the first time in his life.)

Silence overtook the gym you all were practicing in, a dazed shock

It was an understatement to say that a lot of thoughts were running through Todoroki's head. Things were going on so quickly, and he was usually one who could cope with that perfectly but when things were being set in motion by his usual calm girlfriend, nothing seemed to add up. No matter how hard he tried.

"I'm getting water, practice the steps I showed you all," Your voice was slightly hoarse from yelling as you spoke and turned to go get something to soothe your throat.

You had cooked everyone alive with harsh words, it didn't seem like you. But no one could say that the harsh words didn't summon some form of improvement albeit after Deku stopped crying from being overwhelmed and insulted.

Jarring, the only word that would possibly define such a flabbergasting situation.

"M-Maybe y-you should talk to her, Todoroki," Deku stuttered out, it was no surprised he was shaken up, he was only used to Katsuki's verbal abuse. Yours was on a different level... They were insults that sounded professional and true.

Shouto slightly nodded and thought about the last what? 3 straight hours of practicing a fraction of the set? His– and probably everyone else's bodies ached. No one, except for you was used to such strict practice routines.

He was the only one who hadn't recieved your wrath, and it was obvious there was some form of bias there. He wasn't partial to all your reprimanding, though, having been called out on most of his short comings albeit a little.. softer. More of your usual self slipping through. It was comforting for that to be the case, it showed that your niceness wasn't some facade that hid this beast of a dance instructor.

Todoroki blinked before looking your way, seeing you take a long sip out of your water bottle. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Uraraka giving a highly pleading look. "Please calm her down" was the only thing that could be read from the begging look. It was something that snatched him from overanalyzing the situation. Todoroki knew you best, everyone, including himself knew that. The probability of him not being able to say the right thing to calm you down was extremely low.

"Y/n," He called for your attention and your gaze was directed to him. Your eyes had the usual soft look full of love. Had you managed to calm yourself down?

"You are going really hard on everyone, and I think its about time we finished today's practice. We still have a few weeks before our concert," He explained, monotone and to the point, how he usually was.

"But the way everyone is now, there's no fixing it within a few weeks. Long practices help. We should just fix bad habits today, and then we can progress," So that was your mindset, huh? It wasn't completely rooted in the blind anger you showed your classmates.

"I don't think that's a good idea, love," He started slipping in one of his pet names. It was a pretty cheap trick to have you listen to him. "Not everyone is used to this work. You can't differentiate what's a 'bad habit' or something from the exhaustion."

The thing that ran through Shouto's veins was levelheaded thoughts and decisions. (although his spite against his father can blind that, sometimes.) Todoroki was perfect for letting you see things clearly from a good perspective. It made him a good confidant and a good, supportive partner.

"Ah.. You're right. Sorry for going so hard on you and everyone else! I guess my old dance teacher possessed me there for a sec!" A bashful smile and a small, cute chuckle complimented the apology that escaped your lips.

Shouto gave you a warm and soft pat on the head, smoothing out some stray hairs that escaped the uniform shape of your hair, a fond smile plastered on his face. This tooth achingly sweet personality, the occasional bashful moments was what he was completely whipped for. He knew he would grow to become whipped for your demanding and strict teaching methods, too. He couldn't see himself not loving every last piece of you and he'd be lying if he wasn't excited to see the slightly hidden new dimensions of yourself.

He loved you, that's all there was to it. Things that could be seen as "negatives" shone to highlight your indisputable positives. Even the things he has yet to learn about you, he can confidently say he loves. Your passion for dance? It could be said that its one of his favorite things about you, no matter how you might show your love for it.

#my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha x reader #mha #boku no hero academia x reader #mha x reader #my hero academia x reader #shouto todoroki #shoto todoroki #shouto x reader #shoto x reader #todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #i dont know how i feel about this one. I dont think this will do well but its whatever.

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plumoh · 3 years

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[NatsuYuu] along the seams of shadows

Rating: G

Word count: 2079

Summary: Natsume Reiko is a pitiful and lonely human.

Note: AO3 link. A look at Reiko through Madara’s eyes.

Madara’s ears twitch when the tree branch starts creaking and the leaves fall down in a whirlwind of irritating pests. He’s two seconds away from threatening whoever is disturbing his nap when laughter reaches him—a plain, boisterous laughter that leans towards mockery instead of pure joy.

“You really are just a cat, Madara!” the voice says, as close to his face as ever. “Napping on a nice patch of grass, under the sunlight?”

Madara cracks one eye open. The sun is still high in the sky and the breeze that ruffles his fur is a pleasant addition, accompanying his solitary nap far away from noisy and ridiculous small fry. But he can never escape the unpredictability of an annoying, weak human.

“If you say another word you will become my afternoon snack,” Madara warns.

The laughter becomes louder, and in the sunlight that makes shadows bigger, pale hair shines brightly while unnatural eyes glimmer with an even more vivid color.

“I’d like to see you try, you big lump of fluff.”

Natsume Reiko smells like mischief, power and loneliness.

***

This forest isn’t big enough to swallow all the rumors that float around. There is no god protecting it and spreading rules to abide by, which means that everyone is free to do as they like, much to Madara’s displeasure. He’s a magnificent beast with strength that rivals that of a god, capable of destroying entire areas of nature and banishing youkais, but people here treat him like he’s the latest entertainment, to be jeered at by everyone and nobody.

He is not a simple creature that lazes around, and he definitely is not a human child’s pet.

“You should have eaten her long ago if you’re so irritated by these rumors,” Hinoe tells him, looking far too too smug for someone who is, without a doubt, clinging the most to that girl.

“It requires too much effort,” Madara growls, flicking his tail impatiently. “Reiko probably doesn’t taste good anyway. I don’t like my prey jumping and running around, it’s exhausting to look at.”

“You are the most boring beast I know.”

Madara rolls his eyes, turning his head away. “That’s a bold accusation when Misuzu is right here.”

“Misuzu is funny, at least. You, on the other hand, are boring.”

Hinoe draws from her pipe and exhales noisily, chuckling when some of the smoke gets into Madara’s eyes. Madara groans and rises on his paws, lifting a cloud of dust and dirt along with him, and a few little plant youkais scamper off deeper into the forest with squeaks. Madara watches them flee for their lives, feeling vindicated.

“I am a respected and intimidating beast, that’s what I am,” he huffs.

“Yeah, a beast that still refuses to play a game with me because he’s scared.”

Hinoe bursts out laughing while Madara tries his hardest not to simply snap and leave. Reiko jumps down from a tree (why is she always climbing trees?) and lands onto Madara’s back, her lips curled into a grin that could have been fueled by the sun’s spite, bold but burning.

Sometimes, Madara finds himself unable to make sense out of this girl appearing and disappearing from his life like a tornado.

“I told you I don’t have time to waste on your ridiculous games,” Madara says.

Reiko tilts her head, never ceasing to be the arrogant and confident person she poses as whenever she makes her words sharp and cutting.

“Hinoe is right, you are boring,” she snickers.

Madara’s tail hits the ground in annoyance, and he shows the barest hint of his teeth.

“Don’t you have human things to do, instead of bothering me during my peaceful rest?”

Reiko shrugs, sliding off Madara. She smooths over her skirt and passes a hand through her hair, as if they’ve never seen her in a dishevelled state or covered in mud after an encounter with rambunctious youkais. She stays silent, her smile frozen, but her eyes are blazing with a quiet, raging fire that sends chills down Madara’s spine. She’s only a young girl, inexperienced and foolish, running around and upsetting the natural order of things in this forest—but behind all this brashness, Madara senses something deeply unsettling.

“Human things aren’t as interesting as coming here and hearing you grouch like an old man,” Reiko answers. “Hinoe, you said you wanted to show me a new curse.”

Madara ignores the way Hinoe coos at Reiko like she is the most precious creature she’s ever seen, and observes. Reiko is someone they shouldn’t mess with, that is for certain; Madara doesn’t quite know yet why he cannot shake off the feeling she’s wrapping them around her finger.

***

Madara being Reiko’s pet becomes more of a joke than a real fact believed by everyone, and ultimately it doesn’t change anything in the way Madara’s strength is perceived. The others make fun of him for letting her live in spite of the influence she has on his image as the greatest beast of the forest, but for the time being he’s one of the very few who didn’t get his name down in the stupid book, so there.

There has been some turmoil and unrest in the neighborhood, lately. A vicious youkai destroying everything standing in its way, threatening small fry for information and leaving behind trails of blood that scare the weakest of them. Madara doesn’t feel particularly concerned about this kind of rampage, which happens a lot more often than people would believe. It’s best to let it pass and not get involved in this youkai’s affairs.

That is what he would have done, were he alone. In times like these, Madara remembers why he chose to live in solitude and not surrounded by other beings who have the survival instincts of insignificant bugs.

“The destroyed trees fall down and block some roads in the forest,” Reiko grumbles, tapping her foot. “People can’t circulate anymore, and cleaning that mess up will take many weeks.”

Madara sighs, glancing at the area of destruction. The claw marks on the trunks indicate that whoever they’re going to go up against might rival Madara in size, while the pace at which the forest is being attacked tells them it’s also nimble on its feet. Not an ideal situation, then.

“Why do you care about that?” Madara asks, turning back his head to look at her. “You don’t like the people of this town, and they don’t wander in the forest as frequently as you do.”

Sometimes, imperceptibly, Madara catches a flicker of pain in Reiko’s eyes at the mere mention of her own desires. It’s not a physical pain, nor is it a pain associated with the events she’s currently dealing with—it comes from within, deep from her soul and emerging in her gaze for one second. She hides it well. She carries this pain everywhere she goes, but she hides it well.

Madara never comments on it. He watches her school the features of her face back into ones she’s crafted over the years, all mischieviousness and no nonsense. Reiko grins and acts like the royal princess she has become in this tiny pocket of otherworldly space she is the only one to trespass into.

“I don’t like seeing people do whatever they want, like they’re owning this place,” she declares, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “The smaller youkais have been pestering me to do something about it. And it’s destroying my napping spots, too. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to have your favorite tree cut down either.”

She’s an odd girl and a mystery Madara doesn’t pretend to understand. She’s confidence and contradiction and selfishness all at once, making it impossible to untangle the knots of her emotions—she uses words and rash actions to cover it up, like a nice tapestry concealing the damage done by a kid’s tantrum.

There is kindness in her selfishness, Madara thinks. Reiko obeys no one’s rules, and she makes up her own for her silly games, but her heart isn’t as corrupted as it may seem. And for this lost human shunned by everyone, doing small services unseen by her peers, Madara only feels pity.

He huffs, and takes off to find the troublesome youkai, whose name will end up tied to a piece of paper.

***

“That book of yours is useless if you’re not using its intended purpose.”

“Its intended purpose is to show off and to instill fear in my enemies.”

“You don’t have natural enemies, foolish girl, you’re creating them yourself.”

Reiko tips her head backwards and laughs, a sound carrying over the wind and echoing against the stone walls. She looks at Madara like he’s the one who has said idiotic things.

“It’s preemptive,” she says. “I’ve never felt that powerful before inventing the book.”

“The words that come out of your mouth are incomprehensible to me,” Madara grunts. “Humans are so unnecessarily complicated and confusing.”

“Don’t talk like you know how humans behave. You’ve barely had any contact with them.”

“And this is exactly why I find them annoying.”

Reiko smiles. She has her legs plunged into the cold but clear water of the lake, on this summer day that feels both too hot and too humid. Madara himself is lying down, head pillowed on his front legs and enjoying the slow pace of his day. He warned Reiko that playful and impish youkais would steal her shoes, that she had carelessly thrown in the grass, but she shrugged and didn’t find it particularly upsetting.

How strange, and how perplexing, to encounter someone who doesn’t adhere to any of the world concepts Madara knows. Reiko doesn’t belong to the realm of ordinary humans, and she has no knowledge of the exorcist community; she is an entity dancing on the blurred hinge of these worlds.

“I don’t need to use the power of their names, since I’ll never see them again,” Reiko finally says. “It’s only awkward if I happen to meet one of them and can’t remember who they are.”

“So you admit this book is useless to you,” Madara snorts. “Give it to me, then.”

Reiko scoops up water between her hands, and flicks it at Madara’s eyes. Madara wrinkles his nose and staggers back, glaring at Reiko’s self-satisfied expression.

“You’re a nuisance,” he tells her.

“And you’re not fun,” Reiko replies. “It’s my Book of Friends, so you don’t get to steal it from me. Attaching a name to a face makes it easier to call them friends.”

A pitiful human, truly.

“...They’re not your friends,” Madara says.

Reiko’s shrug feels measured. She gets out of the water, doesn’t bother drying her feet before retrieving her shoes (that are still where she left them) and putting them on. Madara’s eyes follow her movements, choosing to remain where he is.

“Maybe not,” Reiko concedes, her back turned on Madara. “I wouldn’t want to, anyway. But they gave me their names. Names are important, right?”

Natsume Reiko barges into their life without prompting and wrecks havoc on everything they know. She rips away their routine and replaces it with unpredictable events, summoned by her presence alone in these lands. She moves like nothing ties her down anywhere, but she’s restless. The tightness around her shoulders makes her small and fragile, when her entire attitude seems to prove she is none of that.

Madara doesn’t understand her. Her words and her actions are hard to parse, and he’s not sure she understands herself sometimes. She is simply grander than life itself.

“I hope you’ll play a game with me one day, Madara.” Reiko doesn’t fully face him but a small smile pulls up her lips. “You can’t run away from me forever!”

“Hmpf. I’m not interested in these childish games.”

“You’ll change your mind eventually!”

Reiko waves her hand and disappears in the forest, probably heading back to the home of her caretakers. Madara actually doesn’t know if she does live with them—she could have taken up residence in one of the old shrines with how often she visits them, for all he knows.

Madara curls up and closes his eyes. The Book of Friends, she’s called it. Such an innocent name for what is probably the most dangerous weapon against youkais—and it is simply used by a sentimental girl as a personal reassurance she is not alone.

Natsume Reiko already has friends. She just chooses not to see it.

#natsuyuu #natsume yuujinchou #natsume reiko #nyanko sensei #madara #rattles the bars of my cage i want to know what their relationship was like!!#i love the idea of sensei finding reiko interesting but also feeling sad for her #please @ midorikawa i need answers

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alfafilly · 3 years

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New Year New Me

I want to make a small New Years Resolution this year aimed specifically towards my role in the Sly Cooper fandom. It’s gonna be kinda long and venty so warning!!

As a bit of backstory, I haven’t been in a fandom/actively drawing fanart since like... 2012 maybe? Like in terms of drawing fanart for the same series routinely. I went through a really stupid phase where I thought fanart was a waste of time because I had been hounded over and over again by peers and those I looked up to that only ORIGINAL © DO NOT STEAL content mattered. I looked down on fanart and used every excuse to belittle fanartists. I dunno if this was also in part due to the last fandom I was in being extremely toxic (that being the Invader Zim fandom. Booooois them 2006-2008 deviantART IZ days were something else) and my college experience constantly telling me “fanart in your portfolio is stinky bad no do that” (which is hotly debated btw).

Anyway... jumping into the Sly Cooper fandom has been extremely positive for me and helping me shed a lot of that negative attitude. Dare I say there was character development?! And while, for the most part, Sly fandom isn’t that toxic, there are elements of it that have caused much chaotic negativity within me that I am hoping to get rid of.

Maybe it’s a result of my former opinions about fanart, but I have always felt a sense of inadequacy, or as if I NEED to make my place in the fandom for me to be relevant and to matter. I have vented about this in the past. My first fanart piece was a compilation of my interpretations of the cast, and it was well received, and everyone talked about how they wanted me to draw more characters, to see more designs, etc. Which is why I said I wanted to redesign ALL the cast because the people DEMANDED IT!! This could be my way of placing myself in the fandom!!! HELL YEAH!!!

But it didn’t make me... happy, I guess? I DO enjoy redesigning, but when I do it under my own terms, with no pressure. I think coming out of art school made me put on blinders and tell myself what I used to believe in: “If you’re going to waste your time on fanart, better make it good. You know, people can hire you if you show good fanart! These redesigns could get you a job in the industry! You gotta ONLY do work that will benefit your end goal and nothing else!!”

This often made me feel extreme guilt when I started drawing more of my Arpeggio content, or my Arpeggio AUs because despite how much fun I was having, that little voice in the back of my head was saying “No!! Stop drawing that!! Draw stuff that everyone will care about besides just you!!! You’re not going to get anywhere with this!! Drawing sexy Arpeggio won’t get you a job in the industry KJSNJKGNSKNGKJNAJ!!!!”

This mentality also crafted some uhh... extremely negative competitive attitudes towards other artists in the fandom. Certain artists would piss me off every time they posted to the point I would have to block them to stop seeing their work just to prevent these feelings. There is a notable artist I won’t name, but they do Sly redesigns too. I was fine with them initially, but after they blatantly stole one of my designs without crediting me I was LIVID. I called them out and they did apologize and changed the design, but every time I saw their work from then on out I had this insane urge to “beat them”. It was a sick competitive game. I felt jaded they ripped my design and kept getting popular anyway. TBH it’s rather petty and I am trying not to harbor any ill will towards them because I don’t think they meant anything by it and the design was rather insignificant in the whole scheme of things. But I still have them blocked or muted everywhere because I am still struggling to ignore that great urge every time I see their designs to drop everything I’m doing and draw my own redesigns out of unhealthy spite.

And I’m only briefly going to go over the god damn Deceit of Thieves drama. Apparently they are still making it into a legit game? They have a Patreon apparently and are posting stuff about it? I found out about that and the same sort of fiery rage filled me. But this was much less personal. Sure, I had given a critique to them but I honestly wanted the game/story/whatever to flourish? After seeing their poor reactions and being attacked by their white knights, my taste towards them grew bitter and I think my fellow Sly fans having the same bitterness fueled me to flat out grow a hatred for them. That’s kind of awful? I never expected to want another member of the fandom to have their project fail. What kind of asshole am I for wanting that?? I don’t want that. I want them to learn from their mistakes and make something great. Not hold some ridiculous resentment. I can decide not to support them if I wanted, but wishing failure is a whole other horrible thing.

So realizing this I knew I needed to... change my perspective on how I see myself in the fandom and how I process my feelings towards it. I don’t want to be here to produce soulless portfolio worthy content. I don’t want to compete with other artists or wish them ill. I just want to draw some god damn fanart of a series I love and that makes me happy!

I’m posting this here as a way to hold accountability to myself and be honest. I started drawing Sly stuff again in 2017 so it’s been an issue appearing on and off the last 4 years and that’s... sad. It needs to end! I appreciate everyone in the fandom who has supported me in my endeavors, as ridiculous as they are. I can’t believe drawing and writing about a dumb bird man and cat lady and throwing my stupid OCs into the fray for my favorite childhood game has made me learn so much about myself, my work, and gained me so many great peers and friends. I definitely don’t want to stop any time soon! And I apologize profusely if I ever hurt anyone in some way because I lost sight of that (or was just a dick for whatever reason).

Thanks for your support, and I hope 2021 will bring me loads more positivity into my content!!

#sly cooper #vent #rant #text post

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meta-squash · 3 years

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Brick Club 1.5.10 “Outcome Of The Success”

It’s long, I’m sorry. There’s just so much in this chapter!

The chapter’s first paragraph is a description of the misery of winter weather, bookended by sentences about Fantine. It’s been nearly a year since she was fired. The bit about winter is a description of Fantine’s descent as well as the weather. Winter brings short days which means less work; Fantine’s position in society means she’s finding less work as well because she is essentially freelancing rather than working for an employer with steady jobs. “No heat, no light, no noon, evening touches morning” is such a good description of the way everything is miserable and just blurs together when you’re trying to just stay alive. All the awful stuff is sharp and dull at the same time. “Winter changes into stone the water of heaven and the heart of man.” Fantine is starting to harden here; we see her become more shameless, tougher.

Fantine wears a cap after cutting her hair “so she was still pretty.” And this disappears so rapidly in this chapter. Her beauty is so important. Fantine is the only character aside from Enjolras who is repeatedly described as beautiful in a way that seems to really matter. (Cosette is also beautiful, but that description is almost entirely through Marius’ POV, rather than from a more general POV with Fantine.) The slow destruction of Fantines beauty--the discarding of her pretty clothes for peasant ones, her frequent tears, the loss of her hair and teeth, the torn and threadbare clothing--mirrors her social destruction. She desperately clings to her beauty by wearing a cap, but she obviously gives up pretty soon.

What fascinates me here is that Hugo mentions that Fantine admired Madeleine, like everyone else, but he also implies that she didn’t hate him straight away for her dismissal. In the previous chapters, her reaction is to accept the dismissal as a “just” decision. She works up her hatred by repeatedly telling herself it was his fault. It seems as though she lands on the right conclusion in the wrong way. She blames herself first, and only through gradually convincing herself does she start to blame Madeleine. He and his crap system are the ones to blame, but she comes to that conclusion in a roundabout way that feels like she still blames herself but is trying not to. Fantine has been a scapegoat for everyone up until now; Madeleine has become her scapegoat to avoid (incorrectly) blaming herself.

“If she passed the factory when the workers were at the door, she would force herself to laugh and sing.” She’s trying so hard to make them think they haven’t gotten to her, but it just makes it so much more obvious. The laughter and singing is the “wrong” reaction, and it makes everyone notice her even more, and judge her even harder. It’s just so sad because I can understand that behavior of trying so hard to act the opposite way of how you think people will expect you to, only it backfires and makes your true feelings all the more apparent, which gives even more fuel to the cruel people.

Fantine takes a lover out of spite, “a man she did not love.” There are a few things here that contrast with the grisettes of 1.3. This lover is someone Fantine does not love, her first relationship since losing Tholomyes, who she was in love with. The man is also a street musician, which reminds me of Favourite’s actor/choir boy. The difference being that Favourite’s boy had at least some connections through his father, and Fantine’s lover is only a street musician. Fantine takes this lover in for the same reason that she sings and laughs outside the factory: to try and show that she’s unaffected, which really only serves to do the opposite. She has this affair “with rage in her heart,” which seems to be the only emotion left for her for anyone besides Cosette (and maybe Marguerite).

“She worshiped Cosette.” My only comment here is that this is something that Valjean will later echo. Both worship and adore Cosette as a point of light, something to cling to and love and care for.

Okay maybe I’m missing something here, but Fantine can read but she can’t write? This is probably my “been good at reading/writing my whole life” privilege talking, but wouldn’t she be able to write if she could read? I suppose maybe it’s like how I can look at numbers and understand the numbers but I can’t do math for shit? I don’t know. That just caught my eye.

Fantine is starting to lose her inhibitions as she begins to lose control of everything in her life. She’s laughing and singing and running and jumping around outside in public, she’s acting loud and brash and odd. Her reactions to her misfortune and the terrible things that keep happening express the “wrong” emotion. It’s an attempt to cope, and a courageous one, but it’s drastically different from the quiet Fantine who barely spoke that we were introduced to.

“Two Napoleons!” grumbled a toothless old hag who stood by. “She’s the lucky one!”

This line really struck me. We’ve been tunnel-visioned on Fantine’s misery this whole time. Suddenly the focus pulls back a little bit and we get a little bit of perspective. Fantine is not at rock bottom yet. She could still go so much lower. To this toothless old woman, she’s lucky because she’s pretty and because her teeth have worth. Fantine is poor, and cold, and worried about her kid, and most of the town laugh at or scorn her, and yet this old woman still thinks she’s the lucky one of the two of them. It’s a much more subtle commentary on the levels of poverty and abjectness that exist. Once you’ve fallen through the cracks in society to the level of homelessness, to the level of selling your teeth and hair and body, to complete aloneness, anyone who has even a scrap more than you seems “lucky.” And Fantine’s not too far from that existence.

The conversation between Marguerite and Fantine about military fever is so weird. Is Marguerite just saying stuff? This dialogue sounds like a conversation between two people who have no idea what they’re talking about. It’s like those scenes in comedies where one person pretends to be super confident about something to impress the other even though both of them are completely wrong. Oh okay wait! I just did some googling and I’ve realized that neither of them know what they’re talking about because Thenardier did his bad spelling thing! “Miliary fever” is an old medical term for an infection that causes fevers and bumpy skin rashes. (Mozart’s death is attributed to it; it seems to have fallen out of use as it became easier to pinpoint certain illnesses.) I think this isn’t just Marguerite not knowing what she’s talking about. This is a misunderstanding due to Thenardier’s misspelling (whether deliberate or not, I don’t know) and neither Marguerite nor Fantine know enough to realize it.

ETA: Okay wow I’m keeping that whole “miliary fever” thought journey in just to record my thought process but I’ve just double-checked against the Hapgood translation and the original French, and the mistake isn’t with the Thenardiers at all! It’s entirely the fault of the translators. The original French says “miliare” and Hapgood has translated it as “miliary”; Fahnestock and MacAfee clearly did not notice that the French was “miliare” and not “militaire,” and neither did their editors.

“During the night Fantine had grown ten years older.” Off the top of my head, I can only think of three instances of not-old people being blatantly described as looking old. This description here, Valjean when he returns from Arras, and Eponine. There are probably more I’m missing, but the connecting factor between these three is severe, prolonged trauma. Trauma and a difficult life can prematurely age people (I always think of that Dorothea Lange photo of the migrant mother who was only 32 but looks 50) and Hugo uses this fact to bolster his descriptions of what they go through. But Fantine and Valjean both age almost suddenly; Eponine is already old-looking the first time we meet her as a character with dialogue. Fantine’s sudden aging is another level of departure from her old life. In Paris, she was the youngest of the group, and now she looks far older than she is.

“Actually, the Thenardiers had lied to get her to get the money. Cosette was not sick at all.” As readers, we know this. We’ve seen the Thenardiers lie over and over and we see Fantine sacrifice with no idea. But this one hits harder than the others. Partly, I think, because Hugo puts it so bluntly in a sentence that has its own paragraph. But also because this is the first sacrifice that is truly unalterable. Fantine’s hair can grow back. There may have eventually been some slim chance of a job opportunity or something coming up somehow, or an influx of things needing mending or something. But she cannot regain her teeth. This is also the first sacrifice that physically disfigures her in a visible way. She can hide her lack of hair under a cap, she can hide her lack of money by using and reusing things. She cannot hide her missing teeth.

It’s interesting that we do not hear about Mme Victurnien here. Rather than the last chapter, this would be the one where Victurnien would be “winning.” The consequences of Victurnien’s actions have now permanently affected Fantine’s life. Except I think the reason we don’t see her here is that she wouldn’t face it. She can look out her window at Fantine walking down the street in distress with her beauty intact and feel satisfaction, but if she saw Fantine walking down the street, toothless and hairless, I don’t think she would feel satisfaction, because she wouldn’t be able to connect her actions to this Fantine. Feeling satisfaction towards this level of misery would require acknowledging her participation in causing it. It’s one thing for the townspeople to laugh at or gawk at her, but I think claiming responsibility for her condition is something else altogether that I’m not sure Mme Victurnien would do.

Fantine throwing her mirror out the window is a strange sort of contrast compared to Eponine’s reaction to a mirror. Fantine cannot face her descent. Eponine is already there, and her excitement at Marius’ mirror is a weird sort of distracted examination of herself. Fantine cannot bear to examine herself because unlike Eponine, she can remember what it was like before this. Tossing away the mirror is tossing away the thoughts of her past life and her past self; she can’t ever go back to that.

“The poor cannot go to the far end of their rooms or to the far end of their lives, except by continually bending more and more.”

God I don’t really even know what to say about this line except ouch. It’s just so poignant and intense. The older you get the harder it is to survive, to get up with each new stumble. And we can also take into account things like the cholera epidemic that will occur a few years later in the book, which mostly affected the poor. There’s so little access to any sort of help or assistance. And clearly Valjean’s few little systems of aid aren’t good enough. He may have set up a worker’s infirmary and a place for children or old workmen, but there doesn’t seem to be assistance for single, unsupported women, or the homeless and unemployed. They’re left to bend more and more under the weight of life.

“Her little rose bush dried up in the corner, forgotten.” I can’t help but read this as a parallel to the Thenardier’s treatment of Cosette. As Fantine falls apart and falls behind on her payments, Cosette is growing up which means the abuse from the Thenardiers has probably increased. It also feels like a weird sort of throwback to the spring/summertime imagery of beauty and chasteness and modesty from back in 1.3, which has now completely disappeared and dried up as Fantine loses her beauty, her modesty, and her coquetry.

I love the little detail about Fantine’s butter bell full of water and the frozen ice marks. It’s such a small detail but so evocative. It also feels like a metaphor for each of Fantine’s new hardships. Every time the butter pot freezes over, it leaves a ring of ice for a long time; each time Fantine encounters a new trauma, she hardens and becomes tougher. She keeps her dried up, long gone modesty and youth in one corner and the suffering that has hardened her in the other. On a side note, I’m wondering if there is actually butter in her butter bell or if she’s now using it only for water? I would imagine water only; butter seems like something that might be expensive. Also, would the building she’s living in have had indoor plumbing, or would she have gotten water from a well or a pump somewhere? My plumbing history knowledge is lacking.

Hugo describes Fantine’s torn and badly mended clothes. At this point she’s working as a seamstress, which means she’s at least proficient in the skills needed to sew and/or mend clothes in such a way that they stay together. This means that the repairs done for herself are likely careless and messy. I think this is partly an indication of how little time she has for herself--if she’s sewing for work for 17 hours a day, she has very little time to mend her own stuff, and definitely can’t afford better quality material--and partly an indication of the ways in which she is falling apart. She doesn’t bother mending her things properly, she goes out in dirty clothes. She doesn’t mend her stockings, she just stuffs them further down in her shoes. It seems she has only one or perhaps no good petticoats, which means she’s probably walking around in just a shift and a dress. Not only is her stuff threadbare and falling apart, she’s also probably freezing due to the lack of layers.

“A constant pain in her shoulder near the top of her left shoulder blade.” This makes me wonder if Fantine’s left-handed. If she’s sewing by hand, by candlelight, in a shitty rush chair, for seventeen hours a day, that is absolute murder on the back/shoulders/neck. Whenever I do hand-sewing I’m usually sat on the floor or my bed, and my back and upper shoulders tend to get sore if I get in the zone and I’m bent over the work for a long time. I don’t know about French dressmakers, but I know around that time the English were really big on very small, neat, almost invisible stitches. Which would hurt to do for seventeen hours a day by candlelight.

“She hated Father Madeleine profoundly, and she never complained.” The Hapgood translation of this line is better, I think. Still, I think it’s important that it’s pointed out that she never voices her opinions or her complaints. It’s only when Madeleine is in front of her that she announces them at all (despite not speaking directly to him then, either). She hates Valjean, she blames him, and yet obviously some part of her still thinks that she deserves it, or that her dismissal was right.

“She sewed seventeen hours a day, but a contractor who was using prison labor suddenly cut the price, and this reduced the day’s wages of free-laborers to nine sous.” Reading this book is always a lot because aside from the still-relevant general overarching commentary about society and poverty and mutual aid and goodness and all that, there are so many smaller details that are so painfully, strangely relevant to the present day. Even today there’s fear that employers will come up with a new policy or a new labor shortcut that means less income. Employers who pay their employees less because the workers get tipped, or outsourcing that causes layoffs. Prison labor, too (and behind that, the fact that prison labor doesn’t guarantee a job in a similar field after release if desired).

In the next two chapters, we jump ahead somewhere between a few weeks to a couple months. What happened to Marguerite in the interim? Hugo describes her as a “pious woman [...] of genuine devotion,” but I have this sad thought that maybe when Fantine made the decision to become a sex worker, Marguerite may have turned her back on her as well. As we’ve seen with Valjean, being poor but modest is Good, and being poor and desperate enough to do something improper and “immoral” is Bad. Despite Marguerite’s canonical generosity towards the poor, I wouldn’t be surprised if Fantine’s decision overstepped some moral boundaries of hers.

“But where is there a way to earn a hundred sous a day?” I’m a little stuck on this. Would she make this much money? I’m basing the following information off of Luc Sante’s The Other Paris, so the monetary info might be slightly different a for non-Parisian area. According to Sante, someone like Fantine, a poor woman working without a pimp or madame and not in a legal brothel, would basically be working for pocket change. 100 sous would equal about 5 francs. If her earnings are basically pocket change, I don’t think she’d make 5 francs a day. Just considering the fact that a loaf of bread might cost about 15 sous, which seems like pocket change, or even slightly more than pocket change. Fantine probably becomes a sex worker and finds herself in the exact same position that she was in before, not making any more money than she would have if she had continued to be a seamstress.

#les miserables #les miserables meta #brickclub #lm 1.5.10 #les mis #les mis meta

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syekick-powers · 4 years

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rambling about emotions and self-control

i think one of the things that pisses me off the most when family members criticize me is when they say that i’m “bad at controlling my emotions”. first of all, I have ADHD and bipolar simultaneously, my emotions are a hundred times fucking stronger than yours. secondly, i am actually excellent at controlling my emotions. i am the kind of person where if i am having a panic attack, you might not have any fucking clue that i’m even having anxiety unless i state directly that im having a panic attack. ive had PAs so bad where i legit thought i was about to die and not a single shred of that world-ending panic touched my external affect for a second. part of my fucking trauma revolves around having to hide my distress to avoid freaking out other people, which means that i learned to develop a diamond fucking grip on my external signs of distress. it’s deeply maladaptive in some situations, but in other situations it’s equally as useful. and yet because i am very animated and exaggerated in my persona, people assume that i just let my emotions fountain everywhere uncontrollably and that i’m just a waterfall of feelings.

incorrect. every bit of exaggeration in my affect is deliberate. i am not acting like a clown because i can’t control myself, i am purposefully choosing to exaggerate to convey my feelings more effectively. if i don’t want you to know what i’m feeling, you will never ever ever find out. there are some people i interact with on a regular basis whomst i fucking loathe deeply, and yet any time i interact with them i am completely personable and friendly. when im streaming video games on a high difficulty and get frustrated from having to do the same part over and over and over again, i never get tilted on stream. i dont yell or rage, and in fact the more frustrated i become the more blank and expressionless my affect turns. when i was playing dead space 2 on zealot difficulty on stream recently, all of my viewers were complimenting the fact that i spent at least two collective hours on trying to beat the final boss and yet still did not get visibly upset or pissed off once.

yes, my emotions are strong. i have two separate disorders that both have “emotional dysregulation” as some of their biggest negative side effects. my bad moods feel like a fucking firestorm most of the time and strong emotions are very difficult to handle and control. sometimes, my emotions get the better of me and i snap or get irritable. but the only time i’m irritable is when i feel physically and emotionally like utter dogshit and the bad mood impacts my ability to hold back my emotions. the truth is that in my day to day life there are dozens of fucking things that irritate the living hell out of me and i choose to discard my frustration rather than stay mad about something trivial--either that, or i feel the frustration intensely, but bite it back and don’t say anything because i’m not in the mood to pick a fight. if i’m being pissy with you, it’s because i’m completely fuck-out of all mental and physical energy that i would otherwise use to hold back my irritation. there is nothing left to burn. there aren’t even fumes in the tank. this bitch empty, so prepare for the yeet.

the problem that i run into with my family members is that this internal struggle to contain my emotions is completely invisible to any external viewers. they’re not me, of course they can’t see what’s going on in my head. what makes that an issue is that they don’t see the twenty fucking times i got irritated and managed to control my temper through the frustration, they only see the five or so times i lose control. my efforts are invisible to everyone around me, so when i finally do get fed up and make a snippy comment or complain, it seems like i just let my emotions get the better of me all the time.

to be fuckening honest, if the people who criticized me lived one fucking day in my shoes, the extremity of my emotions would exhaust them within hours. the thing is, i’m 25 fucking years old, which means i’ve lived with this shit for over two fucking decades. i have learned to control myself to an extent, and, being honest with yall? it fucking exhausts the living shit out of me all the goddamn time. it’s like my brain expends all my mental fuel reserves on overclocking my emotions as hard as possible while leaving no fuel left over for activities in the day that i actually need to do. it’s part of the reason i’m so fuckdamn tired all the fuckdamn time. but i’m not bad at controlling my emotions when i actually have the energy to do so. in fact, i’m so good at suppressing them that half the time, people don’t know i’m upset at all. to a certain extent, i’ve gotten used to how extreme my emotions are, and have started learning to predict what sets me off so i can make an effort to avoid the negative stimulus and save myself the frustration. i’m just really fucking tired of people accusing me of not controlling my emotions well enough when god fucking damnit you have no idea how hard i’m actually fucking trying!!! it feels like i’ve gotten so good at hiding my distress in my day-to-day life that now people have no fucking idea how shitty i actually feel until they poke me one too many times and i fucking bite their finger off, and then assume that i just randomly blew up on them with no reason or justification. that i’m just behaving like this to spite them personally.

i promise you im not fucking behaving randomly. in fact, my frustration triggers are actually pretty fucking consistent. the same bullshit behaviors will always piss me off; what changes on a day-to-day basis is how well i control the extremity of my reaction. if i’m having a good day, i have enough fuel stores to go “meh, whatever” and brush it off without being too bothered for very long. if i feel like shit, my ability to control my response is hampered and it becomes much harder to bite back a snippy comment. i’m not lashing out to be malicious or spiteful. i’m lashing out because you’ve been doing this shit every day for the past two fucking weeks and today i’m just too tired to deal with this fucking bullshit anymore. my reaction is not a sudden unprovoked blowing up of a bomb. it’s “you poked the caged animal one too many times and now it’s going to fucking bite you to make you stop because it has no other way to express its frustration”.

i try to be clear and concise with my boundaries, and frankly i don’t think they’re all that unreasonable. i like to be able to decide when and how i do a task on my own time rather than being pushed and pulled and jabbed and pressured every step of the way. i like to be able to have my own space where people have to get my permission before entering suddenly so that i feel like i have a safe place to hide when i’m overstimulated. i like to decide when and where i want to engage in socialization, and for how long. i like being able to decide when i’m ready to do a task, rather than having a task suddenly shoved on me with no warning or being pressured to do it before i’m ready. i do not like being gifted objects i did not request (and often actively requested not to get) and then being expected to be grateful for something i didnt even want in the first place. i don’t like gifts coming with invisible price tags and obligations that can change whenever the gifter decides they want more out of me. and i absolutely cannot. fucking. stand. passive aggression. all of these things do not really seem all that unreasonable to me, yet time and time again people treat me like i’m just asking for so much more than they can possibly give. and you know what? 75% of the fucking time when someone crosses one of these boundaries all i do is Make A Note Of It and go along with the boundary violator’s wishes anyway, because i actively decided that making a big deal out of them crossing my boundaries is not worth the effort of asking them to change their behavior, because throughout my entire fucking life i’ve been constantly treated as the irrational, unrealistic, crazy bitch for trying to set those boundaries. i’ve been taught time and time and fucking time again that defining my boundaries is too much to fucking ask. so when someone does violate my boundaries, there’s a little “Sye will remember that“ popup and absolutely zero expression or reaction. which means that yes. when i finally get tired and can’t bite back my frustration any longer, it’s because you’ve done the exact same thing to me two hundred fucking times previous and i don’t have the fucking patience to suck it up and deal with it anymore. im done with your shit.

so yeah. i’m a little bit fucking sick of people telling me that i have poor self-control. the fact that you think i have no self-control is an indicator of how good it actually is, because i’m so fucking good at hiding my distress that you don’t even have any idea how absolutely like a fetid mound of horse shit i feel like until my fuse finally burns all the way up. i can contain a 10-out-of-10 ‘i’m imminently about to die’ panic attack so well that not a scrap of that panic shows up in my external affect for even a second. i can suppress my pain on stream when it’s at a 7 out of 10 intensity or higher and be fucking on stream playing video games and commentating and show almost no sign of discomfort except for an intense concentrating face. don’t you fucking ever tell me that i’m bad at controlling myself. i’m a goddamn adult. i’ve learned how to control 90% of my fucking emotions so well that i could be holding a conversation with you imagining myself breaking your fucking nose and show absolutely zero sign of external hostility. i am good at controlling my fucking emotions. the problem is that my emotions are so world-endingly, apocalyptically intense that sometimes i just get too fucking tired to hold back, and then that’s when i bite. i’ m not just lashing out randomly with no provocation. i’ve been tread on a million fucking times and took it with a smile and you had no fucking idea. just because i bit you doesn’t mean i did it because i have no self-control. self-control? self-control???? don’t you fucking talk to me about self-control you headass bitch. i have a fucking supernova coming out of my brain and you’re telling me im weak for not being able to bite it back when your emotions have about as much intensity as a bowl of lukewarm porridge. don’t ever fucking criticize me for not being able to control myself when you’re playing life on easy mode and i’ve been stuck on expert all my fucking life. self-control. don’t you fucking talk to me about self-control ever again. you have no idea what the fuck you’re even talking about. fuck off.

#sye's babbles #sorry this is a fucking essay but i needed to get some shit off my chest

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journeysintowebcomics · 4 years

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Stand Still Stay Silent Liveblog #85

UPDATE 85: Salvation

Last time it was time for the ghosts to meet their maker! Or...meet a pastor. If it all goes well, the ghosts will meet their maker, in the best way possible. If things don’t go well, I suppose there will be some very upset ghosts to deal with. Let’s see how this goes!

The pastor is rather welcoming. Even though there’s, you know, mutant ghost horse right there, she’s not afraid at all. Her faith is as stalwart as usual.

Wow, rude. Just because it looks like a horse it doesn’t mean it should behave like it was raised in a barn! Bad ghost!

The pastor doesn’t even remotely care about the ghost horse’s icy response; she continues her welcoming, even implying what’s wrong is that they’re nervous. This is the first person in a very long while that’s talked to them, after all. I mean, other than the bunch of people they have tried to prey upon, but those didn’t try to exchange words with them.

There’s an appeasement attempt, but the ghosts aren’t listening at all. They’re too filled with anger and rage to listen, not even to someone who is trying her best to get through to them. It’s raw, full of despair, and so...so sad.

I imagine the years and years of not even being able to strike back at the world must have made them feel even worse. Hard to really feel you’re lashing out when all you can do is stare at the same four walls and watch the animals stay away from where you are. Then one day, the SSSS Crew arrived, unwittingly getting their attention. It was their chance to strike back, by attacking innocent bystanders and make them suffer a terrible fate, just like the ghosts suffered.

A lot of people say spite and grudges are great motivators, hell, it’s even said if you dislike someone, living well is the best revenge, and that’s something that’s definitely fueled by spite. I myself am a kind of vengeful person, although thankfully I also have self-control, so it’s more of a petty revenge thing, but I still feel the rush of striking back at slights. The level of spite and rage these ghosts must be feeling is...unfathomable to me, honestly.

It says a lot of how Ms. Sundberg writes this stuff that you feel bad for the ghosts who are trying to kill the main characters.

The pastor doesn’t even flinch, she lets the ghosts yell at three inches from her face. She doesn’t even change expressions; she just stares at the ghosts with a lot of pity. She doesn’t have to try to make big arguments or appeal at their mercy. All she has is one single question:

If not tired then at the very least they must be itching for a change. A change like being freed from this awful, awful world would be welcome, no?

The pastor here shows sympathy and says she is tired, she has been trapped here in this church, with...pretty much nobody for company, as she led everyone else towards what’s beyond and she stayed behind. The reason why is because she was waiting for these ghosts to come, so they could all finally go rest. I admit I’m not entirely certain how true this is – the only thing I’m certain is that she’s sincere about wanting to help them. That said, magic in this world seems to be rather flexible and versatile when it’s about spirits. Maybe she did have at some point a feeling she was meant to stick around because decades later there’d be many lost souls in need of help. Maybe.

This all seems to actually get through to the ghosts, because they admit they’re tired too. They’re melting or...crying? Most likely melting, apparently. Taking human shapes again instead of using troll bodies?

Or not! Apparently not. That’s a lost lamb. Three-headed, many limbs, human hands instead of hooves. Even though it’s...harmless?...now, it still is pretty clearly something plainly wrong. Hah! But yeah, this sure is symbolism!

Not too far away, in the rooms at the back, Sigrun and Mikkel sleep, until they’re roused by the place rumbling and shaking. Something big is happening! Could it be the troll the pastor turned into is moving now? Leaving?

I really have to wonder what’s going on out there. If Sigrun and Mikkel peered out of the door, would they say seven dozen or so lambs float up in the air towards the heavens? I’m not sure if I’m hoping they see that or they stay hiding. Perhaps it’s for the better they don’t peek, so the ghosts don’t get distracted.

In the dream world, Reynir watches a column of light at a distance, and I see no church. A hint there really is something to see in the real world? Satisfied, he waves and bids all the ghosts farewell, and finally finds out the pastor is called Anne. Ah, there’s her name. It’s nice, this feels like closure.

Because that’s what this means. It’s over. One of the plotlines in Stand Still Stay Silent has come to a satisfying end. It’s such a nice feeling, honestly. This was nicely done.

This seems like a good place to stop for now.

Next time: three updates

#Stand Still Stay Silent #ssss liveblog #webcomics #liveblog #webcomic liveblog

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tarithenurse · 5 years

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On my mind, in my soul - 10

Prompt: (Anon) “Natural” by Imagine Dragons, Asgard, Loki’s helmet. Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Swearing as usual (I think), angsting, pining, worrying due to illness, arguing, fluffing (Yes! You read that right: FLUFF.). A/N: Please feel free to reblog if you liked it <3 Or comment! Thanks to all of those who’ve been waiting patiently through the last while of scheming, but hey...now I’ve got a few chapters lying ready.

Patience

It’s annoyingly difficult to stalk with rage in each step when you’re still weak from having been poisoned. If you could have, however, then the footsteps would have been sharp against the stones on the way through the palace. As it is, you’re using every ounce of energy simply to keep up with the two royal men and the surrounding guards.

At least you pay attention to the route. Valhalla’s grand, filled with numerous chambers, halls, and stairs that would make it easy to get lost. You’ve got a method which always has helped you memorize a new place…just in case you’ll need to navigate through the building alone and possibly while being chased. Occupational hazard. Admittedly, if you had to run now, you probably wouldn’t move quickly at all.

Maybe Thor notices your physical discomfort. Maybe he’s simply as curious as the electric-blue eyes shimmering at you leads to think. Slowing his steps, he falls back to walk by your side and even offers an impressively muscular arm to lean on which you take after a brief hesitation. If he’d hurt me, then he’d already have done so.

With his support, you manage to descend several levels, leaving the light of day behind in favour of brazier-fueled shadows that jump and dance when people pass. Down past heavily locked and guarded doors to a room that seems a hybrid between a fancy gallery and old dungeons. Invisible walls shimmer with fragmented lines of gold, somehow containing the bright illumination as if the wall were solid concrete. Descending a number of steps brings the contents of the two first “rooms” in view. One on either side, and each with what must constitute for prisoners here in Asgard.

“Why’re we here?” you demand, unafraid of which etiquettes you’re breaking.

Not bothering to pause or look back, Odin leaves it up to his son to answer. “You recall the warning Loki was given? That the donation of his blood could cause him his life?”

“…yeeah?” Gods…no. Not that. Please don’t…

“He seemed to think it was a price worth paying as he otherwise would be at the mercy of Odin due to having entered the realm uninvited.” His eyes dance around, landing on the cells and the floor…anywhere but you before he points to a cell a few yards up ahead. “He will not escape the punishment for his transgressions.”

Shoving ahead of the group, you stumble to the raised area of the cell, catching yourself on the barrier as you stumble over the ledge. You’re faintly aware of mixed reactions behind you, but it doesn’t matter because all you see is a room where ice spreads from a single, blue figure lying on a bed. Loki. The effect of his natural form is raging unchecked and it should frighten you…perhaps. All it does is turn fear to joy. He’s alive.

“Loki!” Your yell only stirs a few snowflakes that are gliding through the air on the other side of the barrier. “Loki!”

A heavy but gentle hand latches on to your shoulder and isn’t shaken off. “Lady [Y/N], he cannot hear you. He’s beyond reach,” Odin explains gently.

“Then let me in there so he can hear me!”

“It is not due to any barrier of our world.” Turning you, an old eye scans your face. “He may be alive…but the procedure took its toll.”

The words click fast enough, but the king’s choice is beyond your grasp. “Then why’s here in there? Send him to a hospital!” How can he be so cruel?

“He is being treated by our healers, Midgardian. However, this is the safest place to keep him until his powers are under control once more.”

That…kinda makes sense. Looking over your shoulder, only a magical veil obstructs the view to the unconscious Loki. A blanket’s spread over him but it doesn’t quite cover the tall frame so blue shoulders are left exposed save for where a few tendrils of black hair reaches. You could look at him all day. Will him to wake up.

In this house of mine? Nothing ever comes without a consequence or cost, tell me

…

It had been a surprise when the king wanted you to stay as long as was needed, even more so when he hadn’t objected when Thor recommended you were moved to another room. You didn’t care much even if it was a veritable suite with perfect view and lavish furniture, preferring instead to spend as much time as you could by the cell. The guards had gotten used to you, greeting you with smiles when you arrived and if there’d been any changes in Loki’s status then they’d undoubtedly let you know. There just wasn’t.

The last rays of sun are slipping past a layer of clouds, finally bringing some warmth into the room. If you would pay any attention, then you could marvel at the amber gleam of the wood, or the many shimmering hues of green woven into the drapes at either side of the wide windows and balcony doors. Instead you’re staring into one of the many books this room contains without actually seeing the page or what’s written on it. It’s the knocking on the door that brings you back to the present.

“Enter.”

It’s probably yet another servant. Of all the differences you’re getting accustomed to here on Asgard, it’s the staff that are making you feel the most out of place, especially because they all seem to find you more adorable than actually special. Sure, they’re perfectly polite. They just happen to talk to you as though you were a child.

“Lady [Y/N],” the deep rumble belongs to the only prince capable of walking the castle freely, “may I keep you company for a while?”

You can hardly refuse and soon Thor has dragged over another gigantic chair next to the one you sit in and set down a flask and two goblets. Watching bemused, you mentally note the difference of liquid he pours into the goblets but choose not to comment as he passes you the one with the least in. A careful sniff clears your sinuses instantaneously, but the honeyed scent is too good to resist for long, so you accept the quiet toast. Holy fuck! The alcohol burns sweet and strong, triggering all the right taste buds.

“You may want to drink with caution,” Thor warns as you down the remaining mouthful, “Midgardians are more…susceptible to our liquors.”

“Oh. Okay.” You’ve barely placed the goblet on the table before you feel the slight buzz which normally would require a lot more to drink.

Silence reigns. Oppressing. Loaded with unspoken thoughts, most of which (at least on your behalf) are related to Loki and his situation. So, he’s a stalker with a conscience…big deal. Still, there’s no way you can pretend the flutter in your stomach doesn’t appear each time you think of being near him (in a more conscious state), or the paralyzing dread by the idea that Loki might not survive. Even the thought of him being stuck in a prison cell while you’re free to live your life somehow seems unbearable. I don’t owe him! He chose to save…save me oh crap. Not only had he saved you, he’d even tried to warn you. And he’d confided in you.

“Why did Loki attack New York?”

Shifting in his seat, Thor thinks for a while before answering. “I shouldn’t tell anyone this…but I’m willing to do an exception in your case...” A sip from the goblet buys him more time. “The full tale is much longer…but there had been certain…event.” Grabbing the flask, both cups are given a generous refill. “My brother was distraught, acting out of despair and spite…sorrow…” A drink is shared, renewing the buzz in your head. “He left us and fell into the hands of a very evil being who…broke him…”

“A titan.” Your comment makes Thor eye you with surprise. “Loki told me a gruesome story full of torture and brainwashing…I guess I kinda hoped it’d been a lie.”

“You would rather see him commit those crime voluntarily?”

“Of course not! I just don’t want him to…to…”

“Trust you?” You shrug at the suggestion. “[Y/N]…I do not claim to understand the nature of the relationship between my brother and you. But I know he’s good at heart, and that circumstances beyond his control have forced him to build a façade, to keep people at an arms length.”

…

There’s so much you want to know, but you don’t know how to and the liquor’s beginning to cloud your brain. It’s not until Thor’s about to leave and offhandedly remarks whom the room belonged to, that your mind jumps back into action.

“I used to sneak in here at night, as a little boy, if I couldn’t sleep,” the god smiles, “often Loki would be awake too and we’d play until we ended up being too noisy and the maid or mother would hear us.” A shimmer of bittersweet joy is visible in the rugged face, but it’s soon gone and Thor bids you goodnight.

Loki’s room. Leaning against the closed door, you take in the place, noticing the colour scheme and items reflecting the interests Loki still entertain on Earth. All the books (or at least those you’ve been able to decipher) cover a range of subjects and genres, forming a perfect foundation for someone who wishes to be well-spoken…even silver-tongued. I should’ve seen it. The entire room is a treasure trove of information on the one person you need to know everything about.

Rather be the hunter than the prey And you're standing on the edge, face up 'cause you're a…

…

Dividing your time more or less equally between your own basic needs, watching over Loki, and exploring his room meticulously, it takes a few days before there’s only a single chest left unopened…and still the god is unconscious.

“Lady [Y/N],” one of the usual guards greets you as you enter the dungeon, “I’m afraid there has been no change overnight.”

For the untrained eye, it could almost look as if he really is sorry, but there is a shadow of relief that not even the most rigorous training can smother.

“It’s oka– it’s fine.” Placate him. What you want to achieve requires all the pity you can make him feel. “I don’t expect he’ll recover…not before I have to leave, anyways.”

“You’re leaving?”

Gaze downcast, you shrug awkwardly. “I don’t belong here…even though everyone treats me kindly, there’s no…joy for me here. Just pain.”

“Is there anything we can do to ease your troubled heart?”

“I…it’s…what I want isn’t possible.” Sheer willpower (and a bit of bad memories) makes the vision of your shoes go blurry with tears and you can finally look up.

A split-second of shock and discomfort is all it takes before the guard’s mind has been made up. “Tell me what I can do.”

A beating heart of stone You gotta be so cold To make it in this world

… Loki’s PoV …

A fistful of bright heat has appeared in the midst of the soothing cool enveloping Loki’s body. A part of it wants to shake it away because it burns his skin where it touches…but mostly he wants the sweet pain the stay. To remind him of something…important. Nay…someone? It would fit with the soft hum of a gentle voice that has infused the dreamlike state Loki has revelled in since…

Memories rattle the calm, sets the god fighting against the paralyzing dream that has numbed his thoughts until now. I must wake up. He recalls everything up to the moment where darkness took him. Death, he had thought, but this cannot be death after all because the voice belongs to [Y/N] and she must have survived.

“…waiting……all very……why did…”

Bits and pieces of a one-sided conversation are recognizable by now, spurring Loki on. The heat he’s been feeling takes form of a hand, fingers entwined in his own and although he doesn’t dare move or open his eyes just yet, he knows how little it is in the blue of his own limb. Shivers run all the way to [Y/N]’s fingertips. She’s cold. Grasping for the magic within to shift into the warmer, gentler form of an Asgardian, Loki finds that he has nothing left to work with.

“…”

He can’t get the words out to get the Midgardian to leave, to find a warm place rather than linger in the cold he emanate. Finally wrenching his eyelids up, the white room nearly blinds him until he manages to find the darker shape that is the woman. Wrapped in a cloak, she huddles on something by the floor of his bed, probably preferring to sit there so she can hold his hand.

Testingly, Loki squeezes the slender fingers, and all sounds stills. Even her breathing. Once more, then.

“Loki?” A trill of hope’s laced into that single uttering.

As their eyes meet, [Y/N]’s begin to well up with tears of joy that fall on her cheeks to freeze into beads of glittery ice. It’s a sight he could admire all day, but he’s given very little time to do so before her face looms tauntingly over his, the smiling lips whispering his name before finding his. Cold and heat mingle beautifully, proving that this is no dream. The kisses taste of ocean and fruits, the crisp air smells like heaven, and a shy face beams down at Loki when it comes to a halt.

“Loki…”

“Mmmmm?” He can’t help the smile from stretching his lips.

“You. Are.” A delicate finger taps the tip of the blue nose. “A complete and bloody moron!”

The smile disappears, replaced by surprise and angrily furrowed brows. “What –?”

“Why the hell would y’ give up your freedom let alone risk your fucking life?! Fine!” Even the time it takes for [Y/N] to draw in air is too short to get a word in. “So you’ve claimed y’ care about me ‘n whatnot! What am I s’posed to do with that if you go ‘n sacrifice yourself like some some…uhh!”

Loki can fell how dry his throat is when he tries to talk again. “If this is your way of thanki–“

“Thanking?” Pretty eyebrows shoot upwards in protest. “Yes, thank you for saving my life.” She sounds as sarcastic as I can. “And for placing me in an impossible position where I’m in debt to a fucking god and his freaking family!”

“The debt owed was mine. We’re even now.”

“Oh really? Just like that?” [Y/N] wipes away tears from her hectically warm cheeks. “From where I stand the scales are out o’ balance.”

By Odin’s beard, she’s stubborn. “It’s of no concern right now, at least. Alright?” A shrug and then a nod makes it out for an answer. “Tell me instead…why are you here? Is the All-Father not letting you leave?”

“H’agreed to let me stay for a while…” [Y/E/C] doesn’t meet Loki’s but are trained on their hands that still are locked together. “They took me t’ see you when I woke up…y’re just lyin’ here...”

Loki knows better than to say anything as the woman explains the part of the events she has witnessed. The words themselves hold little value, it’s the tone and the facial expressions that captivates the Trickster because it tells much more than [Y/N] intends. Yes, she has been cared for. Yes, she feels indebted after her life has been saved. Yet none of that is the true concern harboured in her heart, and even if she realises what the cause really is, she still hasn’t got the words. Eventually, she quiets, eyes partially following the path of her thumb over Loki’s knuckles and back.

That’s how Odin and Thor finds them after a guard has hurried slowly to alert them of Loki’s consciousness.

… Reader’s PoV …

The castle is going to sleep, and you’re sitting on the soft rug, finally calmed down enough to use the improvised tools you’ve created to pick the lock on the chest. Alright, tools might still be too grand a term. It’s a couple of hair and shawl pins, a fork with bent prongs, and a thin dagger. Asgardian locks are slightly different from the standard Midgardian type, but it only takes a few attempts before you’ve managed to gain access and lift the lid.

“Oh.”

You’re not sure what you should have expected…but it wasn’t a deep green, velvet pillow in the bottom with one object resting upon it. Colden horns the length of your forearm are curving upwards from the headgear. Picking it up slowly, you turn the familiar crown-like item over and over in your hands, careful not to poke yourself in the face with the horns. Antlers.

A silly thought pops into your mind, prompting you to rush over to the tall mirror by the wardrobe and place the iconic accessory on you head. It’s a tad too big, wobbling when you move and needs to be stabilized to prevent it from sliding crooked. Still…I get it. This is power in an object.

“I see you understand the appeal,” a smooth voice announces from behind you.

A mix of fear and embarrassment freezes you in place rather than turn towards the door, but in the mirror, you see Loki being ushered into the room by a couple of guards and Thor before the door closes again. You hear the lock click, but that doesn’t matter because the green eyes are burning.

#On my Mind in my Soul #loki x reader #loki x you #Loki Laufeyson #loki odinson #loki angst #loki pining #loki fluff #loki fanfic #loki marvel #loki mcu #Loki Laufeyson x reader #Loki odinson x reader #asgard #Thor Odinson #thor #odin #Valhalla #Loki lemon series

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canyouhearthelight · 6 years

Text

The Miys, Ch. 8

Since the previous chapter was rather dark, I wanted to get chapter 8 out as quickly as possible. Fortunately, after the absolute struggle I had with the previous chapter, this one just rolled right along.

There are absolutely no trigger warnings in this chapter that I can think of.

My quarters turned out to be pleasantly close to Tyche’s, yet still far enough away that we each had privacy. As much as I loved my sister, being next door neighbors would have been exceedingly awkward. The Miys very carefully showed me how to program the door for waking and sleeping intervals, as well as how to set the lock code to the door. It then ensured that the room was keyed to my biometrics, but how I could not say; there was no scanner or printing that I saw. All of this took place with my sister humming a deceptively perky tune (it was from an archaic television show, and I recall the lyrics simply being several iterations of the word “Doom”).

Once the door opened, all I could do was gasp. Where Tyche’s quarters had been covered in blacks, greys, and hints of maroon or plum, my quarters were light, almost airy. The walls were tinted a pale purple, the furniture was a light grey. Plants abounded, filling the room with life. As with Tyche’s quarters, there was no cooking area, but a small dispenser that I had learned provided food and beverage when one desired privacy. I had been told while I was still in medical that several communal eating areas had been arranged around the ship, but no one was required to be there unless they felt social.

Once I surveyed the space, one that clearly had been designed for me, I turned and gaped at my sister.

“Yes!” she crowed in victory. “I knew you would like it!” She turned to the Miys, who was producing a low growl. “You were so skeptical about the plants. And the purple.”

“To be fair – “ was that whining I was hearing? “you are the one who explained that she cannot see certain wavelengths of light. You cannot truly expect me to remember which ‘colors’ correspond to which wavelengths. And the plants you chose are mostly parasitic! We have extensive documentation showing how Terrans perceive parasitic life!”

“But I also tried to explain that Sophia loves air plants.”

“Tillandsia,” I corrected her. “They do need more than air to survive.”

She waved her hand at me, “Same thing, Word Nerd.”

I grinned at the old nickname before I turned to the Miys. As I started to open my mouth to explain, it made the same gesture my sister had just performed. “Yes, Enhancer, we can hear you. They clean the air, make it fresher. I have no noses, Enhancer and Tyche. The air quality on the ship is within parameters, and I cannot detect trace impurities as sensitively as you can. I have already begun adding plants to other common areas of the ship and sense approval from most of the Terrans who have begun to notice or previously requested such a thing.”

It’s statement made me realize that the only other humans I had seen, even when travelling from medical to Tyche’s quarters, were my sister and Simon. “Why haven’t I seen any other Terrans?” I asked, voicing the question for my sister’s sake so she could follow the conversation.

“This is a less populated area of the Ark,” the Miys explained. “I have been made aware that some Terrans become psychically distressed when they encounter too many unknown people at once. While the Ark is not large enough for each Terran to have their own quarters, as we had not planned on this contingency, there is currently sufficient space to allow some to have individual quarters. Additionally, there are quite a large percentage of Terrans who prefer to live with others as a way of coping with such drastic change. However, there are exactly four Terrans who I am desperately avoiding forcing to share living space with anyone, and I have been granted permission from my home planet to make such a decision since it is such a small percentage of the population of the ship.”

I looked at Tyche and quirked an eyebrow briefly. “You, me, Sam, and Derek,” she explained. “You haven’t met Sam and Derek yet, but they are both autistic and need space to be away from people when they get overloaded. Great guys. Sam is teaching me sign language, and I make him clothes that don’t aggravate his touch aversion. I don’t know much about Derek, but he loves Mac and takes incredibly good care of him when I can’t, and that’s really all I need to know to like him.”

“Okay,” I nodded, “that makes sense. And I get you. Why…?” I trailed off as I pointed to myself.

Instead of Tyche, the Miys responded. “We need you to teach, Enhancer, and lead to a smaller degree. I also know from observation of you and your personal history that you perform both of these functions at peak efficiency when you have a space designated in which you do neither. Allowing you individual quarters ensures that, when your daily responsibilities are done, you will not have to – people? That is not a verb, Tyche – if you do not desire to do so.”

My sister giggled, and it dawned on me that she had intentionally thought that term as hard as possible at the Miys in an effort to teach it one of her favored slang words. I sighed, and explained, “It’s vernacular. Many people use that word as an abbreviated way of saying ‘interact with people’. And I get it, but it really isn’t necessary to give me my own quarters if there isn’t enough space….”

“Em-pathy,” my sister interrupted in a singsong voice. “Really, Soph, it’s okay. Right at ten thousand people, seven thousand rooms.”

The Miys continued with a nod. “And currently, 1437 are unoccupied. Most Terrans have voluntarily decided to share living space. In some cases, three or four individuals are sharing quarters.”

Oh. They were not kidding about that, apparently. I did some quick math in my head. “When you said a large percentage, I didn’t realize you meant over 85%.”

The Miys spread its inner hands, a gesture I had learned was a shrug. “Terrans packbond. There is, however, a – caveat? That is in interesting word – to having individual living space.”

Here we go. All good things come with strings.

“I request permission to put a video feed in your quarters, like the one in Tyche’s quarters.”

A memory from earlier came floating back to me. “Not many humans on board that strongly atypical.” It was not by any means a question. Tyche was the most unique person I had ever met in my life.

“Precisely. We have four: two have declined video relay installation in their quarters….”

“And the fourth has not yet consented or declined,” I murmured. “Four. Tyche, Sam, Derek, and me. I hadn’t consented or declined because you hadn’t asked yet.”

“Clarity,” it buzzed with a smug tone. “You do not have to consent, but we would like to learn more about Terrans who fall outside several definitions of ‘normal’ for Terran parameters.”

“And how do I fall into that category?” I asked. “I want to be sure that I would actually be contributing before I make a decision.”

Surprisingly, Tyche answered. "Seriously? I know we've had this conversation, mon soeur. We grew up with the same mother; we had roughly the same childhoods. We've both been through hell on Earth, even Before. I came out of that childhood fueled by rage and spite, but you? Somehow all that shit we went through? You came out kinder and way more hopeful. If hope could actually move mountains, you'd have flattened Everest with ease. We all – all of us survivors – have some kind of PTSD. You and I had it beforehand....but....it never stopped us. You've spun yours into something to grow from, not to recover from. You don't just say people can do better, be better; you believe it. You believe it, and you help them how you can, and they become better." “Also,” the Miys picked up after a brief silence. “You rate in the 99th percentile for Memory of those on board. In this, you are only slightly below Derek and on a level very close to Sam. I would like to study the effects of this on Terrans, and neither Sam nor Derek have consented to video feed. Additionally, you are able to keep it all incredibly organized, which is astounding. You store the information, but can also extrapolate it and draw both conclusions and inferences at a rate I struggle to keep up with.”

“You think in fractals,” Tyche translated unnecessarily.

“I’ll grant you the memory,” I replied, only half focused on my words as I tried to recover from the impassioned scolding my sister had given me. “But there is nothing special about surviving everything. I was just… stubborn.”

Tyche laughed as the Miys pointed at her. “Incorrect, Enhancer. Tyche is what you call ‘just stubborn’.”

I allowed a chuckle at that. “Well, okay, I’m not as stubborn as her – “

Tyche cut me off. “No, Soph. I’m literally ‘just stubborn’,” she clarified with air quotes before pointing at herself. “Tenacity, Will, Persistence, and Passion. As in, too tenacious not to survive when it all went to hell, too willful to not change my surroundings, too persistent to give up when I know I am right, and too passionate about my goals to see any alternatives.”

At that, I gaped before laughing so hard I could not breathe and falling to the ground from aching ribs. “Oh – my – gosh,” I gasped. “You really are just ten pounds of spite in a five-pound container! That’s too funny! Oh wow.”

She made an indignant face, but I knew her heart was not in it. “Hey, clearly my spite is my most redeeming quality! I was literally chosen as part of the best of the Human Race because I am so spiteful, thankyouverymuch.” She managed to sniff in mock-offense before dissolving into laughter.

The Miys just stared at us on the floor before making a shrug-gesture. “She is correct, Enhancer. What makes Terrans so interesting to the rest of the known Galaxy is your tendency to survive anything through sheer determination not to die in the direst circumstances. Tyche is an incredible example of this, despite her past before your world ended. Additionally, she is quite passionate about a number of Terran subjects that we have been very ignorant of. It will be valuable when establishing a social system on the future colony. I have already corrected a number of anomalies in passengers that I otherwise would not have understood if not for her.”

We both stopped at that information. Tyche looked just as confused as I was, which was not comforting. “What,” she drawled, “are you talking about?”

Oh, this did not sound good.

“Terran Jordan,” the Miys explained in a tone that showed it clearly knew it was in a precarious situation. “Jordan stated she is female, but her body is clearly male, so we fixed that on a genetic level.”

Oh. Fuck. The Miys ‘fixed’ what sounded like a clearly transgender person. Gender rights and sexual preference equality were two of Tyche’s most ardent causes. However, fixing it on a ‘genetic level’ did not sound promising, and I could hear a feral-sounding growl coming from the petite form next to me. Fuck.

The Miys quickly reacted to the rage radiating from Tyche, and it became evident that she was thinking at it rather strongly. “Oh, Worlds, no. No. Not in that way. That is barbaric! Did Terrans actually do that? No! Jordan consented to genetic testing, and I determined that Jordan’s genetics indicated she was clearly female, but a chromosomal abnormality made her body male! This was causing severe dysphoria in Jordan, so I offered to do genetic correction on the chromosomal abnormality so that her body is female along with the rest of her! She is quite pleased with the result. You, Tyche, told me that dysphoria is bad! I simply wanted to ensure that Jordan was healthy.”

Oh. Huh. Not what I expected.

Clearly, not what Tyche was expecting either, as she promptly deflated. “I really thought you meant you made her think she was male. I’m sorry. I was about to kill this body.” She gestured at its form.

The Miys crouched and gently placed its upper-right hand on her shoulder. “I would have allowed it had I done what you suspected. But no, Jordan is quite happy now that she is completely female. Additionally, we have opened testing to all on the ship for such genetic correction. While we can only do genetic surgery on 3 persons at a time, due to the length of the procedure and the additional recovery, we already have 312 who have agreed to the procedure in the future.

“That’s maybe half of what you can expect,” I advised, trying to ignore the look of constipated rage on my sister’s face. Sometimes she took a few minutes to squash poorly-placed anger. “The rest are probably waiting to see how this goes. Our planet does not have a great track record for treating people fairly, especially if you are female, gender dysphoric, not attracted to the opposite gender, or not a member of a very specific major world religion.”

“Unfortunately, I have been educated in this,” it indicated my sister, who was perking up a little now. “However, I am of a race that has no gender, does not have sex, and therefore does not care.” It nodded firmly at this.

I sputtered. “Wait. No gender, and does not have sex. Back up to that. What?” I had never really asked, because there was so much more going on that I wanted to get caught up with.

“We are what Terrans would call mycogenetic, I believe.”

Myco.. mycology. “You’re mushrooms?” I exclaimed.

“Only as much as you are monkeys.”

Touché. “Okay, but you evolved from life similar to Terran fungus?”

The Miys nodded.

I knew then that I could never enjoy a mushroom pizza again.

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#humans are weird #humans are space orcs #earth is space australia #writing #my writing #fiction #sciene fiction #aliens #apocalypse #the miys

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castlehead · 3 years

Text

: LITTLE MILE,

PART ONE : : [live for the weekend and buy grams of blow with your paycheck.

see section A. feel good about going for walks. work thru a long distance relationship and get through the suicidal shit okay. then

break promises but also keep a few, not to keep up appearances but you wish rather to keep the purity of your word, which is hard fucking work. wait till she comes for a visit after super long time

apart and spread some roses on the bed because she likes that sort of thing. leave oreos on the pillow as oreos are delicious. ride her later in the night about that time you smoked six cigarettes in five

minutes as she was blowing xanax to prove a point. go to sleep crying but remember a few special moments as well and base your memories around that. see GOD for awhile but then decide it was

bullshit and perhaps just your conscience given a literal voice. see section A. hear nobody text you for days and understand some weird nonsensical ehrebung at really enjoying a smoke for the first

time in the morning as you look out the window. it is brisk and sunny and the bricks of the buildings look beautiful. think what a day what a day etc. then actually try to accomplish something with friends in

PARK SLOPE. understand finally that the general agreement is you whack as shit. then find a letter from your girlfriend from awhile ago and feel uplifted all over again for some reason but as for positivity

you do not discriminate. drink horn of sun to fierce last dregs. think about whether you are actually thin or just think you get thinner when you are really just used to how fat you are. talk to your girlfriend at

a certain point mentioned in section A. while on break for way too long.

sweat out a cluttered subway ride every morning forever. decide to jump off the BROOKLYN BRIDGE then decide not to. look meaningfully at a

church because you are reading twilight of the idols. repeat a lot of different stuff at irregular intervals. repeat stuff at regular intervals. learn that those statements are an acceptable example of an irregular repetition: or is

irregular as regards time only, not difference: an irregular life has less to do with fiber than we think. an irregular life can be as varied as disposition to pate : : as feeling to brokenness, as alteration altered to fear of change

might comfort one back into the nest of ignorance : it doesn't have to mean as regards, well, anything : it itself can be fiber, a fibrous fiber: so: we scrounge for something burred underneath the soft netting: crack up: put way too much

weight in your presence at social events : leave social events early or go to sleep in front of everybody pretending to be passed out : see social events as a total stressor : don't kno what to do : never know what to do ever: social

events. assume yourself a negative, discomfited person thereby. lose all friends because you dig deep into stupidity to find a reason for it, think about it until you go blind, rectify and rectify till all's a mess: is that what you want: yes:

friends are lost based upon too many simpering blasted apologies. really wish that you will leave a good looking corpse and do leave a good looking corpse. wonder why you don’t think about childhood very often, as in the concept.

see section A. come to the conclusion that fuck yes it is too late to have a happy one but really come to understand that that doesn’t matter as all things are for a time anyway but then get pissed off about this because you then realize as well

that you are mere mortal and still fields of open grass and oak away from describing something beautiful or whatever but then also wonder that you are infinite wherein the moment is concerned: and then think about your ex

for some crazy reason because all that matters is the past as regards what you’d want to retain in some eternal rolodex of spite or some shit, or maybe it’s just you but you can’t reimburse your mom because of all the infinite

you’re feeling and tell her you can’t and she says that is okay but doesn’t mention that it is ok because the advent of your twenties was mainly depressing, and you there, in room, gnawing at psyche like some useless ape as usual say, WELL

OUT WITH IT, and there she goes finagling a fart out of her ass your mom we are speaking of your mom and her aggravation and her remnant pain from a lost job years ago because oh certainly to fail once is to fail forever

and then you as you are young realize the moment is forever and you can make it a failure and you can make it a wonderful revealing of some big thickened BLEAR asking for property, asking for sense to be given it but you

can’t you can’t justify the dread nay [beckett] nor the odd ghosts in your bathroom that time you spoke to yourself for days and and and so then so then the weekend promises at least an end to this damned ineradicable

gloom and empty state as in empty and taxing but no state of emptiness no state of gloom yet here is gloom here is the reflections of a man refusing too long to look in the damn mirror and see himself is it you or is it i or is it all

the damn farts from the woman who birthed you wanting to be the final whiffing sound as to all of your gutsy failures and drudges through fields of stone and grass and oak you paint out of a backpack and some green

carpet in your room that one time you tripped balls on a tuesday on mushrooms and the razor talked to you and proved by its unassuming nature a very grill to the face that damned long face of a son too burnt

into his own damned house and wired by the damned eternity that sounds like some resilient, grand tocsin, some priketh ye some don’t but ya know it’s all just plain forgotten and happy at that, I’d live in codes wordless

more than explain this meaninglessness and/or stain on the life of time, that is humanity: that is growth: that is the paradigm of something written, written, scratched along the judgments of your mom’s farting fucking

asshole, your grown ass self, so proud to put on pants, so good at that one joke made riskily at a party and relished ever afterwards, so good at failure, happy failure, happy, happy to enter that small crack in the sadness too, happy

to bloom out of dismissal, shunning, happy to mature past the point of needing a single reason for a fart, an end, or a waste of mind. turn 30.

repeat. [etc] see section A.] ?? . . . .

RAGE on rage on, collapse into morning day like something of a storm, at least Frightful mist, some thunder bloom / glass incipient of the troubling harrowing: Some awful precondition. Out its frightful bells: wetly dew paints grass lucent-

-And I rise away from all that in my small cave in my state an eye half open, My knuckles are red from cracking them on my own jaw very a lot that night And some banging head i.e. sleep deprivation considered itself and made it

Worse. I thwarted myself continually mind whanging useless and thickly, like Sometimes i feel like that hamster I had when I was in middle school, wasn't, That i never named - - - uh, worth, it, wasn't worth it . S'ok it's ok for things

To no be worth it. Don't cry well then here's a fucking cookie Tard. I literally Just spat up phlegm right on my computer / no joke / I am freakish, & loud Also re hamster-mortality: I kno it is tragic, my girlfriend lost HAMSTERR

Named peanut. An entire quadrant of space specking thru eyes of that thing All day . Dont think ive evr done this much speed in one night (lol) i dont think i should be able to backtalk : this quick speed = religious,

[chalk dust molars fanatical facial people crunch 'em with 'em to dust. be sure to drudge up spume in the foggy brume some master floater or for sake of interracial justice an inanimate image of justice untarnished by opinion

or blaspheme. vulgar just for sake of cashing in on the weird honey : dip in there : of big politics etc anticipatory raging, prolepsis, summoner say : ARiSE ! ! !! : my girlfriend: she is sleeping right next to the and oh like a lamb she is, right

next to the voodoo-man, shepherd, making us all fly thru the honey right into some strict objective eye, truly naked vision, making commune with image and self. - - ] She goes on dozing into me and snoring soft like a, like subtle universal truth, or

Somethin. My snot is stuck in the bakc of my skull, i feel, i feel like waking up my Girlfriend with my hands all over like tidal waves : : i know hamstermortality, to let The reader kno : it is the wave of arcanum 17 : it is, it is waft of hope, like random

Prescience. Iit is the great like space etc of all, or some completely lazy encompassing. Kewl things only exist cuz hm i guess they exist for — — time, like hamsterts, Hamsters = meaning of universe, it’s like classical semantics or fuzzy logic:

Supervaluationists predicting borderline cases!!! How many hairs must i lose before You can call me bald : for the hairs will exist alway / they will, they will scream out : They will be a thing that is they are the very fuxxx god calls logic

Slash these words apart, greet blame and slash that, grab the bags: Run from the rage then, drum up some possibility for fuel, beat legs For leagues. ‘Message’ after ye with a bat, won’t get a thing so. But

Kicked up dust he’ll cough on, sweat drooling, finally fatigued: marigolds Fooling in the wind around him, agh, long day: we run into the ‘Pome’ Later: find it sucking on a sugar lump in some coffeeshop, well, money:

Who knew, who but the pivot finally: as drain groans a fable like a job to Do. Shit twists with flood and the seagulls berating lend belief at it all with Solid statement, caw, caw, wishing, duh, To Be Done With Message

Of course, especially one that some brine of heart sloshed up: some Reticular wisdom like as hair, hateful : some weird gloss over shadow Dims the bald head, the bald ‘Message’ - the crested ol’ bigot furious

Yawp yapping damnable in that there roast for the father: big squeeze, Squeeze of animus. Finally, down the block of stillness, down dug into The brig, obstructed color, rigid air, manic doors, kids laughing at him:

Little Mile : : feel it all over again : what answers can we get to as regards You fully: an elliptical, maybe? Or trash, or earthy disarrangement, dirt, Particles resulting in flipflop, wages made but unfulfilled for good? Or

Maybe marigolds !! Breezes coming out of their loops into wiggling weight Themselves, hulking as cathedral tunes, heavy with ambiguous threadiness, And that holy torment of an ever-figuring progenitor, professor of the

'Message'—black & bleak—against the righteous curiosity, ol' puff-head, ol' Apoplectic, Sorry For The State Of - - and dese homeless parties of the Sad. The sad chase, the chase as I must do is still solo. But grand, the

Hemophilic fire, the rusty brigade o’ pleaches o’ daffy hair, dummy cunt To stake on cosmic sex, just a blowoff: still. Then. Little dragoons whiffed It up anyways and blessed the fakery past mythos into real, made a great,

Big sepulcher for all 'em fathers: all the risks at tacky jive: lagoon: great, Great swoon of fibrous living out the ducky’s little murmuring in the mud, Tump-a-tump with buckles o’ swash : #dgaf : yet is we da pirate , as in ,

We is , we ah make anything magnificent and say it is that and leave it So. We. Croon and wait for that swell damned music’s dish to punch big and soft into the pillow : we: meet poetry POETRY POETRY POUR IT ALL

And soft into th. pillow. We. Down a side-street : have a baffled-eye ‘a sec: Din in the den gets closed the sisters ears : think some nature-shit: stfu: Bucolic site there wispy girl : pencil neck : root , , , for Image-Pleasant:

For you that is : root for the Panjundrum not, in his anger-yells all daffy, Deadening reasons for the noise, amplified like a big [bracket] to the side Of something, past declaration, past the final honesty and towards some

New squeamish chuck of ew-grease out of my bad throat : 'Message' Attempts to toughen with - providence, it feels, it knows - of mere scraps Of itself, and then I emit new strings for my shoes, frayed knot, couple

Stoners ranting in a parking lot when one sees a human innim and flees, From eye of him : one states the [bracket] as annotation even though it Supplies nothing : mere notation is as much enclitic for an infidel sense

As rhyming to behead borders of rhythm with timing , adding meaning Like chaff at the end while a sprocket ebbs out then 'splodes at once, a Gathering of mite and fingernail and bedding shod in the cracks under

The bland couch then sets aflame, burning down the garbage, which is Everywhere : police police : fuck da : : whelp : lost musings only whelm As much as one is willing to go rapidly , that is, will be as quality as the

Quicken, enacting some different statement thru defensive natures of style Like Declension : Logoaedic : parse the thought, then let it run before the Jello melts, food gets cold: picnic raped by ants. Premise of the rule. So the:

Uh: bracketed, shuffling fragged things dole more out for the warmness, As in, have something mean what it means, leave it at notation , make the Final well and, "End like a spear, not like a broom" - - Well, who knows

About honor: maybe just to prove myself I will right something really for Awhile too messed for the husbandman to mould with his ass: drop the Incisive manacles, they get my wrist bit with copper: write to right a thing

You never mention: madden out copper tongues: make demands about Stuff you have no idea you are actually talking about: but that's not going To mention itself either and is perhaps what is missing for the right reasons:

So why yell out proper tongues if that is all tongues want is their own voice To hock a spray of legit logey sniffed up the nasal psg. and out into the World. Well. Garbage burns itself to slew. But you like that. You enjoy

The mesmerized epiphanic trumpeting, priketh, prike prike : nasty uncle, He was , and a bald head a sunshine away from DEATH-LAZER. Stun, But be stupid as brick. As was said, I speak to reflect mirrors in darkness.

Should be obvious. Maybe this inkling of finding a new way to speak'll Dart straight for the first reason to pant and wave commodities at the sullen Sucker-tourist upon losing his next day's provender at the hands of silly kids.

DeMand: Wring rungs out proper tongues, lick pompous, drone on in thatt Stat o’ thing: status of thing: state of things: rut t tt t t t tt t tt t t tttt tt t t t t tttt Guts me : feeling in’t I feel nothing but in hole: & & & & & & & & & & & & &

Still the great compilers edge more into the fantastic, learn to eat it along with The tragic as one happy meal. Eventual blossom, hoping Mary and Ed ride fine Off into the sunset, cans tied to the bumper clicking like cliché: Jesus is sick :

He tells me so much is at risk here : then again, who could harbor such a feel But Big J or Yeezy : : well he’s a prick : that’s why you shouldn't music so much: I don’t listen to music nomores: even you’re tarnished bc of all this harlot noise

Attempting heaven, & whatnot : WHAT? WHO THN ?? WHAT THEN ?? So Fortunately, I’m Done. Getting into ye head. I’m already there. Felt random & Also, tortuous pressure spread keen thru label after label, waiting for sustenance,

It was given, as if words could ugh the body with ugh : feed me with 'don't' is What the character 'Message' means. This sentence means it is myself declaring A sentence. That is what it means, and the Myself in it shines out of that part of

It like some beautiful renegade oxygen, a distillation more perverse, a naked way, A death of all that damnable stuff we got our heads warped around in like some Exquisite Fucking Turban [tho false] tho, maybe drunk off picked points smacking

Of defeat, well : : : such's to give up meaning at all - - MESSAGE _a t_ _a l l_ [?] As if words could damage the body : does language uh have one string it can plukk To stop the heart?[.] Or does it all. Well. Uh, lose weight: is it a fascinating receptacle,

Or mere extensiveeverything: ” Do You Believe In God.” – – – – – – I wouldn't be Able to give you anything for jesus, much less Jews. HAve little idea what I believe. Belief is odd. I think I believe in, just, being chased, you know, for thievery. It's a

Saturated L.A. sun like in this song by [The National] it is called "Pink Rabbits." it Is really damn good I remember feeling like the string to my heart almost cut that one Time. But I couldn't tell you anything a medium in some spooky curtained shop

Wouldn't be able to perform with a bit more erggh 'flair' well damn I despise flair write To construct a core or write to DeMand to write or write to right something wrong w. Your sister's [hairdo] or write about strings. Write about all the strings. What all of

Them would do if connected THE WORLD IS POME across the globe. Don't think There'd be much room else for people. Well no worries then, you’ll steal hunches till you Can’t even breathe a thinnest wisp of sister-air. Enjoy never figuring out anything. I

Like to tip-toe but that's no way to run , I gotta say the world is fucked w/o a point , , , The drain is really sick [!] w. all this flood it might as well be the guts of garbage And the rightness of wrong , of the failed and of lineage thru language do we bring

Our own booze do we sing some amped version of the obvious soullessness everybody Gets to grate all over everybody else like some annoying sadness too small for this World, too inscrutable to be anything bt what it is, what it is not anything, as POME

Is words, not ideas, get subjugated by need to buddy up with certainty by corroborating This or that line with another, breaking another, letting pennies go slipshod thru da Grate, while all the while mighty confusion rends a new surprise in plain polished sight,

But o the bees in my gut wig out more folly but as plain to live and hope by their ruin To bring the ties untangled, yes, state the statement-as-goal, martyr a few mirrors thru Indelible mistake, ending Kierkegaard at Democritus' river etc. NO WE NEVER

STEP THRU THE SAME RIVER TWICE NO NOR PERHAPS ONCE, anyways, The bees escape nathless from a pirson-prison. In spite of all this floppy flotsam, Like some weird torture. The stingings bless, the robust yellow flow mitred across

De backs uf'm. And I still considerable, a regular pill for the unagog men still seeing Me unsightly, some lack, some twit, some spook : er something as like, as what god Makes of his leftovers in the afternoon between jobs: but me young boss: HOSS:

What?, zooks, gain, what gain 'questionmark' nothing an adorable steeple could not Bring together as all us wonderful people together rise them, these middle fingers- -Pointing up UP UP, run with lacking, then, fuck, huh?, shut up, suited only to

Sslipped phrase, the bank account gets canceled & yr out on the streets with only Luck and Fucks to feed you. Wiring runoff, shattered, wrecked, fetid, but all of it So Human that nobody seems to mind: neither of those three words can understand

My theosophy, nor gainsay, I'm too cryptic: : fault fault, fault fault, thwartedness- -But still continuance, shorn but not straight dead. Lucky but suffering. What a bore, To get brought in by force, to the party, snatch a few lichen, press against petri dish

To make dialogue unheard of or no at the party what this is about, this sleight of hand, This emotional screening we seize up and clench our asshole to forget about, rot in it I Say, row those sewage tentacles, mandibles, new legs from the mess, new smack to

The veins, new shot, lessening as day and eyesight, NARCAMNARCAM. Ruin stake [valuesystem] bless me achoo gradient risen sceptic collide me w truth,

Ruin stake dress me up in my garters and delirious falbalas at table, valuesystem,

Run to the ruin: make stand up puppetry the rotary: vast tracts of time enable the- -Child to believe he is infinite. Child god goes wishing-wishing at peak, wishing To see: you flee from definition like that stoner guy from earlier all the time, you

You let the questions mysteries bleed out thru yr fanciful cufflinks: drat: quaint: Wanna bleed staid blood. Want to create the hurt that must hurt, that must come: Just to have some control, as elusive blood, got to pour lopsided from a precious

Wound : : we gaze into ourselves and do not speak, wondering what batty thing Happened back there: we go wishing to dash away performance with a little more Laze: 5-year-old Genius. But yea. But, with you I shuffle into someone free. You

You see the curtain and you know the pianist is behind it nodding off into overdose: You are knowing what curtains mean and that curtains rarely help to cover meanings: You realize there is nothing to peek at nothing to see so you shrug and go home to

Your death, ever-approaching some more-appropriate redness , , , but the redness in The West , tho. What's with that haze that looks like the hoarsest GLARE of all: It is the shot in the arm taken too breezy, brought you to the finale, the glimpse then

Recession into embedding blank blankets of so-and-so upon your life, weighty big Deaths greeting you with comfort, delicious sating of the lorn, and raggedy willful Bravery so long perceived like an animal, that is, now seen so much to salute. So I

Have access now into your maze : it is dangerous here : bees go grinding against the Gut. Entrails that trail haphazard underneath everything forever : the flighty frolic Of your hair, sister : good on you for nvr doing hoarse/horse. Your hair that speaks

In looks looks like the bigger maze, the bigger harder hug to give one day when just , When things get better: just so one don't get bitter, what from examining all sides of The same pipe dream. DeMand, and makes thus bigger dissonance w. me. Say me,

Of your aspect, at base, nothing less, your talent is my name and sister-curse, my uh My name is one to have in spades, you gotta have it so it radically disappears under A veil mentioned elsewhere in full wherein the chase is always and never the point

As your legs, extremities exist by the disappearance of a prior location, or some Name, some name called death we get into other ideas 'bout. But it is a lost name. Bu I cannot bless more than I bleed. Whatever that means. Perhaps I tell

This to others, they do not offer but stares and blinking : oh alienation : what an Easily dismissible thing : REAL PROBLEMS hah : in that case, those girls Kidnapped in Nigeria're having real problems : suffering is subjective & hell

We, as In I, Race Towards It as anything the wiser, wise as answer, jus cast answer, Jus cast ANSWER:- whatever happen to be, jus quake out a few inappropriate Inabilities in front of anyway, including meshing: hear aspersions there, here

And there: I say, if one feels pathos then uh you know the whitest lash fuck express it, fuck!, don’t you painful on your brow loose the snow came, bother with a perfect shape as the clad in crammed houses families shape you have is naturally a very frown at homies, themselves children, improvisation, imperfect as a sky made random and the same as all storm, asleep flakes or something, like, one sky, just made like me to feel like an actor one. i guess, uh. that is what i make like to me guess. that nothing happens if we within the thin walls, while bruised dads glimpse the hood are indifferent or something. give in rochester, barely guap to eat, to obsession, passion etc. then uh my father runs into a grand jizz what follows’s a thing the greater on the way back captures it and puts it in a safe . for therapy. write on for therapy? his father was a vato, well fuck yes. do it and do it and gift-wrapping raining down do it. i like channeling whitman , , on christmas, wanting to capture fame and getting the pink slip . cuz it’a means wealth, like, iduno it was majestic, slowly he i guess like, [vulgate,vulgate] it drowned in throat cancer, later. my dads hates is freewheeling all over the place christmas, but at least he caught a good fuck in childhood and without regards -blank- see yu kno, i cant write on tumblr atm bc something is wrong with my uhhhhhh

keyboard. it doesn’t allow me to , , delete the space between one anddd another line. so i am writing this

to you. it’s probably not really i guess to interesting just see that infinitesimal cube understood so , ,

uh, distantly, as me here, in this room, hanging out with whitman! as in i see ‘im, right here. he is in

the corner smiling to himself bout some private meditation, mostttttt likely. have you figured out this

is a msg in enjambments yet?, you are really cool and ring out , , , , , , despite, right?, whether or not or

maybe regardless. PART II : : : : ERHEM: fast sadness folds in a toilet like down it you know like those soothing squares, gulls take to the particles after response to command goes lagging, and the aqueduct explodes filter to filter after longing for more than garbage could recall, prideful trash–

garbage i done made myself blind blabhah i done made a bad hither, done dash right into the fount of degrading. i feel very such things as i feel and call them detritus still. i am monstrous i am - big eye, i can fuck myself without any charity-help from anybody.

i am to call myself things like topaz once the giddy girth sloshes within a pictureframe's modest dimensions, and the sharks while snapping snapped alive by the implied sort of movement given only to starkly imperishable images that lighten you up at the art

show. well its time t-to start from the start and start a movement founded on a ginger ignorance of other movements. is i-t: is time to start from the beginning of focus way past bemused glance, ripe glare, teeth beside themselves w cavities of roe and garlic:

it’s time to inaccurately anticipate something, like we knew it was coming and wanted our surprise to look nice. anticipate the perfect slur, find a wide audience for that: it is, uh, time to enact maelstrom considerably, like, lofted above the saddest cloud's

drenching of itself: clouds they are clowns : be sure to recognize the hidden voice, what rattles us is not the mystery of how and logical wherefore but in transmuting some odd warfare of a distant crud's finding, that is - - - it is not what links but what is explained,

which for me is the distance crud, or clod, i call planet : am i a part of it or do i depart from its frequent accusings, importances, rudeness, and flat commodity, material, or just shattered booms hailing the demise of precept got so infrequent that one, less

righteous, is more thru the confessional of the lessness, a lesson : us, , rule, , : the sea like an antelope’s stride is, that is, like the picture purely between man, shark, and sea, of slopping sides over the frames of the picture: something by movement not volume,

by not expanse but a few flits of eye - big eye, - regardless of bigness it is, is and will be there for when the ranting stays, crucial delectable bizarre 'mischance of machinery' while the self goes further out, taken by the turning tides, and then yet this is a bit more

than mangling the heart by placing it on sleeve; this will always be here, distant, or like, remote!, yeh, better word!, you will disassociate whatever

from whatever, [edittttttttttt ttt ] from your blinding clarity [edit] : : you will take an eye out for the bossman cannot : since

wills black as char make the crud, clod, dusty clod, a piece of crud: "shouldn't be so hard to have a nice day." Mutter and grimace. wake up to totally remove yourself in the only way possible, that is, from the world of dreamstate: and piss dole me a new

self of yuck and maelstrom. PART III : : drying the die out of to play craps . or somethings like pinochle of life itself, shouted madman. made anterior who wants the soul who wants it made outside of use I see. something— / something digs for a very hinting it goes like something as must to stop,

as much to save the world as self by saving declamatoriations [!!!!!] declarations yeas, declaiming . / well go ahead and rue the ensuing bratty corps of lifer’s whom stake much on image / nada -rtiet- [edit] editwrite made something is^^^ within that words

them words something letters inverted salamander-language seen spanking new by breaking every rule, ruling over breaks like you had more time. / discovering the body, etc. and it all makes you want to imprint on the wise world some attmept, to do more

by removal of sense if sense is not snuffed out already by now in this senseless world, just going on and on!!!! to the creakiest hints shuffling under floorboards like captives from the bad!! quite the soul search. make more inklings, don't harry yourself, I say,

to discover a bunch of cool shit, also, uh, master it. master thinking in language. maybe i always never did nitpick and nitpick only yeup that is me I knit together the nits the nits are scratchiness, a scratchiness. then I think about how nice honesty is as re the slow

deliverance or rather sparing of us all by the most high / as by and by,, we grope for some bigger socket to launch a sensitivity of me I we errybody into, and me and ha and ha. ALERT. cannot diverge ALERT ALERT ALERT!!! Whoop show./Whopp whoop

whoop, can’t but take it down I wsiwiwsh i wish i was blind, i wish the rails weren’t so sharky : : so bloome [!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!] 5$%uh September 13, 2014. Leave a comment Edit POME34 there is language to report, a monster essence. hammer away

and believe till the growth gets funnier and then throw it away handsomely / feel it run like sand thurr rthru your thru thru you[edit]hrought your fineger.s ample tome, im ean time, to write, requite certain disposable nothings like a big random power/ mind goes

and glowers at itself again. ah you kno. broken triangle. anything broken becomes an angle or many. a ziggidy line or somesuch. / so break a whole, rift it to life as some ziggidy line. some sorta line that breathes with uncaring for anything like information

but retaineing formless form as if your occupation was with something else/ let relax the

strands in you ankel, let the angel fall my dear / dont deny it / yur a good person, dammit. all the se facile blunders. all this. these stupid years of making. in the making,

or just making, about too. etc. greqat. great magnificent quiet [edit] is that which i search for and make and build into the most complex geometric shape for good / only to rift it and - - make what people would holy-fy even more bettr than the more better it was /

bby oh how you go on concealing pleanty of plaintiveness. am i nice ?? so what if you are. youre a stara special star . . . yr starved, strande line you ssay you are a bulk of issues you say you dance like a man made

of things .. light as wing . dwindle. wind. light as wind. so much so much to destroy sitll. my eyes need more blurs t[edit] to in order make everything wrong rightwise. foreget aspbergers. or any label / speak pretty

mane’s ruffling sinousity in wind. / a bloke with flow / gnarly [edit] speak charlie stude the sirfur, charlie stud is he who rides the wave, rides wthe wave in /by just meeting

wit ha hello and a hahaha at ripe ombustive ripe combustiveness at / a large offense

#writing #poetry

0 notes

elijahmillenniummikaelson · 6 years

Note

✩ for Sienna x Elijah!

Send ‘✩’ for the following:Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice? Probably Sienna since Elijah has an intermediate step in which he initially lowers his voice to a sharp, threatening warning when he is disagreeing with someone. Who threatens to leave but never actually does? Sienna. Which doesn’t mean she doesn’t absolutely succeeds in riling him up every time. Who actually keeps their word and leaves? Elijah. Mostly because in spite of everything he does he still has an obsession with technically keeping his word. Emphasis on technically. Mostly he just exits the room so the warning is fulfilled and immediately after returns with a vengeance like a drama king. Who trashes the house? If things escalate to that level I suspect Sienna would take advantage of at least one of Elijah’s unique items collections in order to force him into playing juggler for a moment. Do either of them get physical? Sure…In the sense that their disagreements religiously end when one of them begins to passionately kiss the other as if there was no tomorrow. How often do they argue/disagree? Surprisingly next to never from what we have seen until now. They playfully tease and taunt each other constantly but In spite of their tempers they seem to be too fervently attracted to the other’s supposedly worst qualities to actually have a classical fight. Who is the first to apologize? Both Sienna and Elijah: “…What the hell is an apology?”

Sex:Who is on top? Elijah has a predilection for utterly overwhelming her with pleasure and discover what kinds of pleading and raging moans he can find in the process so his first instinct is towards an active position but I suspect the reverse also occurs pretty often.Who is on the bottom? I don’t think anyone is “on the bottom” from their perspective. They are either taking and consuming the other in satisfaction or receiving the thrilling, passionate bliss they obviously deserve. Who has the strangest desires?…Define strangeAny kinks? Who? Them? No! I think it is obvious these two, morally sound citizens are pretty vanilla. XDWho’s dominant in bed? “Elijah has a predilection for utterly overwhelming her with pleasure and discover what kinds of pleading and raging moans he can find…”Is head ever in the equation? Is it ever not?If so, who is better at performing it?…Let’s not make those two compete with each other. Ever had sex in public? Well….Considering the level of hiding involved in their connection and how impatient they can get….One could assume…Who moans the most? “Elijah has a predilection for utterly overwhelming her with pleasure and discover what kinds of pleading and raging moans he can find…”Who leaves the most marks? Tsk tsk…What did we just say about competitions? We are adding fuel to the fire.Who screams the loudest? “Elijah has a predilection for utterly overwhelming her with pleasure and discover what kinds of pleading and raging moans he can find…”Who is the more experienced of the two? Probably Elijah by merit of age.Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’? Hmm…Elijah would diplomatically quote “To define is to limit”Rough or soft? Fervidly intense, lustful and steamy as a general rule. Sometimes surprisingly soft and caring. Neither of them mention the implications of the second kind too much.How long do they usually last? Hours if they are supposed to have only twenty minutes together. Twenty minutes if they are supposed to have hours. Then they can go for a whole packet of rounds.Is protection used? YesDoes it ever get boring? Ha-HaWhere is the strangest place they’d have sex? Now these questions are challenging them? What little common sense!

Family:Do your muses plan on having children/or have children? Their current relationship goals include not dying for Elijah and not initiating a mob war for Sienna. If so, how many children do your muses want/have? I think I need to give an answer for the next few questions to make sense so on the top of my head lets say…A girl and a boy? The girl could have been spoiled beyond measure and in consequence be even more entitled, arrogant and adorably egocentric than the two of them combined and just for the fun and potential hilarious situations I would say the boy actually seems to be a genuinely noble, kind and compassionate person. No one knows how it happened. No one knows what to do with him. Sienna can choose the names if she wants. lolWho is the favorite parent? For the girl whoever is pampering her more that week. For the boy…Sienna. Who is the authoritative parent? Elijah.Who is more likely to allow the children to have a day off school? Both under the right strategy. With Sienna they can explain they meet this really interesting boy/girl or that they have to show the bossy teacher he can’t control them. With Elijah they can tell him they have a clever seven step plan that includes manipulation, deceit and betrayal in order to become head cheerleader/ school council president and it is really important for them to be away so no one suspects they are responsible for what they put into motion. Who lets the children indulge in sweets and junk food when the other isn’t around? That’s not how it works. The rules say 20% of the sweets they bring home automatically go to the parents who also reserve the right to indiscriminately take more of it if they are eating them in public. Who turns up to extra curricular activities to support their children? SiennaWho goes to parent teacher interviews? Either of them. Both if Sienna is in the mood to watch how Elijah sometimes not so subtlety informs the teacher it is in his best interest to ignore those silly rumors about their daughter being a “manipulative and snobby brat who thinks she rules the school” Who gets up in the middle of the night to feed the baby? Elijah’s job sometimes make him arrive late so he is more naturally active during those hours. Who spends the most time with the children? Sienna for a slight difference. But they do try to do things all together. Who packs their lunch boxes? They actually tried to make the kids their lunch boxes together once…It ended up as a mixture of lobster tartlets, lollipops, strawberry juice and a double cheese hamburger. They were incredibly proud of themselves. Both of the kids asked for lunch money from that day onward.Who gives their children ‘the talk’? The school if they have any luck. Who cleans up after the kids? The same service that cleans up after the parents.Who worries the most? Elijah worries about the boy and how little he seems to be made for the family business quite frequently. Sienna is the only one with enough influence over the two of them as to make them see more or less eye to eye sometimes. Who are the children more likely to learn their first swear word from? Sienna.

Affection:Who likes to cuddle? Cuddling just…Sort of…Happens. It is not to be questioned.Who is the little spoon? Sienna.Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? Most places are inappropriate for them. Sienna appears to have a certain tendency towards that behavior and making him go crazy with it but Elijah isn’t precisely innocent either. Who struggles to keep their hands to themself? Both How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? Not-To-Be-Questioned.What is their favourite non-sexual activity? I believe they would greatly enjoy travelling together if they were under different circumstancesWhere is their favourite place to cuddle? Apparently “Inappropriate places”Who is more likely to playfully grope the other? 49% Elijah 51% SiennaHow often do they get time to themselves? As often as they sneakily create it.

Sleeping:Who snores? No one. The closest is Sienna softly breathing from her nose while she is sleeping sometimes which Elijah finds mutely charmingIf both do, who snores the loudest? -Do they share a bed or sleep separately? They sleep on the same bed when they can be certain they can get away with it. If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart? Again with the closeness questions…Cozy positions just happen sometimes. No need to over-analyzeWho talks in their sleep? Sienna. Elijah listens intently if he is awake as if she were reciting the most fascinating novel. What do they wear to bed? Whatever little remains of what they were wearing before the wild inferno of a night together occurred.Are either of your muses insomniacs? Elijah has some trouble sleeping but he never recognizes it out loud. Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside? No.Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? ….Repeat after me meme: Proximity. Just. Happens. It is like magic. Who wakes up with bed hair? If they don’t have it when they wake up they can still win it by their way of awakening the other. Who wakes up first? It varies. Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? If Elijah can’t sleep he might try to improvise making something edible for her. Who hogs the sheets? Sienna. Elijah freely allows her to win that battle but still tease her about it. Do they set an alarm each night? Only if they have anything to do the next day.Can a television be found in their bedroom? YesWho has nightmares? Both of them occasionally.Who has ridiculous dreams? Sienna. Elijah listens to every single one of them intently and suggests meanings for them with interest as if they were the best stories he ever heard.Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? Sienna.Who makes the bed? Depends on whose bed it is.What time is bed time? There is no bed time. Only chaos.Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Elijah the days he doesn’t sleep.

Work:Who is the busiest? ElijahWho rakes in the highest income? Exclusively out of working? Elijah. I don’t quite know who has more money between Sienna’s family and Elijah. I usually try to write her father as a mafia boss currently above him in status and position so the danger of them getting discovered is real but by a minimal difference.Are any of your muses unemployed?….Technically speaking and as far as the law is concerned.Who takes the most sick days? If they don’t want to do something they don’t do it. No sick day status necessary. Who is more likely to turn up late to work? Elijah but only if Sienna is involved.Who sucks up to their boss? Neither.What are their jobs? Who is asking?Who stresses the most? Elijah sees it all as a big game he will eventually be the conquering winner of and reading her bio again Sienna only helps with her family’s business in innocent things like the books if she feeling like it so…Neither. Do your muses enjoy or despise their careers/occupations? Elijah enjoys it immensely. Sienna does as she wants so I assume she likes it too.Are your muses financially stable? Legally speaking? They are poor souls barely making it. Extra-officially? Have a bag of cash and don’t ask questions.

Home:Who does the washing? These are if they lived together right? It doesn’t make much sense otherwise. The staff.Who takes out the trash? Unless we are talking about a mafia “taking out the trash” expression…The staff.Who does the ironing? Staff.Who does the cooking? If he is in a specially good mood Elijah will try to cook pasta for her. Mainly as a private joke related to her Italian mafia lineage stereotype but he actually puts incredible amounts of never admitted effort into improving it each time it happens.Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying? The two of them together. They have a lot more fun but are also considerably more destructive when they try to act as normal people together. Who is messier? Elijah is better at pretending he isn’t but they are probably at the same level. Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? A bad job from the staff.Who is the prankster around the house? Sienna starts the prank wars but Elijah hasn’t been a pacifist about it once. Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere? Sienna pretended to lose them once and challenged Elijah to quickly get them a new vehicle without calling any of his employees. They still have an extra car the previous owner never dared to report stolen after Elijah nonchalantly stopped him to have a chat that day.Who answers the telephone? Staff. Unless Elijah is waiting for something important work-relatedWho does the vacuuming? S-T-A-F-FWho takes the longest to shower? The one who enters the shower first that day. They tend to share them.

Miscellaneous:Is money a problem? Yes! They have too much for the world to be safeHow many cars do they own? At least two based on the last section…Probably more.Do they own their home or do they rent? They don’t currently live together.Do they live near the coast or deep in the countryside? If they lived together…They would probably have several properties.Do they live in the city or in the country? Several properties. City as the main oneDo they enjoy their surroundings? If they don’t they go to another of their properties. Come on. Catch up with me test. Where did they first meet? Hmm…Based on the first starter I ever replied to I believe you wrote Sienna knew him since she was young so…Perhaps at some fancy party while Elijah was still only an aspiring mob boss working under someone else that gallantly called Sienna the princess of the celebration when they were introduced to score some points with her father? Does that sound good?How did they first meet? Test…We just discussed this. Pay attention!Who spends the most money when out shopping? Sienna. Any mental issues? I mean…There must be something but…They are only a danger to others and not themselves. XDWho’s terrified of bugs? Terrified?…Neither probably. You would have to confirm Sienna’s position. Who kills the spiders around the house? Elijah making a big white knight protecting his lady performance out of it. Who pays the bills? ElijahDo they have any fears for their future? Wise precaution and implemented strategy but not fear. Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? ElijahWho uses up all of the hot water? Most showers are together as previously stated. If not…Both of themWho’s the tallest? ElijahWho’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? Test…Are you mocking me?Who wanders around in their underwear? Sienna to Elijah’s eternal provocation and delight. Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Sienna. Elijah finds it enthralling beyond belief and weirdly adorable.What do they tease each other about? Each and every single subject under the face of the earthWho is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times?…Neither? I think. If Sienna hates any of his suits this is her time to speak.Do they have mutual friends? Elijah doesn’t really have friends as much as pawns. But he makes a conscious effort to be gentle with someone if Sienna introduces them as her friend. Who crushed first? …I don’t really know. Again I am in need of Sienna’s perspective. Any alcohol or substance related problems? It isn’t a problem.Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am?…Equal opportunity and chances for a duo performance sometimes. Who swears the most? Sienna.

#thedreaaamteam #Mob!Verse

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kai-keda · 5 years

Link

YO!

We have a character analysis on Prussia based on Hetalia World Stars/character songs/the anime (as those are the only things I have full access to)

Full script under the "read more”

Clapping Nasty! Thot! Turbo! Virgin! Chaotic! Energy! Clapping

I was dared to say all those things first thing when starting this video. Except that last one. That last one was my own doing.

Anyways, let’s give a quick overview of how this analysis is gonna work. First, we need to discuss what may be considered the elephant in the room to people in the Hetalia fandom who know me on Discord.

Specifically the people in one particular RP server I’m in.

We need to talk about canon.

Now in the past I’ve made a point of the importance of canon when representing these characters. And I stand by everything I’ve said in the past, just not the way I said it. See, I don’t think the people I’ve talked to about it really understand what I meant and that may be my own fault.

When I tried to push the importance of keeping true to what we know about the characters, I got hit with comments like “well I like to add my own ‘glam’ to the character” or “there’s not much about my muse in canon so where does that leave me?” and so on and so forth.

What I really meant by ‘keeping true to canon’ in Hetalia is that we shouldn’t purposefully go against something we know for a fact is true. Even though it’s really easy when there’s not a lot of material for the character in question in the first place, I just can’t understand the appeal of doing something like that. To put it simply, I fell in love with the characters for who they are, not for who I believe they should be.

This issue came up again - unrelated to the first time it was brought up - on tumblr when someone made a popular post about people being told they’re wrong for representing the characters of Hetalia in certain ways outside of canon because they were from the area in question and wanted their character to be more accurate to their culture as they saw it.

Which is a really complicated, controversial and specific to Hetalia discussion, to be perfectly honest. It’s still a great discussion to be had, though!

Where do we draw the line between cultural/historical accuracy and canon characterization? How do we decide what’s more important? When do we let one side win out if we let it win out at all?

These are all great questions that should be saved to be answered another time on another video and/or tumblr post.

For now, let’s just talk about the meaning behind the title of this video and then I promise we’ll get into the character analysis.

If any of my Dragon Ball fans are here, you’ll probably recognize said title from “This is My Goku” and yes I did it on purpose. I’m sort of parodying my own video because that one was so serious and fueled by anger, spite and hatred that it turned out pretty comical in nature. And this one is one fueled by happiness, positive energy and genuine curiosity.

I’m not here to prove some sort of point, I’m here to see how in-line my personal idea of the character is with how he’s represented in the most recent version of “canon” in Hetalia. (i.e; How well does my headcanon fueled characterization fit with the Hetalia World Stars comic strips that HetaScanalations has so graciously shared with all of us?)

A LOT of what we know of Prussia cannot help but be based on personal headcanons and popular fanons alike. He’s frankly not in the series enough to do a full proper analysis of his character because we only really see him in passing in pretty insignificant strips.

So while I really wanted to call this video “Hetalia Prussia Dissection” I can’t do it. I really honestly either don’t have the skill level or really don’t have the material to do that concept justice. So today we’re going to go into what’s canon and what my own ‘glam’ added to the character really is. (See what I did there? I have nothing against combining headcanon with canon, I just don’t like letting headcanon completely and purposefully override canon but again, that’s a topic for another day.)

So with all that said and understood, let us begin our awesome journey.

Okay so here’s the dealio, Prussia is a narcissist and we’re gonna go into the psychology of that in depth and talk about what all that entails and see how much evidence we have to support that claim in canon.

According to PsychologyToday which, to my understanding, is a credible enough source for quick glances into the minds of people, while having a superiority complex does play a part in narcissism, it’s really a feeling of fear of showing vulnerability that leads it.To quote; “The narcissist fears that acknowledging any weakness will allow someone else the chance to take advantage of him or gain power over him.” And another quote: “Simply put, true narcissists have zero interest in introspection or self-improvement. Their guiding principle: Never, ever let your guard down.”

Now, none of the Hetalia World Stars comics, the Anime nor the character songs themselves actually show Prussia being afraid of being vulnerable explicitly stating, but if we look at the symptoms of narcissism and his history, we can see, in my honest opinion, where that comes into play.

The DSM 5th Editions symptoms for narcissistic personality disorder as described by Leon F. Seltzer, Ph.D. on psychologytoday.com are as follows:

1. Has a grandiose sense of self-importance.

2. Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love.

3. Believes that he or she is "special" and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions).

4. Requires excessive admiration [regularly fishes for compliments, and is highly susceptible to flattery].

5. Has a sense of entitlement.

6. Is interpersonally exploitative.

7. Lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others.

8. Is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of him or her.

9. Shows arrogant, haughty [rude and abusive] behaviors or attitudes.

This particular author of this particular article goes on to add a few more traits and symptoms. Those being:

1. They are highly reactive to criticism

2. They have a low self-esteem

3. Can be inordinately self-righteous and defensive

4. React to contrary viewpoints with anger or rage

5. Project onto others qualities, traits and behaviors they can’t - or won’t - accept in themselves

6. Have poor interpersonal boundaries

This article began by stating that only five of these fifteen traits need to be met in order to be considered for having narcissistic personality disorder. So let’s take a I’m-discovering-writing-this-analysis-as-I-go dive into my notes of where all Prussia's appearances are with these symptoms in mind to see if we can name at least five instances.

Right off the bat in both cases with the first listed symptom and the first appearance of Prussia in Chapter 12 where he unifies Germany, Prussia considers himself the one that is destined to lead the newly formed nation of Germany as his older brother. This is the idea of self-importance. Basically he has the idea of “If I’m not the one to do it, then no one can do it properly.” hence his fighting with Austria (and I bet winning said fight didn’t help.)

So there’s one.

But wait! There’s more in this chapter!

That same instance of him believing he needs to be Germany’s older brother goes along with the symptom of entitlement. It MUST be him simply because it MUST be him.

So we’ve got two now.

“Is highly susceptible to flattery”. When I read that I knew exactly what chapter we were going to discuss. I literally wrote in my notes for chapter 294 “Prussia is weak to flattery” because in the beginning of 294 and the whole of 293, Prussia was arguing with his king Frederick I about how much focus should be put on clothing, but the INSTANT Frederick I mentions that Prussia would probably look cool in the flashy outfits, Prussia caves and goes to spy on France to see about getting said flashy outfits for himself.

That’s three~ Two more and we’ve got ourselves a narcissist.

Being ‘arrogant’ is defined as ‘having or revealing an exaggerated sense of one's own importance or abilities’ and if that doesn’t describe Prussia in literally all of his “I am awesome!” glory, I don’t know what does. It should be self-explanatory to any fan of this series that, yes, Prussia is very arrogant.

Four down, one to go!

Number two in our list of symptoms “Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love.” I BELIEVE this includes having constant daydreams about past glories as well as bringing them up all the time or when discussing said past glories, only discusses how great and awesome they were at the time.

Cough-cough - Prussia’s diary in 339 where he openly admits that said diary is mostly him saying “You are awesome” 20 times over.

And there we go. Let me know if you think of anymore instances in ANY official material that fits into these symptoms. I’d love to hear about them.

So with those five understood, it’s safe to assume Prussia is in fact a narcissist which - I know - comes as a shock to literally NOBODY but I figured it was important to actually pull up evidence for as opposed to just stating it as a passing fact and moving on like a lot of us Hetalians tend to do.

Explaining understandings of characterization is the fun part of character analysis, after all.

So let’s backtrack a little. Remember how that first article said being a narcissist comes from having a fear of vulnerability? Well, let’s go into headcanon and fanon land for two seconds as we read between the lines to find these signs of vulnerability based on the assumption that Prussia does in fact have this disorder.

Constantly in his official character songs, like “Mein Gott” or the Bad Friends Trio’s song “Overflowing Passion”, Prussia can be heard singing about how ‘it’s great to be alone!’ I take this to be a sign that Prussia understands that everyone is aware of him being lonely but he takes that understanding and turns it into a sign of ‘awesomeness’ as opposed to a weakness. He’d rather turn something most of humanity recognizes as a negative into a positive than admit to his own sadness. It’s the last thing he wants.

Let’s continue down this headcanon rabbit hole and talk about the wonderful Law 46 that was signed in 1947 after WWII and before the Berlin Wall. This is the Law signed by the Allied Control Council (France, America, Britain and the USSR) that stated that Prussia’s excessive militarism combined with excessive nationalism was too dangerous for the world as it was to blame for “repeated German pestilence” as Churchill put it.

Basically, this is the moment Prussia lost his nation and, in popular fanon, became East Germany.

There is no way on God’s green Earth that ANYONE is going to convince me that losing his nation like this - not just losing it in general but losing it to a piece of paper instead of a glorious battle that wiped his resources out - didn’t hurt and still to this day hurts Prussia on a deep emotional level. But do we ever see him talk about it?

No. And why is that? Because that would be a vulnerability.

See, I interpret Prussia as being my favorite type of character. The character that smiles and laughs and puts on a show about how great life is even though deep down they’re suffering from some serious issues whether it be trauma, negative mental health or just bad memories.

I know, I know, that’s not exactly a rare character type but I really don’t care, it’s still my favorite. It’s also not something that’s hard to see in real life. People will often hide behind a mask. We see it all the time in celebrities that people will refuse to ask for help when they are suffering because they’d rather everyone believe everything is fine for this that and/or another reason.

(Honestly though, can’t relate, because when I’m sad I let everyone know but that’s just a personal aside)

Getting off the narcissism train, let’s talk about something significantly less serious.

Prussia likes cute things and is attuned to nature. He’s constantly making references to nature like saying that it’s a great sign that even rabbits will prostrate before him in 299, saying “it’s cool like a wild little bird” in 293 and also mentioning how cute a little chirping bird is in his songs “Mein Gott” and his “Marukaitte Chikyuu.” Not to mention his image for his character profile shows him with a little bird on his head and holding a stuffed bear.

This ties in to both wanting to keep young ones’ innocence in tact as well as how in real life history, the German people had the most respect for nature at a time.

I have a friend who has taken multiple art history classes tell me that in German art there are often scenes of humans being lesser than nature that show how vast, beautiful and truly terrifying nature is.

As for Prussia wanting to help younger people keep their innocence, there is a chapter (chapter 187) where Prussia is reading Grimm Brothers Fairy Tales to a dying Holy Roman Empire (a character still portrayed as a child) and when questions arise like “Why would the witch be mad about Rapunzel’s clothes not fitting her and why would she blame the prince? There was no evidence of the prince bringing in food for her to eat.” he literally throws the book out the window.

He’s later, in the same chapter, shown to be writing the Grimm brothers asking them to PLEASE make the stories more actually child friendly if they’re going to advertise them as being stories for children.

So while in headcanon I imagine Prussia as not-shy-at-all about such things around other adults, it’s another story around children and those he perceives to be innocent. He canonically wants to preserve that cute nature of theirs and will do what he can to do such.

Random fun fact about the Hetalia character of Prussia; he gets really whiny when he’s hungover in chapter 32. He begs Germany to make him food and do other things for him even while Germany himself is also hungover. Also he says “I can’t eat things with faces on them” which woooo boy I’d hate to see what our cute-little-bird loving fool would think of Peeps.

Anyways, I think that’s about all I’ve got and surprisingly, we actually did have a lot to talk about with Prussia using mainly the comics and only partially headcanon. And it’s not even including the original run of the webcomic and manga since I don’t have easy access to those. And we didn’t really discuss the anime too much (mainly because it was just more of what we were able to see in the World Stars serialization).

Please feel free to continue the discussion in the comments. I’d love to hear/read more about one of my three favorite characters and how he’s perceived by others.

#aph prussia #hetalia #hetalia world stars #hws prussia #character analysis #kairi yajuu analysis

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theliterateape · 5 years

Text

Escaping The Crushing Need

by Don Hall

My mother-in-law is choking on a mouthful of half chewed Tostitos and she can’t breathe. She’s clawing at her throat and making the most horrifying sound I can recall. For a beat I think maybe I could just let her die right here. I violently shake that thought away like swatting away a hornet intent on plunging it’s stinger in my face and perform my best version of the Heimlich maneuver until she’s breathing again.

I’m sitting in a giant seafood place in Libertyville, IL with my four-year girlfriend and her sister who has Down Syndrome. My girlfriend is intentionally disdaining of her sister who is so disabled she can’t cut her food so I turn, smile, and assist. My girlfriend turns to me, frustrated at the attention being denied her and asks if I can go get her some iced tea because her own burgeoning disability is causing her pain. For a beat I think is this my life now? Care-taking two grown disabled women, both clawing for my affection? I determine at that moment that I will break up with them both in the near future.

I’m on the back porch of a home in Las Vegas purchased by a friend with so much physical disability he has a morphine bag surgically attached. He has once again undertaken a yard task that he is overwhelmed by and is looking at me with a mixture of spiteful pride, childish anger, and an unspoken demand that I help him. For a beat I think when we moved out here, he promised he would not live like an invalid hermit. That I would not be tasked with a constant state of supporting his hoarder whims. I help him but know that my time in this place cannot be defined by his crushing and incessant need.

✶

I’d like to think that I am, on the whole, a positive force in the tiny patch of the world I inhabit. I’d like to believe that I’m capable of being what Langston Hughes once wrote ‘of use.’ I’m 80% certain that if my mother or father became disabled enough that they needed me to function as a nurse, I would do it with no hesitation or if my wife was hit by a bus and struck down, I would be her arms and legs.

I don’t know and this bothers me.

✶

When I met my first wife and subsequently her family, I was greeted with her grandmother, an old battle-axe with a will of iron who’s daughter was a diagnosed schizophrenic and raised as an adult baby. Grandma had raised my wife as well and the tiny Texas home she kept was like a grungy nursing home after her granddaughter left for college.

By the time we had been married for nearly a decade, Grandma (who threw rocks and gravel at me while others tossed rice at our wedding) died and the subject of what to do about my severely overweight, child-like schizoid mother-in-law was broached. We decided to drive her up from Texas to live with us in Chicago because we didn’t know any better.

My wife suddenly found multiple reasons to be out of the house, leaving me as the recipient of a litany of desperate need. I had to put a padlock on the pantry because our new houseguest had such poor impulse control she would gorge herself on anything she could get her hands on (including but not limited to eating whole sticks of butter, jars of mayonnaise, and anything remotely resembling a cookie).

She was terrified of strange noises and would scream as if attacked if, while I was writing up in the attic and dared move enough to cause a squeak on the ceiling above her, she thought I was an intruder. When she didn’t get exactly what she wanted when she wanted it, like a 300 lb. toddler, she would throw an epic tantrum and accuse me of abusing her.

For months I walked around my home as if any sharp turn might awaken the non-stop fulfilling of almost anything this broken person could conceive. This is not what I want for my life, this is not who I am supposed to be.

The breaking point came when, after she had managed to find a bag of Tostitos and sat in a chair in the living room, shoving whole handfuls into her mouth, barely chewing them, and swallowing the jagged pieces, she started to choke.

I’d like to believe that the brief thought of letting her die at that moment was Not Me but it was Me. The thought of pretending I was out in the yard and came up to find her dead on the floor was like an addict contemplating a fix. Like Papillon staring over the cliff into the sea, the idea of escape was seductive.

The steps then taken to immediately find her a home (as in nursing, old folks, or retirement) were necessary and deliberate and, ultimately, doomed any hope that the marriage would last much longer following.

✶

Alice both loved and hated her sister, Julie. Julie was older than she and lived on a ranch facility with others afflicted with Down Syndrome. When I met Julie, she immediately started asking me if I was her boyfriend. When we would pick her up for a visit — to the zoo, to a restaurant she liked, to a movie — Alice would stare into her phone, occasionally bark an order at either Julie or me, and put the digital blinders on.

As time trampled on, I found that, as far as Julie was concerned, I was her boyfriend. I walked with her while Alice stomped out ahead of us. I made sure her seat belt was buckled. I made sure she had the exact food she wanted and helped her eat it. When she would come to stay with us for weekends, I washed her clothes, washed her face, tucked her into bed.

As it was only once in awhile, it didn’t seem too much until, in a bizarre method of sharing, Alice wrote an essay about her own chronic condition which she had been hiding from me for four years and was, according to the essay she asked me to proofread, was bound to get worse. The possibility of her needing a wheelchair in the near future was mentioned.

This is not fucking fair. We’ve been together under false pretenses and I’m now expected to be the ‘good boyfriend’ to two slowly declining grown women, both requiring my full attention and prone to demanding things rather than requesting help. If I leave, I’m a monster. If I stay, I’ve been consigned to a life of servitude.

I chose monster and left. It didn’t go well.

✶

Prior to moving to Las Vegas, I was frank with Matthew.

“Dude, to be clear, I’m not looking to live with an invalid hermit. I know that’s harsh but you’ve spent the past five years or so building out your house so that you really never have to leave. You sleep in the living room, in your bedroom, in a chair. There are Mountain Dew bottles, half drunk, everywhere and the only friends you seem to have are people whom you pay to come over to help you with projects that you get too tired to finish.”

“You’re right and I want to change things. I want a social life and a girlfriend. I think Vegas is exactly the new beginning I need.”

Either he was lying to me or to himself or both.

I should have seen the sign of things to come at Christmastime, a month and change before we moved to the desert. My wife and he went to go get a tree. His bizarre hoarding tendency was tools and maintenance stuff so a trip to Home Depot became an epic journey through every aisle as he contemplated buying yet another cordless drill or a roll of bubble wrap. Dana was frustrated at what became another wasted evening following him around amidst the bargain tool sections so she found a tree, bought it, and put it on top of his truck before he had turned into the final aisle. He was furious. He wanted to pick the tree out. He wanted a much bigger tree despite us all moving out in a month.

Dana and I decorated the now hated tree and he refused to even look at it. He pouted around, mumbling about what a shitty tree it was until, while we were away in Kansas, he tore it down, threw all of our ornaments into a now lost box, and trashed it.

By the time we landed on the vistas of the Mojave, this tendency was manifest. He let Dana, myself, and his long-time roommate from Chicago, Kelli, unpack the huge semi-truckload of his belongings without even bothering to show up until three days later. He struggled to set things up for his physical ease in exactly the same way he had done in Chicago. He constantly complained about not being invited to outings that he inevitably was never interested in attending. He was disabled and it made him angry. He would pull me aside to talk about his desire to kill himself, his own self-loathing, his hatred for his new house, his new neighborhood, the heat, and Las Vegas in general. Unlike the tree, he couldn’t just trash an entire city in a fit of pique so he stewed and complained.

He would offer us all money to go buy him cigarettes and Mountain Dew rather than walk a few blocks to get it himself. He would sleep in the middle of the day in the living room with migraines and then totter around at night, using his power tools while the rest of us tried to sleep. He hired a local handyman to build him a shed for all of these tools. Once it was filled, he decided he needed another shed. While he constantly complained about money, he continued to spend thousands on more hardware, half-baked and unfinished projects, and new appliances.

This is not the life I bargained for. His need and anger is more than I want to deal with. We have to get out of the place if it’s the last thing we ever do.

Dana and I decided to move out. He and I stopped speaking to one another after, for a third time, he told me that Dana was crazy and needed professional help. We gave him notice and he turned off our access to the internet. Three weeks later, we were out. Almost seconds from when we left, Kelli decided she couldn’t take it anymore and asked us to help her find her own place. By the time we moved her, he came out to unlock the place so I could get the futon we gave her with a pistol on his hip, as if sitting around by himself in his rage and desperation fueled paranoia and conspiracy theories about the three of us.

✶

At 53, I’m still in solid shape and my health is pretty good. I suspect that there will come a time in a future that is closer than I’d like to imagine, when I may be saddled with my own disability: being old. If there’s anything I’ve learned is that I do not want to burden others with my need. I have faced that sort of narcissistic pain from others and I cannot, in good conscience, expect the people in my life to bow down in abeyance to my infirmity.

I’d rather be hit by a bolt of lightning and fried dead on the spot.

#Caretaking #resigning life to service of others #selfish existence

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