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tchallasbabymama · 4 years

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The Temple- Chapter 1/?

N’Jadaka x OC

A/N: I thought this was going to be a two parter, but now it’s looking like maaaaybe 3? I’m just now getting back into my writing and forgot how longwinded I can be lol. Enjoy!

CW: short mention of suicidal ideation

Previous chapter: Prologue

3256 Words

N’Jadaka’s eyes blinked open and he was met with yet another day in Wakanda. This one was a little different than all his other mornings there because it was the first time he got to wake up in his own bed in his own quarters (outside of that one day he was king.) N’Jadaka had spent the last three months in a psychiatric treatment facility working on his anger and mental health issues. When he woke up after the civil war he caused he was livid. He had wanted to die on that mountain and unfortunately the feeling didn’t leave him until about a month into his treatment. He felt he had nothing to live for since his entire life’s work had gone up in flames before his eyes. He accomplished his one goal in life only to have it snatched back from him a day later. Everything important to him in his life had been taken from him and he felt he had nothing else to live for, so his cousin, King T’Challa, arranged for N’Jadaka to spend some time at Ithemba Center for Mental Wellness.

He would never admit it out loud, but N’Jadaka was scared to go to Ithemba. He thought his stint as king would have turned Wakandans against him, but it did the opposite. The royal family had decided that transparency was the best policy and did a press conference explaining the entire situation to the people. T’Challa explained what had happened between his father and uncle, what the prince’s life had been like up to that point, and the fact that while he did usurp the throne he did it the right way according to Wakandan law so he wouldn't be charged with treason. The people of Wakanda were shocked, but welcomed their new prince with open arms. He wasn’t aware of the new developments because he was still resting in a healing pod in Shuri’s lab at the time, but when he went to Ithemba he was surprised to find out that everybody already knew him and was more than willing to help him. N’Jadaka hadn’t received that much care and attention since he was a child and he didn't really know how to handle it. It took him weeks to learn how to open himself to others, and it wasn’t until his last month of treatment that he even began opening himself up to the other patients in group therapy.

N’Jadaka’s main therapist was a woman named Ife. She reminded him so much of his mother that he had almost no choice but to open himself to her, crying in her lap during their first couple sessions. Ife had been incredibly patient with the emotional yet emotionally repressed prince, allowing him to work through his overwhelming feelings of anger, sadness, and hurt.

His time with Ife and the other patients at the center had been incredibly healing and he felt like a new man. He still felt like he had a ways to go, and he could tell he needed something, but couldn’t figure out what. His healing didn’t feel anywhere close to being done.

A knock at the door interrupted his morning laziness.

“Ngena.”

In walked the king of Wakanda flanked by two of his Dora Milaje, who he politely dismissed to stand outside the door. He walked across the room and sat in the plush velvet wingback chair by the full bookshelves.

“Sup man?” N’Jadaka barely opened his eyes to speak to his cousin. The bed was too comfortable.

“My apologies cousin, did I wake you?”

“Nah I’m up, this bed just won’t let me go.”

T’Challa chuckled at his cousin’s laziness. He completely understood, the beds were the most comfortable beds he’d experienced in all of his travels and time abroad in school.

“I just wanted to formally invite you to attend breakfast at 9. It’s casual, just family and whatever few friends are staying in the palace with us at the time. M’Baku will be joining us today.”

“The gorilla nigga?”

T’Challa tried and failed to stifle his laughter, which quickly spread to his slightly younger cousin.

“Yes the gorilla nigga.”

“Ooooh I’m telling M’Baku you said that. Better yet, I’m telling Auntie.”

“I’d really rather you not.”

N’Jadaka chuckled and wondered if this is how it always would’ve been if they had grown up together. The thought was more bitter than sweet, so he pushed it aside for the time being.

“Maybe just this once.”

T’Challa grinned at his cousin and he also wondered how life would’ve been had they known each other their whole lives.

“Thank you. Oh and get up, it’s already 8:30” T’Challa stood and walked towards the door.

“These damn beds…” N’Jadaka shook his head and reluctantly flung the sheet back and swung his legs over the side of his bed, completely forgetting he slept naked. He rushed to cover himself in the king’s presence.

“Shit, my bad, man.”

“For…?”

“Nigga I got my dick swinging!”

“You’re sorry for being naked? Wh- oh that’s right. We aren’t puritanical like you are used to in America. Nudity isn't scandalous here, it’s just a body. But I will leave and let you get ready. See you, umzala.”

N’Jadaka stood there shocked. He knew of Wakandan culture, but experiencing it was going to be an adjustment. Just how different were they? They were never affected by colonization so the oppressive white supremacist ideology wouldn’t exist there. He had a lot of unlearning to do and a lot of questions to ask his family.

He eventually shook himself out of his thoughts and made his way to the en suite bathroom. He turned on the shower using the touchpad and the water fell from the ceiling like rain. He scrubbed down in the vanilla chai body wash he had requested and afterwards he covered his skin in shea butter. He walked into his enormous closet and stood there overwhelmed at the choices. His inner child wanted to throw a fit for everything he’d missed out on, but N’Jadaka took a deep breath to center himself before walking over to the section of clothes that he recognized. He was so nervous about breakfast he almost dressed to impress, but then he remembered T’Challa’s words and casual outfit. He grabbed his Lost Tribe hoodie and threw on his favorite black jeans and his Timbs. He swooped all his locs to one side of his head and threw on his gold glasses. N’Jadaka took a deep breath and walked towards the door.

“Chill out...it’ll be fine.”

The guards stationed outside his door directed him to the dining room where he was met with the smiling faces of his family members. Ramonda was the first to notice he’d entered the room..

“Mholo, umtshana!”

She met him for a hug and kissed his cheek. He smiled so hard his dimples looked deeper than ever and he hugged her back.

“Mornin, Auntie. T, Lil Bit, Charlie’s Angel, Big Man.” N’Jadaka greeted his cousins, Nakia, and M’Baku.

Yet again, T’Challa failed to stifle a laugh, which he tried to play off with a cough. Nakia lightly backhanded his chest and sucked her teeth at him.

“Little bit? Don't start with me, bubble wrap!”

“Who is Charlie and why am I their angel?”

“That is not my name.”

Shuri, Nakia, and M’Baku spoke over each other.

Thankfully the queen mother was there to settle the children down right as the food was being brought out. N’Jadaka looked at the table and was surprised to see that Ramonda was seated next to T’Challa and that the only empty seat was at the end of the table.

The king noticed N’Jadaka’s nervousness as he watched him sit down gingerly and take in his surroundings.

“So N’Jadaka, how was your first night in the palace? Our beds are the most comfortable in the world.”

“Auntie, I almost didn’t come to breakfast. That bed had a hold on me.”

“You must come visit my people sometimes. If you think you sleep good here, wait until you have the crisp mountain air-”

“Nah lemme stop you right there. Crisp is code for cold, and I don't do that shit. Sorry Auntie.”

“I don't do that shit either. When I was staying there I shivered the whole time, even with the beautiful furs and blankets! I’m just not built for the cold.”

N’Jadaka grimaced at the mention of his time as a burgeoning world dictator. He was thankful nobody noticed.

He was also thankful for the large platters of food the kitchen staff came and sat in front of them. They passed the food around the table and soon enough there was silence as everyone dug into what N’Jadaka would later describe as the best meal he ever had.

After breakfast, the three men retired to T’Challa’s office while the princess hurried off to her lab, Nakia disappeared, and Ramonda tended to her garden.

“So, N’Jadaka...I wanted to talk to you about a few things-”

“Then why is Mighty Joe Young here?”

M’Baku rolled his eyes.

“Again, that is not my name. Who even is this person?”

“It’s a big ass gorilla.”

“Oh- well in that case…”

T’Challa cleared his throat.

“As I was saying. Before anything, we need to address your crowning ceremony. Obviously you are part of the royal family, but by Wakandan law, all royalty must be officially crowned to be able to hold a title. If you would like to be Prince N’Jadaka son of Prince N’Jobu we must have the ceremony.”

N’Jadaka’s voice caught in his throat and his eyes got misty.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

M’Baku put a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s good to have you, brother.”

“Good to be here.”

T’Challa fought tears of his own.

“Ok so uh, that’s that. We can hash those details out later. Now, the second thing I wanted to bring up with you is this: M’Baku and Nakia have offered to show you around the merchant tribe here in the city, the river tribe, and Jabariland. Shuri will get you acquainted with the mining tribe, and I will take you out to the border tribe on Wednesday.”

“Aight, sounds like a plan, but I don’t want the surface-level touristy shit.”

T’Challa chuckled.

“Noted. Now, lastly,” T’Challa pulled up a projection of a futuristic yet somehow still modern building next to a basketball court.

N’Jadaka’s stomach dropped.

“What is this?”

“I want to open our borders to the ‘Lost Tribe’ as you call it. Maybe to the rest of the world eventually, but at the time they are less of a concern. In addition to that, I-”

The king was cut off by Nakia entering the room.

“Perfect time, love.”

“Sorry for being late, this baby runs my life now.”

“I’m getting a baby cousin?!”

Nakia looked at him dryly.

“Yes, N’Jadaka, you are getting a baby cousin.”

He peeped her attitude and settled down. If there was one thing he knew in this world, it was never piss of a pregnant woman.

“So the Outreach Centers, yes. I had actually had the idea for a while, but it took the country almost burning down for this idiot to see I was right. T’Challa had the idea to use your old apartment complex as the first Wakandan Outreach Center. Hopefully if it goes well, we could expand to-”

N’Jadaka zoned out staring at the projection. His vision may not have come true in the way he thought it would, but this would certainly be a step towards the betterment of the lives of Black people everywhere. N’Jadaka couldn't help but grin.

“I think we lost him…”

“Cousin!”

He snapped out of his daze.

“Yeah I-I like it. Thank you, this really means a lot. One thing though?”

“Yes?”

“I want it dedicated to my pops.”

T’Challa smiled and zoomed in on the name above the door. It read “Prince N’Jobu’s Wakandan Outreach Center”. Then he took them on a 3-D tour of the facility, ending with the memorial to N’Jobu in room 1401.

N’Jadaka nearly broke down in tears.

“Cool. Thanks, man. For everything. This is…” N’Jadaka took a deep breath. “Just, thanks…”

The other three Wakandans smiled back at him fondly, an occurrence it seemed he would have to get used to.

“I’m glad you like it. Now if you three will excuse me, I have work to do.”

Nakia kissed T’Challa’s forehead and left the room.

“Aight, I need something lighthearted. A nigga is tired of crying. Oh! Actually I got some questions…”

“Ask away.”

“So earlier you mentioned how free and open and shit yall are here...I’m single and haven’t had any in like 6 months so where can I go to find some pussy. Since I’m a prince do I just like, I don't know, have concubines brought to me? I don't know how this works”

M’Baku snorted.

“Clearly.”

N’Jadaka flipped him off while T’Challa answered.

“No, we do not have ‘concubines’ though we do sort of have sex workers, which we can discuss later. You know, it would do you good to read some Wakandan history books...and maybe even some of our sex education material.”

“Ay man, I already know all that.”

“Not the way we teach it. Plus our birth control is better here.”

“More effective?”

“And no side effects. Trust me, you’ll want to visit the library at the end of the hall, cousin.”

N’Jadaka considered his suggestion and made a mental note to check out the library later that day.

“Yes, maybe you’ll learn a thing or two,” M’Baku chimed in.

“My guy, I know how sex works! I’m just curious about the culture surrounding sex. T, you said y'all aren’t puritanical like America...expand on that.”

“Well the list of books I just sent to your beads would be able to cover this in greater detail than I can at the moment, but basically every preconceived notion you have about sex, gender, attraction, etc. has been tainted by colonialism as a means of control over the population.”

“Hanuman…”

“Yeah I know that, I guess I just can’t really conceptualize a world without all that sexism and homophobia and shit.”

“What is homophobia?” M’Baku asked, genuinely confused. The cousins answered at the same time.

“When people hate gay niggas.”

“The hatred of, or at least the disdain for, those who are attracted to their same gender.”

“And we ain't even getting into the people who aren't men or women, that shit blows people's minds.”

“Why?”

The cousins continued to explain the outside world to M’Baku for what felt like hours. T’Challa looked at the clock and stood.

“Well gentlemen, as...depressing as this conversation has been, we must get to the council meeting.”

“I need a drink after that. The strongest Jabari mead!”

“Yeah imagine living with that shit for 30 years then coming here. I’m not gonna know how to act.”

“You’ll learn.”

The three made their way to the council meeting and N’Jadaka had never been so bored in all of his life. He started nodding off at one point and M’Baku elbowed him in his side when he started to snore. When it was finally over they parted ways and N’Jadaka headed to the library. He had plenty of reading to do.

He started with the Wakandan history books reading about the lives of his ancestors. His fathers stories had given him a good foundation to build on, but what he found in the books blew his mind.

Wakandans can trace their history for thousands of years, all the way back to the time of the great Bashenga, the first Black Panther. Growing up as a Black American, N’Jadaka had no connection to his mother’s family history because there was no record. When the Lost Tribe was enslaved and brought to the west, they were recorded as cargo, not people. The enslavers didn’t care about their names or where they came from, and when they got to shore their families continued to be ripped apart and sold to the highest bidder. They weren’t allowed to play drums and congregate, they weren’t allowed to read, they weren’t allowed to marry. There was no written record of his people, and the most they could go on was family bibles which almost never went back before the mid 1800s.

N’Jadaka was overwhelmed with the information, so he decided to switch to something else and come back to the history books later. He picked up “Intimacy and Sex” by Ami Nbunda and flipped through the pages. He skimmed the table of contents and was surprised by what he saw.

The first chapter was on anatomy, but it actually included intersex people instead of just focusing on male and female bodies. The next chapter was about loving and respecting yourself and others, but not in the slut-shaming way of the outside world. The next few chapters were on the mental and emotional sides of intimacy, and the last few were on birth control, sexual health, attraction, healthy communication, and more resources.

The prince couldn’t believe what he was seeing as he flipped through the pages. He stopped on a full-color photo of a vulva with all the parts labeled.

“This is for kids? Damn, we really living in two different worlds. America would never.”

He turned the page and saw a to-scale model of the entire clitoris, and his eyes bugged out of his head.

“That shit’s a whole wishbone…”

He continued to read through the pages in awe. M’Baku was right, he was learning a thing or two.

N’Jadaka spent the whole day in the library reading book after book on everything he could get his hands on. If it hadn’t been for his guards alerting him to the time, he would’ve missed dinner. He grabbed the last two books and went to drop them in his quarters before heading to dinner.

“Umzala, have you been in the library this whole time?”

“Yeah man, it’s a lot to take in. I might have to take that sex ed book back to the states.”

“We plan on doing just that at the Outreach Centers. Comprehensive sex education is a necessity, and since your government prefers to keep people in the dark about how their own bodies work it will be our job to educate those who come through our doors. All but the last chapter, of course.”

T’Challa winked and N’Jadaka felt like he had missed something.

“You mean the resources? Makes sense, those books wouldn't be available outs-”

“Not the books, dear, the Temple.” Ramonda chimed in.

“The what? I ain't got that far yet.”

Shuri rounded the corner and N’Jadaka expected the conversation to stop, but no.

“Remember earlier when you asked about concubines and I said we have sex workers?”

Ramonda cut her eyes at N’Jadaka as he nodded.

“Well that term doesn’t quite encompass what they do. They are sexual healers blessed by Bast herself and they reside in the Temple of Healing on the outskirts of the city near the Land of the Dead. They are known as the Daughters of Bast.”

“Now I feel bad for calling them concubines.”

“You should.” Ramonda said as she slapped him upside the head.

“Ow Auntie, damn”

T’Challa was thankful that his mother had someone else to fuss over, and he chuckled.

“I think it would be a good idea for you to pay them a visit. They are healers, after all.”

Next Chapter

#cecewritessometimes #black panther fic #njadaka #the temple #n'jadaka x oc

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crimsonfluidessence · 3 years

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Prompt 25: Silver Lining

Just another day, like any other. Esredes was on his walk to work, and in a particular mood. His mind was wandering once more as he passed the Vault, to fantasies that faded far beyond reality. Imagine if the Warrior hadn't interfered until Nidhogg reared his ugly head. Imagine if Ysayle had killed the Archbishop, before he could take on his own transformation, and the two of them had dealt with Nidhogg. Esredes hadn't trusted Ishgard's people enough, perhaps even less than Ysayle herself. He was fully mentally prepared for having to subjugate Ishgard to get it to listen to them. But perhaps, as things had turned out, not nearly as many would have needed subjugation. Perhaps he wouldn't need to help manage a fragile, in chaos city-state that had been taken over, especially when so many of his own had nothing even close to management skills, perhaps a proper parley would've been possible. And yet, Esredes pulled himself back to reality and reminded himself, that was never quite the case. Peace had been agreed to, and that was it. Himself and all of his were only here on Ishgard's terms or else, and the rest simply had to be dealt with. Still he went through his days in anticipation of being fired for shining progressives who repeated his ideologies on Ishgard's side, or of his house burning down when he got home. Ah, what would life have been like if he wasn't a failure who couldn't match up to idiotic children with goddess powers? It was a question he asked himself here and there, swirling around with all the others, and in his head, timelines began to split off, mirrors into other worlds for him to glance into. In one, he saw himself back with his family in Thanalan. He lived under a new identity and kept quiet and to himself, always afraid of the Ishgardian government finding him out. He worked a simple job that had him feeling nothing, and though he hoped to earn his parents' forgiveness through it, things didn't really change. Esredes looked away from the mirror and towards the approaching door to his office, and opened it and went inside. He greeted the receptionist as always, then greeted Heilyn and Ferrant, quipped with Heilyn about the fact he would never brush his damn hair properly and it looked like ass or something stupid like that. Work went steady today- Esredes cozied himself up with a cup of white tea and busied himself writing some in depth notes on Dragon Blood observations to use as a reference. With how many people he had encountered here and there who would do any amount of dubious things to obtain such information, the casual scrawl on the paper gave no indication of awareness of this. Just another day, just another paper amongst many, cloaked in the tranquility of absurdity. Another mirror opened in Esredes' head as he worked. In this one, Esredes had gone through with one of his fleeting ideas and fled to the Far East when Ishgard rejoined the Alliance, and oh my, was he lost. Completely out of his depth, he had to fight off multiple people trying to mug him in Kugane until someone watched his latest skirmish and approached him. "You're good with a sword," the man said as Esredes shrunk back and kept his hand wrapped around its handle. "How would you like an opportunity to put it to the test?" And so Esredes watched himself hesitantly agree after sixty and a half questions to work for a Kugane lord as a bodyguard. It was a place to stay and decent pay, to stand around and observe everyone like a hawk. He got to know some people around the home and the streets of Kugane who looked upon him with respect, yet caught himself glancing over the sea even on a good day and remembering everything he left completely behind. Esredes got up to refill his tea, and the mirror closed. Soon after, Heilyn called him over to the office across the hall, and surprised him with a sweater- knit entirely by him in that periwinkle blue reminiscent of Shiva. So that he had more than one sweater, Heilyn said. Esredes smiled and thanked the man back, giving him a soft hug of gratitude. Ferrant was also his usual cheerful self today, asking after if Esredes was feeling all right and letting him know he appreciated him. All very routine, yet he never tired of it. At lunch hour, he had an appointment of the strangest sort, so he retrieved his coat and exited the building and made his way down to the Firmament. Esredes was in a little bit of hot water recently, having chased down a double agent to his people and getting in trouble after he was arrested for the act of vigilantism- as if that was the worst thing he had done while back in the city. And yet the head Inquisitor on the chase wrote to him and invited him out to lunch with his friend who also got involved with the chase. To know them both as a person, she claimed. He was completely lost as to the motivation, but Esredes could tell she was an Inquisitor who had an actual soul, a normal person's thought process. So he accepted and went on a picnic. She served arancini, an imitation recipe from the Far East. Elouan took most of the conversation as Esredes anticipated, and he didn't have to do much work as he listened to her and her bodyguard talk about how much they want to visit the Far East, and Elouan filled them in on his own travels. What a nice and unexpected little bubble in the veil of absurdity. Another mirror manifested during the picnic, and Esredes saw himself with his knees curled up, sitting on the ground in a pathetically tiny cell, and from the expression on his face alone, clearly having lost his mind. He flinched and ignored the mirror after his initial glance, focusing his attention on Elouan's babbling exclusively. When everything wrapped up and he returned for the second half of work, Esredes made a few discreet calls in his office to the network about arrangements for later. A little outing with an actually human Inquisitor was nice, but the man knew what he was, and there was always work to do. He took a break in the middle to move over to the Blue Room for an appointment. Clover's ward Teagan had begun seeing him in the past couple months, a woman rescued from life in a fighting ring in Ul'dah who was still perpetually trying to learn and adjust to life beyond. They always had good discussions, even after he put her to looking into the water. This time, to teach her about Ishgardian culture, he had ended up going into his own story up until everything fell. "How did you do it? Turn it around, I mean? It must have been hard, pulling yourself out of that... how did you manage?" She asked him after that. Esredes had to pause a moment to think about his answer. "I had to take it a day at a time. The other members of the camp were not unsupportive. They were concerned, they wish they knew what to say or do, but I was completely unreachable. So, for one thing, I'm someone who doesn't believe in meeting your death unless you have to. It's more productive to die so someone else lives than to simply off yourself. So every day, it was get from start to finish. There was a routine. Do your tasks, break for meals, read in your tent, avoid talking to anyone any longer than you had to. Keep doing this, and eventually you would either die, or something would happen that you were waiting for. Just, something to happen. It was all I really had besides keeping in mind my family- what if I missed something happening? Eventually, I realized these people were that, people. Who cared. Who did not want to kill me for being a knight as I thought. And I decided that, while I could've fled to Thanalan and tried to live as a normal person, I wanted to stay and make a difference, even a small one. Help people in my situation to be saved and survive, not perish to Ishgard, even if there was no chance of making a bigger difference by that point. And when Ysayle entered the picture, that changed everything, and the rest is history." "I think I can understand that... I, for one, am glad the sun continued to rise for you...that you were able to find reasons to keep going, ways to help people." She gave a small smile. "I bet you've made plenty of differences with all the folks you've helped along your journey. Cause it's not just the big ones that matter, yeah?""Well, had I not been concerned about the small child who was alone in the woods, we wouldn't be here, so yes. And that's what I enjoy about doing this on the side nowadays- the pleasure of seeing it affect individual people in real time. The way I ended up discussing it with another client, is you have to figure out the way to get out of the room. You're in a room, and you can get out and see what's beyond it, but you're just not ready to yet, you find yourself unable. Once you can manage to get out of the room and see what's beyond it, everything becomes a little easier." Teagan tilted her head at this. "A... room? So... you finding the drive to help others helped you open your 'room'?" "It helped me get out of it, yes. I realized I still had something to do and people cared. People really helped a lot, even though I was pushing them away. Just knowing they wanted me to feel better and believed in me as a person.... after everything else fell through, it was all I had." She nodded and smiled a little. "I'm glad you were able to find the door, and that you had people there to help you find the knob." She paused for a brief moment. "... Thank you for sharing your story with me, Esredes. It's been really eye-opening." And so the session concluded, and soon Esredes was back out into the world. First half of the day was over, and then it was time for the second. There was not a formal meeting happening with his people tonight, but instead a get together of sorts at Vette's more recently acquired mansion she had made into a space for all of them to convene safely. Esredes went to and from everybody, making sure everyone was doing well, holding conversations and watching everyone enjoy themselves with a faint smile on his face. He stepped into the bathroom at one point to do his business, and washed his hands after. He was confused why there was a second bathroom mirror for a moment until it began to show him another reality. Esredes stepped back from the sink and put a hand against the wall to his left, the other going over his heart. Reflected back at him in the mirror was a collection of all the people he knew and loved close together, with himself standing further away on the platform and forced to stare at them. A mass public execution. Esredes rushed out of the bathroom and slammed the door shut, pressing his entire body against the door and breathing in and out, in and out. It's not real. It's not real. "Esredes?" Came a gentle voice, as Vette approached the man. She had most definitely felt the spike in distress from the aetherial bond they shared. She asked about how he was doing and put a soft hand to his cheek. "I'm all right, really." Esredes said. "I just had... an unexpected wave of fear come over me." Vette was always in tune with how he felt. She helped him calm down the rest of the way, and then lead him back to the gathering. The anxiety soon faded, and replaced by it, a warm feeling heated the blood inside him. For the rest of the evening, Esredes continued to engage with his family, waves of laughter and elation surging and falling in with the tide. He only hoped that the droplets of gratitude leaking from his fingertips and voice washed over everyone attending like a cool rain on a summer's day, for as he closed his eyes and let each droplet of noise from their voices and words hit him, everything stood right into place where it belonged.

--- @thecalmnessandthestorms / @heartofthefury Heilyn, Ferrant, Sartorius (unnamed mention) @eternal-finis Lieuvanne (unnamed mention) @shieldbcund Elouan @punches-and-cream-puffs Teagan @syerraffxiv Vette

#in action #writing #ffxivwrite2021 #heilyn #ferrant #sartorius #lieuvanne #elouan #Olivette #post hw #teagan #screenshots #Ysayle

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sssn-neptune-vasilias · 4 years

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RWBY vs Comic

Alright, I said I was gonna do this back when the comic first started getting published but I got so frustrated reading it that I couldn’t actually keep up with it enough go through with it. I think I stopped around issue 4 because that was when I just got angry and threw my comic back into the plastic. I figure now’s as good a time as any since I’m actually rereading it now. My whole issue with the RWBY DC comics is that they’re super canon divergent but somehow still canon material. It’s so frustrating that this is the case because we’re supposed to take into account things that happen in the comic as gospel- things like Adam revealing he’d always been genocidal, Bumbleby’s bottlecap, Weiss’ zoo animal arc, etc, but a lot of these different story arcs don’t make sense in our current canon. So I’m gonna talk about them because why not.

Issue #1:

The first issue actually isn’t that bad- mostly because it’s just an intro to the series- but there are still some huge inconsistencies between the comic and official canon.

These two panels are a fucking mess.

1) Ruby was passed out when she was delivered to Patch by Qrow. She’d just used her Silver Eyed Warrior powers for the first time, hurt Cinder, frozen the dragon, and passed out. We were literally forced to listen as Qrow carried Ruby out of the rubble and back home, because she was unconscious. But the comic has her just arriving back home all on her own. “I came back to my dad’s house.” No you didn’t, you literally woke up in your bed after what must’ve been days of being unconscious.

2) We know Blake didn’t get to Menagerie on a little wooden boat. We all watched the episode. It was a decent sized ship with multiple crew members, dozens of passengers, and literal armaments designed to destroy Grimm. Sun can’t hide in a robe for 3+ days on this boat. This boat wouldn’t have survived a Grimm attack in the first place. Idk why they decided to draw this boat instead of just drawing the Pride the way it was designed in the first place, but whatever I guess.

RNJR didn’t tell Taiyang they were leaving. Ruby and her team just left. There was a whole scene dedicated to showing the shock and horror on Tai’s face as he saw Ruby’s letter and ran out of the house hoping to catch up to his daughter before she left. Also not as important but still relevant, RNJR left during winter. There was snow on the ground. I don’t see no snow in this panel- that tree looks real green. That last issue is mostly a nitpick- who cares what season they left in tbh. But the fact that they just wrote this panel into the comic despite the fact canon shows Taiyang had no idea of Ruby’s departure- and the fact that Ruby’s departure is actually really important to a bunch of later scenes in this show is really fucking weird.

Issue #2:

I know we know next to nothing about Raven Branwen, but holy fucking shit do I wanna believe this is ridiculously out of character for her. You’re telling me that Raven actually did come visit Yang and Tai and Ruby, but the one time she ever made her presence known to any of them was to berate and terrify Ruby the one time she’d learned anything about Summer?! Like BRO. This is so fucked up! This is too fucked up! This is straight early 90′s level villainy right here. What was even the point behind this?! This scene tells us that she felt so negatively about Summer Rose that she was willing to break her silent cover just to disillusion Ruby for no other reason than to tell her she was weak. Which makes no fucking sense because when we finally meet her during season 5 Raven has nothing bad to say about Summer at all! What did Qrow say to her after they spoke? “Hey sis why the fuck are you flying around your ex’s home scaring his daughter who just lost her mother? You realize you’re talking shit about the woman who raised your child too right?” Like, this is so wildly terrible, that if we’re meant to take this into account, I don’t see how anyone who reads these comics could say anything positive about Raven ever again. This is strike one, two and three for her entire characterization.

Issue #4:

I’ve said it already but fuck this boat.

Not so much an issue with the comic as it is with RoosterTeeth’s sometimes sloppy storytelling, but we really need an exact age on Adam. Is this man a pedophile? We know Blake is about twelve here, meanwhile- besides looking maybe a little scrawnier- Adam looks the same as he did during the show. How old is this kid right here? Fifteen? Seventeen? Was he 20 during the events of volume 1? Was he 25? I really dislike this specific problem RT has created because at no point during canon were we led to believe that Adam was significantly older than Blake or our other characters, but here in the comic we’re getting huge pedo vibes. Idk if this was RoosterTeeth retroactively trying to throw Adam’s character even further into question but... Idk man, RT y’all need to hurry up and carbon date this kid because I’m really not liking this.

I’m not gonna harp on the whole “Adam as a revolutionary vs Adam as a genocidal maniac” issue again. Most of y’all already know where I stand on this and have either made up your minds that either, yes, Adam’s sudden change towards being genocidal after being forcibly conscripted by Cinder doesn’t make much sense, or, no, Adam’s behavior is entirely in line with what little we’d seen of him up to that point in the story. I’m not trying to change anyone’s opinions on this issue, I’ve got about a dozen other posts for that. My issue with these panels specifically is that this is the moment Blake discovers Adam is genocidal. This is the moment Blake realizes that Adam never wanted peace, never wanted coexistence, never wanted what the White Fang actually wanted in the first place. He wanted Faunus supremacy- a goal entirely removed from the White Fang’s goal of equality between Faunus and humans. This is the moment Blake realizes that his ideology is so far from what it is she herself wants. If this is correct, why does Blake never mention this AT ALL when she’s talking about Adam. When the conversation comes up during season 3, she specifically states that Adam’s change was gradual. Not that he’d been hiding who he really was from her but that he’d become a completely different person from the man she’d originally known. I recognize that a lot of people say that this could be explained away as evidence of Blake’s abuse- oftentimes abusers don’t even realize just how monstrous their abusers are, even after they’ve escaped from said abuse. But this is just such a monumentally larger issue than manipulation and abuse. Adam is outright saying that he wants genocide! He’s not trying to hide it, he’s not trying to lie, he’s not trying to manipulate her! He’s telling her explicitly that he wishes he could kill as many humans as possible. But during the Black Trailer she’s still asking Adam about the crew members as if they hadn’t had this conversation hours ago! During season 2 she’s drawing him in her notebook as if she misses him! During season 3 she’s explaining that he’s simply misguided! This is apologia of the umpteenth level that is absolutely inexcusable. If I’m honestly supposed to be made to believe that Blake knew Adam was genocidal from before the events of the Black trailer and season 1 but still had feelings for him... I’m sorry but I’ve lost any and all respect for her entire character. You can’t have feelings for someone who’s genocidal- who you know is genocidal- and expect sympathy. No amount of abuse would forgive someone for having feelings for Hitler.

I recognize the comics aren’t supposed to be a shot for shot recreation of the show, but what the fuck is this panel? The frame of Adam dismembering Yang was such a good, amazing, impactful frame. The black and red framing, the yellow of Yang’s hair and weapons, the red of Adam’s sword. Why would you not even try to recreate that?

Leaving nitpicks for the end, really wish they hadn’t used “sunflower” here. That’s Yang/Ren. But again, the comic is made by people who aren’t in the fndm and don’t interact with the RWBY community at large in the first place, so of course they wouldn’t know.

Issue #5:

Why does Blake seem so ooc here. Like, the fact that she’s trying to make Weiss feel guilty for “cheating” in a “win by any means necessary” free for all match is really??? Weird??? When we know Blake isn’t above using underhanded tricks herself considering what she did to Reese during the tournament and her Semblance in general??? But whatever, that’s mostly a nitpick as well.

Issue #7:

My issue with this story is that it ends with Yang like, wistfully thinking of spending more time with Blake. But this is before she even put the prosthetic on. This is before she even got to talk with Weiss after meeting up with Raven. This is so early on in her healing process that I find it extremely difficult to believe that Yang is fondly remembering any time she spent with Blake. When Ruby talks to her during 3.12, she was angry that Blake had left her! Abandoned her! And then in the conversation she has with Weiss that happens after this event in the comic she’s still frustrated with Blake for leaving. So like... did she suddenly forgive Blake just a few weeks into her recovery and then relapse back into feeling like she’d abandoned her? Wtf is this?

Issue #9:

I know she’s obviously supposed to be drunk here, and we barely got to know her during the short scenes she had, but like... she never struck me as this kind of person. To literally forget how old her daughter is? Like...???? The same woman who was so perceptive she was able to recognize that Whitley was acting out because he’d felt lonely and abandoned by his sisters? Doesn’t know how old one of her children is? This is silly.

This isn’t the same woman we met during season 7. This isn’t the same quick witted woman who immediately directed Weiss to the cameras she’d hidden around the house when it was time to spring the trap on Jacques. This isn’t the same woman who was so honest when she admitted to her own faults just a few short months after this scene supposedly took place. You could argue that the events of this comic are what led Willow to become the person we meet later on, but like... That’s an absolutely ridiculous amount of offscreen growth you’re expecting me to just assume has happened. These aren’t the same people. This is ridiculous.

Issue #12:

This seems so ooc for Sun. Why is he literally begging her to run away and not face a problem when his entire relationship with Blake up to and past this point is him teaching Blake to love herself enough to face her problems head-on in the first place? This is so weird and gross imo because it just feels like they’re warping Sun’s character to make it look like Yang is the only good influence in her life when that’s simply not the case. Every conversation Sun has with Blake from season 1 to season 6 is him telling her that she deserves happiness, love, and to forgive herself. There are multiple songs about this aspect of their relationship! Sun has helped Blake grow just as much as Yang has. Why is Sun taking this approach to manipulate Blake into staying silent about something that’s bothering her? On top of that, Sun’s never been the brightest banana of the bunch anyway, why the FUCK is he smart enough here to recognize that if Blake tells the truth and makes those people feel bad, that they’d draw more Grimm? He’s never been this intuitive before. It really feels like they made him smarter than he normally is just to make him scummier than he’s ever been so that we could feel that Blake’s relationship with Sun is less than her relationship with Yang. Awful writing and characterization from the RWBY DC team here

Issue #13:

This is so wrong and despicable and manipulative and terrible. Again, this isn’t the same woman we met in the show.

Willow never made excuses for herself or her actions like this. Not once during the entire time she was on screen did she do anything like this. She knew she wasn’t a great mother and she took full responsibility for her actions- and inaction- I don’t know WHY she’s trying to excuse herself here. This is more Cruella De Ville than it is Willow Schnee.

I’m not gonna explain how lumping this “prized menagerie” story with “Faunus slave labor” story together is godawful but just recognize that it’s Black History Month and this plot point they decided to write in is not MLK approved.

Anyway, that’s the whole RWBY DC run. All in all it wasn’t the worst adaptation of an established series, but goddamn. I’d rank this up there with Eragon or Percy Jackson or the end of the Soul Eater anime or something. This is such a slap in the face by people who obviously only ever skimmed through the show for the explicit purpose of writing this series that I’ve read fancomics and fanfiction that handle canon better than this. It’s really frustrating too because this comic run is like, beloved by certain people in the fndm who are only in this for the ships, and people who refuse to see anything wrong with this series ever. The healthy servings of Bumbleby and crumbs of Monochrome and White Rose are apparently enough to make people go “fuck all the inconsistencies, this comic is great.” Cannot express how much these people make me wanna slam my head into a wall.

I did this just to highlight all the issues I have with the run, but I’m sure other people have other issues with this comic than I do. Have fun in the comments I guess.

#RWBY #RWDE

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seeneverything · 4 years

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today i decided to replay nick’s dlc! not only to catch back up and remain canon, but to look into his journals and the notes / environment around a little deeper to see if i can discover anything more about him, the game’s story, and the timeline of the game.

i have to say it somewhat surprised me that nick has handwriting that’s legible. i figured it would be similar to sally’s -- very here and there with hardly any grammar, punctuation, and horrendous spelling. yet nick’s journals though brief, are quite linguistic. a pleasant surprise.

but without further ado, my metas are under the cut! a very long read so i hope you enjoy it. i tried my best to divide it into some sort of organization as i could. <3

GENERAL LORE :

ever wondered what an original joy bottle looks like? well, nick has one.

it’s tucked in the far back in his kitchen, behind a light on his shelf. initially i thought it was some random drug and it was more proof of the dlc being pre-game. but if you look closer, the words underneath wellington wells’ emblem say “EVERY DAY, JOIN THE FUN” which is a clear indication of what it actually was. and beside the emblem, just to the right, if you really squint, it says “FLAVOR:” but it’s hidden and you can’t sneak around to the other side. however, considering how old it is, especially from the wear and tear on the sticker, one could probably imagine it being haworth’s own vanilla.

which intrigues me. i wouldn’t doubt that nick was one of the very first people who got the initial batches. virgil dainty found him when he was still a young poet in his teenage years. meaning he probably snatched him when he was around 16. if we play it out like he was 16 when the train came and took all 13 and under, nick would be around 32 during the base game. but i honestly doubt that since the make believes released more singles than albums, and they released the album around the time of strawberry’s release, as inferred by the cover of the album. so for now and to me, nick is somewhere between mid-late 30s.

speaking of joy though, does anyone remember the whole debate about the type of joy nick was taking in the dlc? it wasn’t any type at all. in fact, it was something sally made herself.

“Vibing my guitar always helps me remember things. Like where I put my Sally Specials.”

Those reds and yellows are just another one of the many street drugs that Sally sells to her clients. Probably something like rainbow and the like, but much, much weaker and not as long-lasting. After all, Nick has to take five at one time to black out. Probably at least three of them to feel any sort of a buzz at all. ( as a side note, it personally makes me wonder if sally had anything to do with the production phlash. i’d love to see if there were any notes of it anywhere. )

I had a headcanon a while back that the woman using the power cell was using a sex toy. After all, she has a suitcase that’s cleverly hidden under her bed. If Nick believes it’s this, it makes sense that he’s aware of the “fun part of town,” unlike Arthur and Ollie once in the Parade. Yes, he goes there for sex and relief, but also because he makes deals with the owners to sell adult-themed merch. Wouldn’t be surprised if there were dildos, lube, even lingerie like Nick’s threads -- very, very plausible if there are full sex dolls.

With the Sally Specials and the Joy Bottle being so old, it could still be proof that it’s pre-game as well. After all, if Nick is still around Sally ONLY to obtain to drugs from her, then it could be easily inferred. After all, Sally remembers her time with Nick in the past together, not in the present. And that is pre-1964.

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT NICKY :

it’s absolutely no secret that nick hates himself. from the scratches on the mirror that hide his face and spell “USELESS,” to the inferred suicidal attempts from downing entire bottles of joy with alcohol. the puke is always so rancid in the sink. but there’s also this, too.

it’s funny how nick tends to keep scratching at his head and his eyes. the persona is who he’s trying to cover up i imagine, considering that there are multiple voicelines in the game that says he never meant to cause any harm. and he never meant to commit all the unpleasantries that come with being a rockstar. one of them being infidelity and adultery, and another being a general asshole to the public. overtime i believed that nick gained celebrity syndrome. which is essentially just being a karen on steroids. nick believes he doesn’t need to pay for anything, and he also has the innate ability to give orders to people. just because, in his mind, he’s the best in the world. the avalon’s manager wants to get back at him once and for all for his bossy attitude. but he’s not the only one who feels that, either.

petunia does as well.

nick’s love-life is an extremely complicated one. aside from the the various forms of substance abuse and exposure to said substances, nick has always had his rockstardom become the center of his universe. see, this is all headcanon but, i personally believe that nick was coddled as a child by his overbearing mother. mama told him the world would love him. and mama told him that the world would never hurt him, and that it would be perfect and easy to get through. but then he saw just how hurtful people could be, and just how much hate the world had to offer. and to him, at that. it was extremely difficult to find love in anything and anyone. especially himself. so finding petunia was very, very reassuring. after all, she did promise him, as nick said during the boss fight, to be the lighthouse on all his rocky shores. indicating that she would be the one to lead him back home, and make him stable. and i’m sure for a while, it did.

canonically, until nick lightbearer overtook norbert pickles. he found so many more people who loved him that way. and thus, he let the life of his own stardom take over everything else. including his love life. even more so when the birds threatened hatred and slander to his name if they couldn’t shag him. and if they didn’t manipulate him, nick was so afraid of losing another fan that he wouldn’t care. it felt good anyway, why not fuck people? he keeps a fan, doesn’t worry about being hated, and keeps the life of love toward him going.

not even thinking about petunia in the process. and instead of showing him that he didn’t need all the fans, instead of showing him that he needed to remain faithful and loyal, she lashed out and belittled him from every other corner. though he did deserve it for encouraging her into polygamy and bigamy and definitely by his demanding attitude(later in the note it mentions how he was a henpicker), she did not help his mental state in any capacity. petunia, the moment she didn’t help him anymore and show him the love he thought she promised him, became nothing more than someone who belittled him. truthfully nick never meant to hurt her, but it’s seen through his celebrity ideology that he truly believes in quantity over quality. a sad shame. nick’s mental state is so fucked he doesn’t even really know what true love is by this point. meaning he could potentially be easily manipulated without realization.

despite all this though, i found this to be especially intriguing:

a little hard to read, but this is during the scene before he fights the fans at the contest. his journal reads:

“They think I’m an IMPERSONATOR? Have I lost the Lightbearer aura? How much lower can I sink?”

this heavily implies that nick sets his own idolism over his chances of being a murderer. meaning that somewhere, deep in the crevasse of his subconscious, nick is so desperate for some true love and still can’t grasp hatred that he is clinging onto his persona for as much love as he can. even if it’s fake. thrice as intriguing when one learns that, during his breakdowns, he always explains how he wants his fans to know who he really is:

“i wonder if i remember how to sound polite,” “things are sure to look up once i’m not soaked in hemoglobin.”

an intelligent, young man who was so wrongly brought up into the world by an attached mother who never taught him what punishment really was. nick has been using his celebrity name as a clutch for so long that he’s having difficulty remembering who he really was, or if he can ever be norbert pickles again. he cannot handle being a celebrity, and he never could because of what his mother taught him and grew him to be. yet somewhere deep down, he knows his true self is there. but what nick doesn’t know how to do is accept the hatred of the world enough, especially to him, in order to ever take norbert pickles out.

it’s a constant mish-mash. he can hardly handle the hatred from being a celebrity, but what he does handle from stardom is what keeps him going with it. a war between nick lightbearer and norbert pickles. but neither side has proper ammo because the battlefield is strife with a lack of vegetation.

nick lightbearer in himself is an irony. he shines so bright for everyone around him but yet truly, the light is most needed for himself.

#; 🎸 | META DRABBLES .#tw: suicide mention #suicide mention tw #( SECOND ATTEMPT HERE WE GO )#( SODFBJFDSFBNGF )#( I AM SO PROUD OF ALL THIS!! )#( it took me a few hours to compile this all together so <3 )#( i'm v confident in it )#( no wonder why it's sympathy for the lightbearer gbogfdnsrk )

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vee-angel · 5 years

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First Day of School (Part of the Sodom Virus Chronicles)

Synopsis and content warning: This series is set in a world where The Sodom Virus has infected everyone in the world. While it’s asymptomatic in males, females eventually get sick and die unless they’re regularly able to ingest sperm (for reasons not fully understood, the genetic virus seems to bond with male DNA, but only in it’s incomplete form). It can be swallowed, but is most efficiently absorbed through the membranes of the anus and (to a lesser extent) the vagina. If you want the full Introduction to the Sodom Virus universe, you can click the #sodomvirus tag at the bottom to find the post I wrote a while ago where I gave the details.

This first story details a girl named Ricki who has spent her life up until now in a religious sanctuary where she was protected from the depravity of the outside world. Now she’s going to have to go to school in the real world to catch up on her education.

Fair warning, stories set in this world will be sort of a grab-bag of extreme and taboo fetishes. Female inferiority is the central theme, but filth, violence, and abuse of all kinds will be scattered throughout the stories pretty casually.

Also, this will be my first ever illustrated story! Which is a trend I hope to continue.

* * * * *

First Subject: Female Humiliation and Degradation

“What do you mean, I’m “Property of the high-school??”

Ricki’s life had been in a rapid free-fall for the last three days. She had spent her life in a religious sanctuary where she’d been insulated from the misogynistic objectification the rest of the country participated in. She grew up hearing stories about how females were treated in the outside world. Rape, torture, humiliation, degradation. They were treated like objects with no regard for their humanity and expected to smile and thank their abusers.

As a child, Ricki had assumed that such tales were exaggerations meant to reinforce the safety of the sanctuary, but now that she’d seen a bit of the world, she wasn’t so sure.

“There’s another cunt who lives here at the school who I’ve assigned as your mentor to help you catch up on your education. You’ll meet her in your first class.”

The man across the desk from her seemed annoyed at her presence so Ricki decided against pushing further for fear of accidentally inciting some kind of punishment. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” She replied before gathering her things and using the school-map she was given to navigate to her first classroom. As she walked, she wondered about what questions she should ask the “cunt” who was assigned to help her assimilate to this strange new world. Ricki wasn’t exactly sure what the word “cunt” meant, but she’d heard it a lot since the government raided her home a few days before, it seemed like it was a word these people used to refer to women and girls, but that was about all she could glean.

Ricki worried about her mother, the men from the government said that she had been declared a feminist and was being sent to a repository along with all the other adult women from the sanctuary. The men had been arrested and were charged with crimes as well, but she got the distinct sense that the penalty for the women was much harsher. They had told her that due to her age and circumstances, they were going to give her a chance to escape the same fate as her mother, but that she had better learn to abandon her feminist ideology “really fucking quick.”

She never thought of herself as a feminist. She grew up believing that her purpose was to be a good daughter, wife, and mother. To smile, and be pretty, and kind, and always pleasing to others. Ricki wasn’t sure how that could make her a feminist.

Well, she didn’t think it was right to be cruel to women, but that was because she didn’t think it was right to be cruel in general. Could that be it? Just because she thought women should be treated like people?

She wanted to be good, so she hoped that the other girl assigned to help her would be a good mentor. Maybe she would end up being like a big sister to her! She could only hope.

Finally, she reached the room indicated as her first class on the map. The lettering on the door read “Female Humiliation and Degradation.” Was that the name of the class?? Nerves made her pause briefly before entering, but she figured that good girls should be eager to do as they’re told, so she went in.

The first thing she noticed is that the room seemed very…. open. The far wall was almost entirely glass, overlooking a rather pleasant looking courtyard that Ricki guessed was used for leisure time between classes. There was an alternating pattern between tall, solid glass panels, and large windows that seemed able to slide up about four feet from ground level. Otherwise, the classroom seemed relatively ordinary, A few rows of neatly organized desks, and girls mulling about and chatting with one another as they wait for class to begin. The fashion sense of many of the girls was quite striking in its variety and daring. She noticed a girl she thought was wearing skin-colored leggings before realizing that she’d actually come to school completely bottomless! Ricki blushed as she wondered how common it was for girls to go around so…. on display, and turned her attention back to the lovely view through the glass wall. She briefly wondered why the windows opened from the floor, but her thoughts were interrupted by a smiling girl waving from the back of the classroom.

“Hey, you’re the new girl, right?” she called from across the room.

She turned to look at the source of the call. Whoa. The girl smiling and waving to her from the back of the room was breathtaking. So much that Ricki’s breath was literally taken. She just stared for a moment before remembering to breathe. She walked toward her and found her even more beautiful from up close.

She was tall, with long waves of cascading black hair framing exotic middle-eastern features. Sapphire eyes emphasized by dark eyeliner upon lightly tanned skin the color of beach sand. She wore a form-fitting off-the-shoulder crop top that barely covered what appeared to be very large and very perky breasts. Her bottom half was covered with what appeared to be tight blue-jeans that had a strange sort of lacing across the front.

“Hi!” Ricki greeted her new friend and extended her hand for a handshake.

The raven-haired beauty stared down at her hand, seemingly confused for a moment before understanding dawned on her. “Oh!” she said as she grabbed Ricki’s wrist and pressed her hand against her left breast, “You don’t need to wait for permission, you stupid cunt, you can just grab my tits whenever you want! That goes for all girls, by the way. Unless a man tells you not to.”

“Oh! Umm, thank you.” Ricki replied. She wasn’t really into girls sexually, but she didn’t want to make things harder for herself by being rude, so she made an effort to give the firm, perky orb a nice squeeze before removing her hand. “They’re very nice!”

“They’re fake, I used to have pathetic, ugly little C-cups like you, so I had to get pumped full of silicone so I could have a cute, little pair of bolt-on bimbotits.”

The way she spoke was jarring, both because of the insults she casually hurled at Ricki, and because of the dehumanizing way she spoke of herself.

“I’m Ricki, by the way.” she introduced herself, resisting the urge to extend her hand again.

“What a stupid name for a cunt.” she said giggling slightly, “I’m Sharaje” she said before leaning forward and pressing her pillowy scarlet lips against Ricki’s.

She tried not to seem unnerved by the emotional whiplash of Sharaje insulting her name and then kissing her on the mouth. In a weird way, the mean things she was saying didn’t seem hostile. She’d been smiling the whole time, it was more like she just casually disrespects all women out of habit.

This put Ricki in a predicament, would it be seen as “feminist” if she failed to disrespect Sharaje in return, or was she obligated to submit to her as a superior? When in doubt, she defaulted to being nice. “That’s a very pretty name.”

“Thanks, it means butthole. That’s my best feature.” Sharaje turned around to reveal that the jeans she was wearing were actually a very fashionable garment Ricki would later learn were called “Spreaders.” The middle section of the back was cut out, with the remaining fabric held up with what seemed to be some kind of adhesive attaching them to her butt cheeks. The laces she’d noticed on the front now made sense, as they allowed Sharaje to tighten the front of the garment in order to spread her ass apart, ensuring that her anus was perpetually on display. And while Ricki hadn’t made it a habit of admiring other girl’s assholes, she had to admit, Sharaje’s was remarkably pretty. Flawlessly clean-looking, lightly-tanned skin led to a tiny muscular pucker.

“It looks like a virgin’s huh? Can you believe I get buttfucked like ten times a day?”

She couldn’t believe it. Ten times a day?? She’d heard that women in the outside world were treated like sex objects, but surely Sharaje was exaggerating.

“So… umm, they said you were assigned to be my mentor or something? They didn’t really explain much.”

Sharaje turned to face her again, “Yeah, they told me you were in some kind of fucked-up chastity cult and-” She stopped mid-sentence to deliver a sharp slap across Ricki’s face. “Hey! Stare at my tits when I’m talking to you!”

Ricki was stunned, but obeyed, turning her eyes to stare intently at the perky nipples straining against the tight, plum colored fabric as she continued.

“So anyway, they thought I’d be good at de-programming all the stuff your ugly, feminist cunt-mom and her cult friends taught you because I’m captain of the bullying squad here.”

“Bullying squad? What’s-”

Ricki was interrupted by a twenty-something statuesque blonde woman who entered and stood at the front of the class. “Okay, sluts,” she announced with a serious expression, “Class is starting, so get your sexy teenage asses in your seats.” The girls scattered around the room casually made their way to desks. Sharaje indicated at a seat directly in front of her where Ricki was to sit.

The teacher’s face turned to a look of shameful resignation as she introduced herself, “I’m Miss Fartface, please feel welcome to fart in my face because I love the smell and taste of dirty teen girl assholes.” Her voice was mechanical, as though forced to read from a script. The students laughed at her.

Ricki felt Sharaje’s breath on her ear as she whispered, “She’s actually straight, and a major germaphobe. Her owner makes her act like she’s obsessed with face-fucking our shitters to humiliate her.”

The teacher went on, now speaking more naturally, “I understand we have a new student joining us today.” she said looking at Ricki; or more accurately, at her tits, “Would the new cunt please come to the front of the class and introduce herself?”

Ricki’s heart was beating in her throat, but she made her way to the front of the room on shaky legs. All the other girls appeared to be staring at her body judgmentally; she’d never felt more on display.

“M- my name is R-Ricki,” she began unsteadily. She could already see a lot of the other girls in class openly showing disgust at her name. “My stupid feminist mom cunt gave me that name… umm, I grew up in a… a fucked-up chastity cult… and that was bad? But now I’m going to try to learn how to not be a dumb feminist, and to be a good girl, like all of you?”

She looked out at the rows of desks hoping to see a glimmer or approval, she was trying to hard to assimilate to their world, but it seemed so unfamiliar to her.

A sudden voice from the back of the room broke the silence, “Hey, show us your pussy!” It was Sharaje. She wasn’t sure what she should do. Was it just an obscene jeer that she could ignore? Several seconds of silence passed. Ricki looked around to see expectant faces. She tried to go on as though nothing had happened. “I look forward to making a lot of new friend-”

“Ricki, you’ve been given a command.” The teacher stated flatly. She couldn’t believe this was real. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have been so bad. It was a room full of girls, after all. But Ricki was getting the distinct impression that the other girls were waiting to mock and criticize her most private areas. What was worse was that it appeared that one of the other classes had let out recently, and the courtyard just past the floor-to-ceiling windows was filling up with students of both genders who could easily see into the classroom.

“Are you fucking retarded? If I have to ask again, I’m going to strip you naked myself and have every girl in class fist you. At the same time.” Sharaje had a certain authority to her words that made her believe the threat wasn’t hollow.

Ricki lifted the hem of her dress high enough that she could pin it to her chest with her chin, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pulled them to the floor to reveal a rather unkempt patch of fur between her legs.

She heard a few of the girls pointedly making noises of disgust at the sight of her ungroomed bush, but before anyone could articulate an insult, an Asian girl cosplaying some slutty anime character spoke up.

“Hey, what’s that weird diaper thing she was wearing under her dress?” For a brief moment, Ricki’s humiliation was replaced with confusion. Diaper thing?

“They’re called panties,” the teacher began, “They’re not very common anymore, but before the Virus, almost all women wore them under their clothes. Nowadays, they’re mostly worn when men dress up girls in historically accurate costumes.”

“Wait,” a different girl chimed in, “Wouldn’t cunts need to take them off every time they got fucked?”

“Oh!” Yet another girl began, “Girls used to get, like, pussy-diseases back then, huh? I bet those pantie-thingies used to be, like, a code so that everyone would know that a girl was just for face-fucking, right?”

“That’s a good guess, Ditzy, but no.” Miss Fartface explained. “Actually, before the Virus, the average girl went weeks or months without being fucked. By some reports, certain women actually went years.” A few of the students looked shocked or saddened.

Ricki wanted to cover her naked crotch during this exchange, but dared not cover herself without permission.

“But didn’t they get sick and die if they didn’t get fucked everyday???” Ditsy asked.

“She’s talking about before the Virus, stupid!” A nerdy looking girl in a too-small school-girl outfit said condescendingly to Ditsy. “I read that girl’s used to live as long as men, but hardly any of them got to have sex more than a few times a week.”

“Oh my god! Did men used to be, like, super mean in the old days?!?” Ditzy exclaimed.

“That’s enough, cunts.” The teacher said, quieting the chatter. “Actually, men have always been kind enough to fuck us, and at many points in history, they tried to create societies to put women in our proper place where we could be happy as servants and fucktoys; However, these men endured abuse and harassment at the hands of feminists who believed that cunts deserved to be equal to men.”

Sharaje raised her hand.

“Yes, Sharaje?”

“How did they think cunts could be equal? I mean, everything I do is to please men. The way I talk, the way I eat, the way I dress. I abuse other cunts because it gets me attention from men. So if feminists somehow didn’t care about pleasing men, than why do anything? Did they just want to lay in the dirt until they die? What’s the purpose of a cunt even existing if she doesn’t please anyone? It’s not like girls can get pleasure without men.”

The blonde teacher just shrugged, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know. It’s true that the health and happiness of cunts is conditional upon their ability to serve and please the superior sex; and that’s been explained to feminists many times throughout history, but somehow they were too stupid to even understand that simple fact. It’s why the Sodom Virus was such a godsend. Who knows how long it would have taken society to progress to where we are today without it. And while we’re on the topic of pleasing men, why don’t we all go around the room and mention one way that our new student here could improve her fuckhole?”

With that, the classes attention was back on Ricki, or more accurately, their attention was on her exposed genitals. The teacher went down each row.

“It’s way too hairy. Some men like that, but she needs to at least trim it properly.”

“Her pussy-lips are too big, she needs to get those trimmed, too.”

“Also, do you see how dark they are?! Look really close, her whole pussy is a darker color than the rest of her. It’s so fucking disgusting!”

“It should be puffier. Puffy pussies like mine are super cute. Hers isn’t cute at all.

“She needs to spread her legs more; She doesn’t even know how to show her fuckhole correctly!”

“Well her thighs are so short and fat, even if she did spread, you can barely even see her pussy through all the flab.”

“I don’t think we talked about her cuntlips enough. They’re wrinkly, too. It’s super gross, it looks like she stuffed roast beef in her twat and some of it’s coming out.”

“It looks like it smells bad, too.”

“Oh my god, you’re, like, so totally right! I don’t want to get close enough, but it looks like it’d smell like dead fish!”

“It wouldn’t even be sexy to make a girl eat her out. A man would only make me lick her pussy if he was punishing me!”

The onslaught of humiliating insults wasn’t even half over, and Ricki was already openly bawling. The girls seemed indifferent to her tears as they continued hurling deeply personal jabs about her most intimate area while she was forced to display herself. She could barely see through the tears, but she could still tell that there was a small cluster of boys and girls looking through the window and giggling to one another as they observed the degrading ritual.

Thankfully, it was nearly over. Sharaje was the last one to comment on her parts.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t even call that thing between her legs a pussy. There’s no way it could ever please anyone. If I were her, I’d just get the whole thing cut off and sew up the hole. Better to be a two-hole whore than to make men look at something that fucking ugly.”

Somehow, Sharaje’s comment hurt the worst. Being taught that her primary reason for existing in this world was to get fucked, and then being told that the hole created solely for that purpose was worthless devastated her. It made her feel like a failure as a woman.

Ricki made her way back to the empty seat in front of Sharaje and wept quietly as the teacher spent the next few minutes explaining the intricacies of female humiliation and degradation. Focusing mainly on their necessity to inoculate against the threat of feminism. She used the verbal hazing Ricki had just endured as an example multiple times throughout the lecture.

Eventually the teacher segued into explaining their assignment for the upcoming week. “You are each going to be given two cards, one of them is going to have a fetish that will degrade, dehumanize, and/or objectify you. The other card will have your enjoyment level of the fetish; categorized as reluctant, eager, or desperate. Each of you is to sincerely live and embody your assigned fetish with your assigned enjoyment level for the next week. And for those of you who choose “reluctant,” you still need to make every available attempt to fulfill your new fetish, even though it humiliates or disgusts you!” she finished with a smile. Miss Fartface seemed to have plenty of experience being forced to live out a fetish she hated, so perhaps the smile was due to a certain sense of sadism at getting to have her students do the same.

“Sharaje, you went last when we were shaming Ricki for her ugly cunt-hole, why don’t you go first this time and show the other girls how to properly announce their new fetishes to the class.”

“Sure! But since you’re not going to be using your tongue to lecture, you really should be using it to clean all of our assholes, don’t you think? I mean, that is your favorite thing in the world, isn’t it??

The teacher’s smile faded and she stared daggers at the middle-eastern beauty. “Yes, of course.” She said in a reluctant monotone, “I’d love to shove my tongue in each and every one of your dirty teen assholes.”

“And?” Sharaje pushed with a sadistic grin.

The older woman sighed, “And thank you again for making me follow you to the bathroom last week so that you could use my tongue as toilet paper, Sharaje. I can never thank you enough for allowing me to use my ugly old tongue to lick the shit from your perfect, young asshole. I beg you to please let me do it again as soon as possible, and as often as possible.” Miss Fartface was almost sneering in disgust at the memory, but at the same time, there was no way she could refuse to humiliate herself while teaching a class on female humiliation. Sharaje delighted at the torment as she skipped to the front of the class where the blonde woman grimaced as she forced her tongue inside the pristine teen anus.

Sharaje flipped over the cards assigned to her and her face lit up. “Yes! I got the best one!” She looked out at the other girls in class with a toothy smile and even waved to some of the students out past the window to come closer to hear.

“So I know I’ve never mentioned this before, but it’s actually probably my biggest kink. I’ve always had this fantasy of getting fucked by dogs while a lot of people watch. And I mean, like, a LOT of people. The way I picture it, everybody has their camera phones out and they’re getting good shots of dog-cock in my pussy and ass. Maybe videos of me sucking a dog’s dick straight out of my butthole. Definitely get my face in the picture, and post it online with my name and ID number. I want everyone to know forever that I’m a dog-fucker. It should be the first picture that comes up anytime someone searches for me online. I seriously want it to follow me around for the rest of my life. I’m super glad I got an “eager” card for this, because there’s no way I could be reluctant, it’s just… Oh my god, it’s just the hottest fucking thing to think about, I almost came as soon as I turned the card over.”

She finished by roughly yanking the teacher’s face from between her butt-cheeks and returning to her seat. The next girl took her place at the front of the class and explained her fetish while being rimmed by the teacher. Ricki wasn’t exactly sure if all the girls were acting like they loved the fetishes they were supposed to love and hated the ones they were supposed to hate, or if the teacher was just nice enough to make things easy on them. Either way, she learned a variety of things about the strange, horrible, and disgusting acts that some people seem to fetishize.

Finally it was her turn. She timidly made her way up to the front of the class. She gasped slightly when the teacher lifted the hem of her dress, pulled down her panties to began tongue-fucking her ass. Even though she’d seen it happen to about two dozen girls before her, she still wasn’t totally prepared for it.

She turned over her cards one at a time. “Reluctant” was written on the first. Good, she thought, at least she wouldn’t need to pretend to like whatever horrible thing she had to say she was into. She turned the other card over and her heart sank. Tears once again began to well up in her eyes.

Without looking up, she began, “Hi… so my fetish, which I love, is having my pussy destroyed, and made even uglier than it already is. I want… I…” She broke down and heaved heavy tears for several seconds before she could continue. The teacher being forced to tongue-rape her up the ass didn’t relent. “I want my vagina so totally destroyed that it can never bring me pleasure. So that I can be denied orgasms for the rest of my life, and so that my pussy gets so ugly that no one would ever think of fucking it ever again.”

She tried to control her weeping while she rushed back to her desk. The teacher said that this concluded first period and that they could socialize while waiting for their next class. Sharaje wasted no time and was already being sodomized by a boy who’d been waiting outside. Another girl was on her knees letting a man piss in her mouth through the strangely low windows. Ricki seemed to have figured out the purpose for their unusual placement now.

Everything going on around her was so obscene, it was like the men in this world regarded them as little more than masturbation toys. Was she really never going to get to go back to her old life? Was she really going to have to ask people to destroy her vagina so that she could never have another orgasm? Everything was already so horrible and it was only just the end of first period!

#sodomvirus sodomviruschronicles #sodomvirus

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kitaychan · 4 years

Text

Equilibrium.

Human AU

Summary: Leon reminiscences about his life, his family, and how he managed to be at peace with it.

When I was a child my father used to tell me about the day he met my mother.

He said he was 23 years old, during one of his numerous travels, he is part of a well-known company that runs along the seven seas, bringing goods to every corner of the world.

He had met her due to a trip to Hong Kong, she was the daughter of a business contact in there, the man (my grandfather) had taken him and others to celebrate a dinner at his home in Beijing, father said he was flabbergasted by how beautiful she was.

He recalled making a fool of himself, trying to impress her. My mom would later say that he was so clumsy and nervous that night that she found him quite cute.

After that, my father tried to meet her, he was nagging at Mr. Wang with made up excuses just to talk with his daughter. Father said that mom was cold and harsh the first time they spoke. On the other hand my Mother expressed that he was corny and sweet, but she was afraid of infuriating her father. After all, she depended on her family, she was only 18.

The months passed and father became a constant visitor in the Wang's household. He would schedule more trips to China than necessary, only to keep in touch with mother. She later told me that he was convincing her of escaping with him.

My father, whose business was settled in England, planned to take mother with him without Mr. Wang's approval. The reason? My grandfather wasn't very keen of him, he didn't dislike father but he refused to give his blessing, saying she was too young for marriage.

The route was from Beijing to Hong Kong and then they would take a ship to England.

They managed to arrive in Hong Kong but the plan was ruined when Mr. Wang put a reward for his lost daughter. No ship would take them out of Hong Kong without turning them in.

They spent two years more in Hong Kong, in which I was conceived, father was neither getting his payments nor help from his brother's back in England.

When I was born, they lived in a small house in Hong Kong, it was possible thanks to my mother's decision of contacting her cousins, who seeing her pregnant, took pity and helped her. When talking about this, father was always bitter, he said the cousins were prideful and would always rub their money on his face, he was especially spiteful of the Korean one, saying he was always encouraging mother to abandon him.

Father never talked to me about the following three years of my birth, he only said that those years made him realize the kind of woman my mother was, and that those years were horrendous enough for him to take the hardest choice of his life.

He saved enough money to pay the ship to take him to England, prepared the luggage and one night decided to leave, he took me with him while mother was asleep.

In the ship he got the help of a woman called Marianne, father said he promised to pay her when they arrived in England, she would sing lullabies for me at night as well as read some stories I don't remember.

I don't remember much about that, I only recall vividly my life in England, surrounded by my uncles and cousins, I remember my father's wedding with Marianne and after that, the arrival of the twins.

I do remember dreaming about my mother, she was becoming a blurry image for me, it didn't help that my father refused to talk about her anymore. He would say that she had abandoned me, that if she really loved me she would have come with us, that she had started a new life and a new family, he said that as I was no longer important to mother, I didn't have to bother to think about her.

I remember feeling jealous at the twins, for they received more attention than I did. I remember my father teaching them how to read, while he just paid a tutor for me. I remember him playing with them in the front yard, while I had to play with the nanny when I was their age, as he was always working away.

I also remember the times he got drunk, they were a few but they still hold a great impact in me.

The first time he arrived at midnight, barely able to walk, he barged into my room and cried, he told me he was sad, that he missed my mother and she wouldn't get back ever again. That was before he married Marianne.

The second time, I had to retrieve him in the pub, while I was carrying him through the stairs, he told me he was proud of the young man I was becoming, he said he was glad I wasn't like him and before I could question him further he passed out.

The third time was inside the house, he had received mail and was cursing and tossing things in his office, Alfred asked me to check on him, arguing that father was less likely to get mad at me.

When I opened the door, father glared at me and told me that my mother was a cruel woman, that she had married a foreign soldier, a communist he said, he told me that she didn't care about me, that she had forgotten my existence and that I should be glad he had taken me with him. I only nodded, embracing him softly, perhaps that way he would calm down, he fell silent and burst into tears, he told me he was a liar and shoved a handful of opened letters into my hands.

After that incident, father became more cautious not only with the alcohol but around me. He started to give me presents: books, clothes, souvenirs from travels. He would often try to engage in conversation with me.

I didn't want to talk with him. Not after reading those letters, they were from my mother, the oldest were long and full of anguish, asking him why he had left, how could he took me away from her, she was pleading: for him to return, to take me back to her, she said she didn't care if he didn't love her anymore, if he was with another woman, she was telling him to come back, she offered to let him bring the other woman along, she only wanted to take care of her son, her baby.

The following letters were asking for me, some were threatening him, others were sad, she was desperate to know how I was doing, she would even update her address, asking father to let me write to her. She had returned to his father, begged for his help and he had received her again in the family, she was studying to be a nurse.

There were letters saying that she was in England, looking for me, that she had come all the way from China, that she had found the house but every time, the servants would not allow her to see me. She begged father to let her see me, to give her an answer, to tell her that I was still alive.

The last one had arrived that day, she was telling that she had married, that she was moving to Russia, as his husband was from there, she was saying that she'll keep on writing from there, and she even wrote down the new address she would be having.

Those letters were the proof that father had lied for 16 years, that my mother was out there looking for me, that she was suffering, that even though she had moved on from losing father, she had never stopped loving me.

After reading those letters I grew distant of my father, I told him that I would apply to a university in Moscow, he knew why I was doing it, and he tried to dissuade me, saying that it wasn't safe in there, that it would be hard for him to send me money, that I didn't knew the language. He was right.

I decided to do my studies in England, I started sending letters to my mother, she was happy to have news from me, she would send me a letter per month, asking for my subjects, for my life in England. In return, I would ask her about Russia, about her husband, about her life in China.

It was hard at the beginning, to write to her, someone I didn't remember the looks of, someone whose voice I had forgotten. We exchanged some photographs, she was excited, told me how handsome I was. I discovered that we had an astonishing resemblance, of course she had her feminine features but the resemblance was undeniable, I only shared my father's eyebrows, while I had the hair, the eyes like hers. I won't deny that I felt warm, all my life, I had felt different and seeing that there was someone who shared my features, whom was excited to read my happenings was heartwarming.

I tried not to be so harsh with my father, he had raised me after all, and he had tried to be a good father, so I still visited him on my summer breaks in England, I got a job at the university, translating some articles. I had decided to learn Chinese and Russian in order to communicate with my mother when I'd finally visit her.

During the time, it proved to be profitable, the intellectuals were interested in the new ways these countries had revised the Marxist theory, I wasn't enthusiastic of these ideologies but the college students were curious and would pay really well for a critical article.

After a year of saving my payments and some of the money father sent me, I was allowed to go on a short trip to China. It was easier to explain a family visit, not only for me but for my mother, we agreed to meet at my grandparents’ house.

Once there, my thoughts plagued me with fear and uneasiness, what if I wasn't welcomed, I was my father's son after all, wouldn't I be a nuisance? I was more of an outlaw in the Kirkland family, wouldn't I be the same in the Wang’s household? Would I be welcomed there? What about my mother’s husband? Wouldn’t he despise me? Mother would surely have another baby by now, perhaps she didn't told me that.

My fears were cleared up when the door was opened, I was embraced tightly by a man called Im Yong Soo, he said he was my cousin or something like that, he led me to the living room and the people there stared at me. I recognized mother, she looked exactly like in the pictures, I also figured out who her husband was, being the only blond in the room.

Mother stood up and hugged me tightly, she was so excited, she started crying, I wasn't sure of how to act, so, I just hugged her back.

When she calmed down, I was presented to the rest of them.

Mr. Wang was calm but he also embraced me, saying he was glad he got to meet his grandson.

A Japanese man shook my hand, he was the most reserved but his face betrayed his demeanor, when his eyes watered at the sight of me.

A young woman called Mei Xiao hugged me tightly and said she was happy to have someone around her age in the house.

I'm Yong Soo greeted me warmly, recalling the last time he saw me, I had to embarrassedly tell him, that I did not remember him. He laughed it off and said I had grown a lot.

When it was my mother's husband turn, I felt suddenly intimidated, the man was tall, taller than all of us, I wasn't sure of how to approach him. He smiled softly at me and shook my hand. "So you are the little one who makes her smile with letters" he said in a heavily accented English.

I nodded. "You must be Ivan." I tried to reply in Russian.

He smiled and surprisingly hugged me.

After that, I realized that my fears were irrational, that they were kind and loving people, that "the communist" my father had cursed about was actually a doctor, that the greedy and prideful cousins were funny and warm, that the resentful old man, was just a preoccupied father, and I also learned that they had a totally opposite picture of my father, as a treacherous, sneaky scoundrel who had dragged mother out (although mother said to me that she went with him willingly) and abandoned her, finding another woman and running away with her.

Mother would later told me, quite sadly, that the three years after my birth, the situation between them deteriorated so much, that there were days in which they would only argue. Father was frustrated about money but would also disappear for days, only to return without a penny. Mother tried to get some money by selling her belongings but it would only infuriate him more, and when he returned from his escapades, she felt so mad that she would try to make him feel miserable on purpose.

All this new information was astonishing for me, mother tries not to touch that subject so much, to this day she still avoids the topic, she says that they both are to blame for that, and that she doesn't want to strain my relationship with father.

After all this years, I still keep contact with both, I've settled in Hong Kong, sometimes the twins visit me, sometimes Mei Xiao comes here too. What is certain is that my life depends on the equilibrium of the families I am part of.

I've learned to forgive my father, slowly, we had tried to build a better relationship, he has told me little fragments of his version of things, the real one at least.

I've come to know more about my mother, bit by bit, she tells me about her life, her studies, how she met Ivan, how she adjusted to live in Russia.

And like that, I've managed to process everything, to understand, and most importantly to live with and to love the family I have.

#hetalia fanfiction #aph hong kong #hws england #hws nyo china #aph hetalia #Equilibrium

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whentheynameyoujoy · 5 years

Text

The Problem with Rey, or Where I Fail to Ignore the Bad Trilogy Yet Again

So, in a grand tradition of ignoring my New Year’s resolutions the second after making them, I hereby give up on trying to be less of a sourpuss this year and am going to once more plunge into the pit of negativity that’s the sequel trilogy. Namely, I’m going to put my two cents in that scene in TROS.

Or rather I’m going to try and sus out why it raised no eyebrows with me as I was watching it in the theatre, beyond the obligatory “Oh, callbacks! Cameos! That’s nice. Fuck off.”

After all, it absolutely should have. It’s an ostensible backslide in what passes for character development in these movies, a reversal in the texture of the hero’s journey, of the ST’s sketchy hint of the characters changing from broken immature children into self-actualized adults. And let’s not forget about the horrendous messaging that sees Rey forever entombed in the role of a pure virgin maiden, a replacement golden child that’s vindicated in her tendency to define herself through relations to others instead of becoming her own person.

Christ, the thing is literally golden.

And then it clicked why none of this raised any alarm bells with me.

I just fundamentally don’t take canon Rey seriously as a fictional character.

Mind you, this goes well beyond my inability to play with TROS on its own terms and stop riffing it (though it is a problem) or to view it from the Watsonian perspective instead of constantly remembering that the only reason the movie even exists is not to tell a story with any narrative integrity and artistic honesty, but to make a bazillion dollars and thus it can do without my emotional investment (though that’s also true).

My chief issue is that Rey as a character barely exists.

Now, what I mean by that is that Rey doesn’t conform to the definition of a fictional character as a purposeful construct, a set of distinctive traits making up a defined psychology that informs one’s behaviour and allows one to dictate the plot as its active agent, thus driving the story forward.

What’s confusing about this is that at the start of TFA, Rey had by far the strongest characterization out of anyone, original characters and new (although this stops being true pretty much the moment you notice it).

When we first meet Rey, she’s busy living what can only be described as the Star Wars equivalent of a Dickensian existence—a parentless teenager forced to fight for survival, figuratively and literally, and earn her own living from a very young age. What her life lacks in support and stability, it makes up for in hard labour, hunger, and a crushing sense of cultivated loneliness. There are no meaningful relationships—friendly, familial, or romantic ones—and no prospects, only a desire to escape, or to be more precise to be taken away under a set of specific circumstances. And of course there’s the nagging fear that this might actually be it for her.

This will never stop being ingenious.

What’s most interesting about Rey at this point, though, is her contradictions. As we later learn, she has lashed her sense of identity to the idea of being a temporarily abandoned child, and thus she’s forced herself to live a life of perpetual childhood, waiting for her parents to come back and pluck her from Jakku instead of moving on and carving out her own existence. In a very real sense, although her life has many outward marks of adulthood, she refuses to grow up, going as far as styling herself after her former childhood self and naively asserting her belief that of course putting her life on hold and spending it stuck and waiting is eventually going to be rewarded.

At the same time, though, there are already some cracks in the childish façade that allow us to see the real person beneath—someone with a strong sense of right vs. wrong, to the point where she’s willing to put herself in danger and accept hardships on behalf of others. But her willingness to engage in conflict without a second thought can also be read as underlying anger issues stemming from her sense of abandonment, and a sign that a certain jaded bitterness may have already set in, as evidenced by her unwillingness to deal with BB-8, a non-familial entity, as a friend after saving him.

All of this creates a character who’s barely holding it together, someone bursting out of the childlike costume they’ve constructed for themselves, their mask about to disintegrate and reveal a deeply broken person underneath; a little girl who’s too busy looking into the past instead of living in the present, who doesn’t see herself as an agent in her own story but as someone who’s given meaning by others.

In other words, Rey’s challenge at the beginning of ST is to confront the truths and issues she doesn’t want to face, destroy her shell, and emerge into adulthood as a fully-realized woman.

I hope you enjoyed this bit of psychology as much as I did back in 2015 because it’s the last one she’s going to get.

The moment the movie dies.

From the second Rey meets Finn, she leaves TFA as an agent who shapes the story by her own psychology and development, and spends the rest of the runtime as a passive object that’s dragged along by the plot while having no effect on it, instead being jostled around by the actions of others. Up until the final fight, Rey:

runs away from an enemy she never engaged, who means nothing to her and she nothing to them;

is ambushed by a guy and his pet fuzzball, neither of whom she’s ever met;

is forced into defensive action by a bunch of gangsters who, yet again, have nothing to do with her or her journey;

accidentally releases a convenient plot device she didn’t intend to release. This doesn’t amount to anything;

is introduced to a map she didn’t search for, leading to a person she doesn’t know, has no connection to, and no reason to be interested in;

ends up on a planet she didn’t know about and had no plan to visit;

has her inner conflict verbalized to her by discount Yoda;

has her lights punched out and is bridal carried by the galaxy’s most try-hard Bad Boy Who Ever Baddied for unintentionally viewing the central McGuffin of a storyline that has nothing to do with her or her character conflict;

gets interrogated by an admittedly gorgeous mop of hair which triggers her Force powers, somehow. She never reflects on this;

gets saved by the screenwriter by using a Force power she had no reason to suspect existed.

Only then does she wake up from her slumber to:

fight Kylo Ren in order to protect the unconscious Finn, a type of action she’s performed twice already in regards to BB-8 and thus is nothing new for her;

and finally, having failed to reflect on being Force sensitive or express an ounce of political opinion, join the Resistance for some reason and decide to take on the responsibility of finding Luke Skywalker, a person who still means nothing to her on any level.

Simply put, Rey spends the majority of the movie treading water and then being catapulted into a position the screenwriters want her in, without first sending her on a journey which would bring her to the Resistance and Luke as a natural result of her own choices and actions, not of a series of plot contrivances.

This is further made worse by the fact that Rey’s psychology from the start of TFA when she was still in that wonderful character study test tube? Yeah, it stops existing. Or rather it stops dictating her actions and behaviour. Gone is her unwillingness to permanently entangle herself in the affairs of others and only doing so after a reluctant flare-up of empathy. Now she’s a good sport who’s just happy to be included, guys! There’s also this slight problem where her background leaves no marks on her. She has no interpersonal problems, no trust issues, no bitterness, no jadedness, no sense of abandonment, she isn’t clingy or stand-offish like most people with her experiences would. There’s only the face of childlike joy as she simply goes along for the ride because the movie needs to happen.

And these checks J.J. signed in TFA? They get cashed in TLJ where Rian Johnson is asked to wave his arms and work with a character who’s in a situation she has no internal reason to be in. As a result, instead of having a solid, meaty foundation to examine why Rey has immediately latched onto the Resistance and Jedi after spending so long defining herself through her parents and having no personal or ideological reason to be interested in either, we’re just asked to nod along and pretend that Rey being so deeply invested in any of this makes sense and isn’t worrying in the slightest. And then comes the end where any notion of moral complexity is flushed down the toilet as Rey pulls a Kylo and instead of incorporating what she’s learned into a new worldview and altering her journey, she digs in her heels and returns to the Resistance as, sigh, the last Jedi while, yet again, never examining her attachment to either. The found family trope is awesome, guys, let’s not question it.

So I must admit to not really understanding where this outrage about Rey being locked in permanent childhood by the end of TROS is coming from. She’s never stopped being a child. The sequel trilogy has always preferred to view her as a pure ray of sunshine (pun very vomit-inducingly intended) and an embodiment of good that’s free of internal conflict; a figurative representation of a child who’s spent the movies in a state of arrested development (a few unmotivated moments in TLJ being a notable exception), cycling through different parental figures until she’s finally gotten it right and can now restart her childhood, new and improved.

You may call it yucky but I don’t see how it’s surprising.

#tfa #tlj #tros #anti tros #tros negativity #rey #star wars #sequel trilogy #meta #tros spoilers

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harrypotterfirsttime · 4 years

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JK Rowling’s essay about why she’s a TERF: Abbreviated

My last post was LONG, much longer than I’d intended, and difficult to read on tumblr I’m sure (if anybody would like it sent as a pdf please let me know). So I’m making a shorter post and only including the paragraphs that I responded to with links to a source, for people who are more interested in the places where JK Rowling provably lied in her essay.

“For people who don’t know: last December I tweeted my support for Maya Forstater, a tax specialist who’d lost her job for what were deemed ‘transphobic’ tweets. She took her case to an employment tribunal, asking the judge to rule on whether a philosophical belief that sex is determined by biology is protected in law. Judge Tayler ruled that it wasn’t.”

First of all, Maya didn’t lose her job. Her contract was simply not renewed by her workplace, something that she was not entitled to under any law. JK Rowling also continues to falsely assert that Maya’s belief was that ‘sex is determined biology’, when she actually asserted that under no circumstances is a trans woman a woman nor a trans man a man, and the judge ruled that it did not fit all five necessary limbs to be a philosophical belief (it actually only failed the last one). The judge ruled that the ‘under no circumstances’ part of her assertion was absolutist, and that is what ultimately failed the fifth limb. [source]

“All the time I’ve been researching and learning, accusations and threats from trans activists have been bubbling in my Twitter timeline. This was initially triggered by a ‘like’. When I started taking an interest in gender identity and transgender matters, I began screenshotting comments that interested me, as a way of reminding myself what I might want to research later. On one occasion, I absent-mindedly ‘liked’ instead of screenshotting. That single ‘like’ was deemed evidence of wrongthink, and a persistent low level of harassment began.”

First off, this goes against the statement a spokesperson made for her when this happened, stating that she had a ‘clumsy middle-aged moment’ and liked the tweet by ‘holding her phone incorrectly’. The tweet she liked also had no content that she could research, it was a baseless claim that men in dresses get more solidarity than cis women (which I won’t even dive into, we have so much more to cover). [source] I also won’t dive into the use of ‘wrongthink’ as if we are all characters in George Orwell’s 1984, simply because nobody is controlling her speech, she is simply facing consequences for the shit she chooses to fling at the wall.

“I mention all this only to explain that I knew perfectly well what was going to happen when I supported Maya. I must have been on my fourth or fifth cancellation by then. I expected the threats of violence, to be told I was literally killing trans people with my hate, to be called cunt and bitch and, of course, for my books to be burned, although one particularly abusive man told me he’d composted them.”

Can we salute the man who decided to tell JK Rowling that he composted her books, because that’s absolutely hilarious. But really, I just want to point out that no matter how many threats of violence JK Rowling thinks she is getting, transgender people are subjected to much more abuse both online and in real life, and it affects their wellbeing much more directly than simply being called a cunt or a bitch on twitter. [source] While JK Rowling thankfully isn’t killing trans people, she’s disappointing so many of her LGBT+ fans who looked up to her and found comfort during their childhood in her books that encouraged people to be brave and be themselves.

“What I didn’t expect in the aftermath of my cancellation was the avalanche of emails and letters that came showering down upon me, the overwhelming majority of which were positive, grateful and supportive. They came from a cross-section of kind, empathetic and intelligent people, some of them working in fields dealing with gender dysphoria and trans people, who’re all deeply concerned about the way a socio-political concept is influencing politics, medical practice and safeguarding. They’re worried about the dangers to young people, gay people and about the erosion of women’s and girl’s rights. Above all, they’re worried about a climate of fear that serves nobody – least of all trans youth – well.”

I’ll tackle this paragraph from top to bottom. Firstly, the reason you believe the overwhemling majority of people supported you is because many of those who don’t (myself included, until now) simply rolled their eyes and ignored you, because you are not worth our time. We have lives to live that are unconcerned with your bigotry. Second, I hope those people who were working in fields dealing with gender dysphoria and trans people have since left their jobs, because they have no business serving a community who they secretly harbour unsupportive ideologies about. And finally, the idea of supporting and helping trans people (specifically trans youth) is DANGEROUS to young people, gay people, and women’s and girls’ rights is simply false. No women’s rights have been repealed in favour of trans people’s rights (mainly because trans women continue to shockingly be women). In fact, trans youth with parents who are very supportive and affirming show a statistically significantly lower rate of both depressive symptoms and suicide attempts. [source] [specific graph]

“If you didn’t already know – and why should you? – ‘TERF’ is an acronym coined by trans activists, which stands for Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminist. In practice, a huge and diverse cross-section of women are currently being called TERFs and the vast majority have never been radical feminists. Examples of so-called TERFs range from the mother of a gay child who was afraid their child wanted to transition to escape homophobic bullying, to a hitherto totally unfeminist older lady who’s vowed never to visit Marks & Spencer again because they’re allowing any man who says they identify as a woman into the women’s changing rooms. Ironically, radical feminists aren’t even trans-exclusionary – they include trans men in their feminism, because they were born women.”

The first two sentences in this paragraph are true. Viv Smythe, a trans inclusive cis radfem, is credited with coining the term TERF to describe her fellow radical feminists who are ‘unwilling to recognize trans women as sisters’. It has also become widely used to describe feminists who exclude trans women from their feminism, even if they are not radfems. [source] I don’t care about who has been called a TERF, all I need to know is that they are transphobes, which they should feel equally disgusted at the fact their behaviour warrants the label. Trans men do not want to be included in radical feminism because we were ‘born women’, and JK Rowling including this as if it is an excuse is appalling. Trans men are not women, therefore we do not appreciate radfems claiming to support us based on their obsession with what genitals we were born with.

“The fourth is where things start to get truly personal. I’m concerned about the huge explosion in young women wishing to transition and also about the increasing numbers who seem to be detransitioning (returning to their original sex), because they regret taking steps that have, in some cases, altered their bodies irrevocably, and taken away their fertility. Some say they decided to transition after realising they were same-sex attracted, and that transitioning was partly driven by homophobia, either in society or in their families.”

There is a lot to unpack in this paragraph. And I don’t have the room in this already much too long post to dive into detransitioning, so I’ll say this: it sucks that some people transition only to realize they shouldn’t have. But these people are a staggering minority of people who do transition, and there is no external person they can blame for believing them when they relay their symptoms (as doctors are supposed to do) and acting accordingly, with the patient’s consent. The issues I have here are the language JK Rowling uses to say young women are transitioning, purposefully misgendering trans masculine people. And implying that people are transitioning because they are gay, because their families or society push them to not be gay and instead transition, is absolutely laughable. Studies have already shown that society as a whole is much less accepting of transgender people than they are of gay people and lesbians. [source]

“Most people probably aren’t aware – I certainly wasn’t, until I started researching this issue properly – that ten years ago, the majority of people wanting to transition to the opposite sex were male. That ratio has now reversed. The UK has experienced a 4400% increase in girls being referred for transitioning treatment. Autistic girls are hugely overrepresented in their numbers.”

There are a number of factors that could have led to such an increase in referrals, and no studies have a definitive answer, though most speculate that the increase in acceptance and visibility of trans people is likely a major contributor. [source] Additionally, I personally believe that more trans women seeked transition years ago because it was impossible to be accepted as a trans woman without fully medically transitioning, whereas trans men could get by without transitioning and simply presenting as their gender. Now that transition is more acceptable and available, trans men do not need to hold themselves back from transitioning, but unfortunately, with more visibility has come more vitriol that is specifically aimed at trans women, and this could discourage them from transitioning or coming out at all. I won’t dignify the statement about autism in afab trans people being prevalent other than saying that cis people can be autistic, trans people can be autistic, and implying that neuro-atypical people cannot make informed decisions about their bodies and healthcare is abhorrent.

“The same phenomenon has been seen in the US. In 2018, American physician and researcher Lisa Littman set out to explore it. In an interview, she said:

‘Parents online were describing a very unusual pattern of transgender-identification where multiple friends and even entire friend groups became transgender-identified at the same time. I would have been remiss had I not considered social contagion and peer influences as potential factors.’

Littman mentioned Tumblr, Reddit, Instagram and YouTube as contributing factors to Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria, where she believes that in the realm of transgender identification ‘youth have created particularly insular echo chambers.’”

Lisa Littman’s study can be read here. There are a multitude of issues with this study, and many big names in psychology and gender studies have spoken up about the issues in her conclusions and in the methods to begin with, which are unscientific and deeply flawed. [source] The biggest flaw, in my opinion, is that the study interviews parents of trans youth as opposed to the trans youth themselves, and takes the parents’ limited knowledge of their child’s inner thoughts and experience as fact without consulting the trans person at all. Additionally, recruitment for the study was mainly done through anti-trans organizations. All of this information is available in the original study and in the rebuttal. Because of this, I cannot take anybody who cites Lisa Littman or her study seriously, because it is not credible whatsoever.

“When I read about the theory of gender identity, I remember how mentally sexless I felt in youth. I remember Colette’s description of herself as a ‘mental hermaphrodite’ and Simone de Beauvoir’s words: ‘It is perfectly natural for the future woman to feel indignant at the limitations posed upon her by her sex. The real question is not why she should reject them: the problem is rather to understand why she accepts them.’”

More people than JK Rowling is probably aware of feel ‘mentally sexless’ in youth, because they have no crippling discomfort regarding their gender identity, and either do not feel pressure to prescribe to gender stereotypical behaviours or actively rebel against it. According to brain studies, everyone is technically a ‘mental hermaphrodite’ because there remains to be no such thing as a male brain or female brain. [source]

“I want to be very clear here: I know transition will be a solution for some gender dysphoric people, although I’m also aware through extensive research that studies have consistently shown that between 60-90% of gender dysphoric teens will grow out of their dysphoria. Again and again I’ve been told to ‘just meet some trans people.’ I have: in addition to a few younger people, who were all adorable, I happen to know a self-described transsexual woman who’s older than I am and wonderful. Although she’s open about her past as a gay man, I’ve always found it hard to think of her as anything other than a woman, and I believe (and certainly hope) she’s completely happy to have transitioned. Being older, though, she went through a long and rigorous process of evaluation, psychotherapy and staged transformation. The current explosion of trans activism is urging a removal of almost all the robust systems through which candidates for sex reassignment were once required to pass. A man who intends to have no surgery and take no hormones may now secure himself a Gender Recognition Certificate and be a woman in the sight of the law. Many people aren’t aware of this.”

First of all, the number of kids who “desist” from their gender dysphoria are not reliable. Mainly because the methods in these studies are not robust (ie one study defined gender dysphoria as exhibiting any behaviour that was not typical of their gender, such as boys playing with barbies and girls playing with monster trucks; another study classified subjects that did not return to the clinic and did not follow up as desisters without confirming). [source] Additionally, studying children who do exhibit true gender dysphoria, the main factor determining whether it will persist or desist seems to be the intensity, and not at all related to peer relations. [source] Trans people wishing to transition medically may no longer need to subject themselves to extensive and unnecessary therapy to convince medical professionals that they are who they say they are, but they still need to wait on very long lists for our turn to access hormone replacement therapy and surgeries, and can spend all of that time being sure that we are indeed trans and want these medical treatments. JK Rowling is also purposefully misreporting facts in regard to Gender Recognition Certificates. In order to get one, one must be over 18, have lived as their true gender for at least 2 full years, and provide two medical reports (one from a gender specialist and another from a general practitioner) citing that they have gender dysphoria. If they have not had any medical transitional treatments, the medical reports must state whether they are waiting for them or why they are not pursuing any, in direct contradiction of JK Rowling’s assertion that any man can get this certificate. [source]

“I believe the majority of trans-identified people not only pose zero threat to others, but are vulnerable for all the reasons I’ve outlined. Trans people need and deserve protection. Like women, they’re most likely to be killed by sexual partners. Trans women who work in the sex industry, particularly trans women of colour, are at particular risk. Like every other domestic abuse and sexual assault survivor I know, I feel nothing but empathy and solidarity with trans women who’ve been abused by men.

So I want trans women to be safe. At the same time, I do not want to make natal girls and women less safe. When you throw open the doors of bathrooms and changing rooms to any man who believes or feels he’s a woman – and, as I’ve said, gender confirmation certificates may now be granted without any need for surgery or hormones – then you open the door to any and all men who wish to come inside. That is the simple truth.”

‘Natal girls and women’ is another transphobic dog whistle. There is a non-offensive way to say this, which I am sure if JK Rowling has done all the reading she has claimed to do, she must have stumbled upon the word ‘cisgender’ at some point. It effectively communicates the same information without alienating trans people and implying they are less than cis women. Trans women are not ‘men who believe or feel like women’, and this long standing myth that cis men will use the guise of being a trans woman to gain access to public bathrooms and changerooms has been thoroughly debunked, because trans women have been using women’s bathrooms and changerooms for years with no issues. [source] And scroll up for the claim that Gender Confirmation Certificates are given out to any man who decides to be a woman for a day above, this is just more misinformation, no ‘simple truth’.

“On Saturday morning, I read that the Scottish government is proceeding with its controversial gender recognition plans, which will in effect mean that all a man needs to ‘become a woman’ is to say he’s one. To use a very contemporary word, I was ‘triggered’. Ground down by the relentless attacks from trans activists on social media, when I was only there to give children feedback about pictures they’d drawn for my book under lockdown, I spent much of Saturday in a very dark place inside my head, as memories of a serious sexual assault I suffered in my twenties recurred on a loop. That assault happened at a time and in a space where I was vulnerable, and a man capitalised on an opportunity. I couldn’t shut out those memories and I was finding it hard to contain my anger and disappointment about the way I believe my government is playing fast and loose with womens and girls’ safety.”

First of all, JK Rowling is blatantly lying. The Gender Recognition Act Reform has been completely shelved by the Scottish government in light if the more pressing need to fight the coronavirus on April 1st, and I cannot find any updates on this being considered by the government. [source] The only trans related news out of Scotland I can find is that on June 5th, the Scottish government included trans women in the definition of women in guidance for school boards, which will have none of the effects that JK Rowling is fear mongering about. [source] Again, I am upset to know that JK Rowling is a survivor, but she is using this revelation as a weapon to make people fear that it will happen to others as a result of trans people gaining access to the same public spaces as their cis counterparts. Women’s and girls’ safety is NOT being put at risk by trans people using a bathroom or changeroom.

#jk rowling #transphobe #terf #important #not hp #long post #sources

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nightreaderenigma · 5 years

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Shades of Transition

Jaime slowly ambled along the banks of the Trident, litter crunching beneath his feet, arm interwoven with the tall, proud woman beside him. The surrounding woodlands a palette of autumnal colours, as the world held its breath, once again preparing itself for the transition to winter. In the vast fields beyond the cover of trees, harvesters hastily gathered their crops, giving thanks for a bountiful Summer as the green eked out of the foliage and hillsides.

The lion had seen this process many times, his golden mane now dominated by silver and more than just a handful of crinkles erupted at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. But the contentment he had acquired in the end was worth it – every line formed by stress or frowns, each scar obtained in battle and brawl. Especially the one upon his forehead – his Maiden’s Gift.

The last time Fall greeted Westeros, it was Jaime who was changing. A crippled lion who lost his paw and stumbled to find his new identity. He was no longer too proud to admit, that without Brienne he would still be floundering. Stripped of all preconceived beliefs of his own worth and purpose. In her ideals he had found meaning again, in their oaths a reason to fight and ultimately in her presence the fulfilment of true love which he had always desperately craved....

Brienne’s own journey came later than his, echoing his tale of personal struggle and denial. Jaime had adapted faster, borne on the wings of wisdom acquired through his considerably more senior years. An awakening to self-acceptance, unlocking the key to surrendering, acknowledging who you are and who you’ve been and rising above it. Allowing yourself to be loved.

Of course it wasn’t easy – Jaime’s self-loathing had been extensive and yielding was not a trait inherent to warriors. But by the end he adored her with such completeness that the choice had been simple – continue to berate yourself for the crimes of your past and deprive yourself of this chance at happiness or move past it and embrace the time you have been gifted.

But the core of their unease was fundamentally different and this also contributed to the timeframe required to overcome their demons. Jaime’s hesitance stemmed from a belief he was not deserving. Brienne’s reluctance was based on a deeply veined conclusion that she was unlovable. Behind everything must be a joke, scorn, mockery. Nothing was genuine or true, it couldn’t be – she was grotesque. Jaime had made it his personal mission to overcome that.

Dozens of shades painted the leaves clinging to life upon the branches or carpeting the path on which they walked. Each tone a moment in time captured, transient and unique. He could see their metamorphosis, just as he had watched her own.

Green – his Maid of Summer. Contriving a poorly orchestrated lie as her way of getting him to follow her. Never for a moment considering if she had just asked for his help - he would have come.

Orange – the firepit of the Red Priest, bouncing off the stone walls of the cave as they sat amongst the carnage. Ideology shattered and vows broken with the swinging of a Valyrian blade, severing the neck of the woman she once served. The agony of failing to save her young squire. “Where do we go from here?” She had asked desolately. “We keep our promises and find the Stark girls.” “We?” “We’re in this together now Wench. Just try and stop me.”

Amber – Even the sun shone differently in Essos. The unexplored world foreign and intriguing to the newly made nomads as they traversed the major cities following the faintest trail of Arya Stark. The radiant light had caught in Brienne’s flaxen hair, illuminating it in such a way you would be forgiven for considering it a halo. Without conscious thought he had reached out and toyed with a strand, confiding realisations to her even as she stiffened, steeling herself against the gesture. “You know – when the beams ignite your eyes and hair like that – you are truly enchanting.” She had flung his hand away roughly. “Don’t patronise me with false flattery. It rings hollow and insults us both.”

Brown – the hard cold dirt ground became their bed, when resources ran short on their way to Braavos. Opportunities to sell their swordskills scarce as Winter settled across the Eastern land. They had only one fur to share, yet still she maintained a foot of space between their forms. “Brienne….” He held out his arms. “….come closer. I don’t bite. It’s freezing.” She begrudgingly relented, making the justification well known. “Only because it is practical Ser.” Her body was like a block of ice as it fit against his own, trembling and tensing when he wrapped himself around her. Over the course of weeks, in her state of sleep they would come to cuddle, Jaime waking with her nose buried into his neck, or her leg draped across his own. He treasured those moments.

Sepia – the eyes of Arya Stark. She went by many names now. The young assassin surprisingly keen to return to Westeros and unleash her path of bloody vengeance. “We will sail back by way of the Eyrie.” Brienne declared. “Just to be certain.”

Golden – Reuniting two sisters and the glow of vows fulfilled. A genuine smile a rarity to cross Brienne’s serious features as she watched them embrace. Like a rainbow, it disappeared nearly as quickly as it manifested. “Our oaths are now complete. Obligation no longer ties us. We may go our separate ways.” Her voice was flat and matter-of-fact. “May I enquire as to your plans?” “I am heading North. We have both heard the rumours – the war to end all wars, a threat to all life as we know it. That seems a noble cause.” She turned her head to regard him. “And you?” He bowed slightly. “Where you go, I go My Lady.” Although she quickly looked away, Jaime chanced to imagine he saw another upwards twitch at the corners of her mouth.

Red – The road North was long, icy and bitter. Comforts a concept long forgotten. Slumbering embraces, became waking nuzzles as they rubbed against each other, seeking friction and relief. It was both ecstasy and torture for a man madly in love and a woman who refused to accept his feelings. His desire made him bold enough to seek her lips and his veins ran hot when she reciprocated. “We trust each other don’t we Ser Jaime?” Her eyes were a deeper blue in the fractured moonlight. “Of course.” “I expect nothing of the future. It is a grave reality that soon our lives are forfeit.” “Always the optimist, aren’t you?” He had caressed the line the rope noose burnt into her neck. “I should like to – share this experience. If it please you.” She brought her long legs to either side of him, muscular thighs pressing against his hips. “For warmth and what pleasure they say it can provide.” “You have doubts it is enjoyable?” He chuckled as he nosed her cheek. “I cannot know – I have no experience nor comparison.” A vermilion flower became the sole bloom in the wintry landscape as Jaime valiantly endeavoured to show her just how rapturous their love could be.

Russet – Blood and mud intermingled, splattering their exhausted forms as they collapsed against Winterfell’s walls. Gore encrusting their twin blades as they snatched breaths and tried to process that they lived. Or rather – that they had kept each other alive. Jaime crawled over to her, through the severed limbs and undead bodies, thankfully now immobile, never to rise again. His hand moving erratically as he checked her for injury, for if he lost his mate now, he would simply fall upon his sword and needn’t see another sunrise. Brienne's large hand cupped his face as the other stilled his fussing. Her teeth the only thing clean and gleaming as she gifted him with another of those rare smiles. “I’m alright.” He should have reassured her the same way, let her know he was fatigued and aside for a few surface gashes, mainly uninjured. Instead he could only conjure one phrase. “I love you.” Even in the aftermath of all this death and destruction, she glanced away from him, refusing to believe his words. With her still commanding control of his left hand, he raised his stump instead (his golden prosthetic lost amidst the chaos), turning her by the chin to stare him in the eye. “Don’t look away Brienne. I mean it. It’s real. I love you.”

Rust – “Now what do we do?” She scraped tarnish from her armour as they sat in the small hut, somewhere South of the Neck but North of King’s Landing. They had just learned that whilst they defended the realms of men, the War for the Iron Throne had been decided. Aided by dragons and a young woman trained in the faceless arts. Their swords could be sheathed – peace reigned. “We get married.” Jaime suggested. “It makes sense. We have been rutting like rabbits and I sincerely wish to call you mine.” A shadow crossed her face accompanied by a scowl he would not expect from a woman receiving a proposal. “That is painfully unnecessary Jaime. I am yours of my own choice and volition. I will not be owned.” With that she stomped from the shack and slammed the door with such force the windowpanes shook.

Mahogany - For over a year she had thwarted his endeavours to make her his wife. Arguing, raging, even challenging him to a duel where he had been dismally defeated. The late spring breeze flowed through the open balcony door at Evenfall. In a last ditch attempt at persuasion, he had called a meeting with her. Goblets of wine sat beside them as they faced off. One stump and three hands resting open palmed against the deep wood of the table. A set of fingertips touching to maintain their connection, the other rubbing a thumb over his scarred wrist. “What if we have children?” “Do you see me as a Mother? It would be selfish to inflict me upon a child. I am disagreeable, lack tolerance and it would be a crime to pass on this face.” “Brienne – that is simply untrue.” “All I am is my physique, my skills as a warrior. You would ask me to destroy my body and become a brood mare?” “You are more than just a fighter Brienne. Like I was more than just my hand.” “You are more – you are a history of greatness, a lineage of pride, a savior of the smallfolk. A face that makes even a Septa swoon and deserve more than to be shackled with a beast like me because of some obligatory sense acquired when we were both held prisoner.” “Do not say that! How many times must I tell you?! How many experiences must we share?! I know you are stubborn but Seven Hells Brienne, if you cannot accept that I love you more than life itself I don’t know what more I can do to make you see…. I’m desperate for it wench. To call you my wife. Not for ownership, possession or control. But because I am proud of you, I don’t want to lose you and perhaps just maybe – I need you to accept me. To feel secure. To belong.” Realisation dawned in her sapphires and Jaime knew this time she had listened.

Sienna – “Open your eyes.” Her voice was deep as she removed her hands from his face. The summer night dark but for the firelight of sconces bouncing through the open windows. It gave a homey atmosphere to the earthen bricks and mortar of the small Sept, nestled in the island countryside.

“What is this?” Jaime breathed and she muffled the question with a kiss.

“I was hoping that you’d marry me….” Lengthy fingers were run through his blonde and greying hair. “You cannot simply remain the Lady of Tarth’s paramour forever.” As she lead him to the open doorway, for the first time in his life, the lion felt complete.

Fawn – “Jaime….” His wife’s lips formed words and sighs, struggling to hold a coherent conversation as he delighted in providing distraction. Their cotton sheets cool upon first entry to their bed but soon scorched with their passions. He felt he was made to be a husband, the last six turns of the moon had proven it. “…. I have a confession and a request.” “Name it.” He picked up her speckled hand in his own, kissing her palm. “You know I’d give you anything and what can you possibly have to confess? You can’t get away with much, we spend almost every minute together. For better or for worse.” He laughed, knowing they still so often grated on each other’s nerves. “I stopped drinking my Moon Tea.” At this he paused, air held in his lungs. Deliriously hopeful of what phrase was to follow. “Will you place a child in me?” With this simple wish Jaime knew that her soul had found contentment.

“Look at this!” Brienne exclaimed, breaking from his arm and walking as swiftly as her heavily pregnant stomach would allow. Jaime to this day still marvelled at the unbelievable length of her legs, affording her such massive strides. “This seems rather familiar, don’t you think?” “Our travelling party is waiting…” He chuckled and shook his head. Their trek through the Riverlands would end coincidentally at Harrenhal – Arya having been gifted the incredible stronghold for the role she played in the Southron War. The youngest Stark had the castle refurbished and was holding a celebratory feast, completely undeterred by the rumours of curses which had plagued the castle’s former occupants. She and those walls had a history - or so she proclaimed - and Brienne shared a similar opinion. Jaime had his doubts about the length of the journey for his wife in her delicate condition but knew better than to argue when she insisted. They had joined forces with Gendry Baratheon from Storm’s End to make the voyage - first sailing to Maidenpool and then trading their seafaring vessels for River Galleys. Upon reaching the beginning of the Red Fork, they were about to commence their leg over land.

“Wait for me Wench!” Jaime jogged and found himself at the end of a long stone bridge. Brienne already halfway across and leaning against the edge. “Recognise it Kingslayer?” She teased, lowering herself down with an exaggerated groan. “Oh, I need to rest.” “Get up.” The exchange was tinged with humour, he knew exactly what she was doing. “But I’ve been marching around like a common footsoldier wearing the same shit boots for over a year.” She gazed up at him towering over her, blue eyes alight with good-natured teasing as she rested her arms upon the swell of her belly. “Gods you were painful back then. Come to think of it you’re not that much better now.” He bent down to kiss her, a far cry from the scraping of steel which resonated around them in this spot upon a long autumn years prior. “I suppose so, my love.” Jaime acquiesced, awakening those tell-tale crinkles around his eyes. “Perhaps some things don’t change that much afterall.”

by @nightreaderenigma

#braime #jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #asoiaf #game of thrones #fanfic #ao3 #jaime and brienne #written by me #happy ending

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texanredrose · 6 years

Text

I Fought The Law

Winter sat down at her new desk.

Frankly, after being discharged from the Atlesian Military due to a... disagreement with a superior officer, she’d expected some manner of exile from her home. Father hadn’t been pleased when his wayward eldest child’s name appeared in headlines, bringing the Schnee family under renewed scrutiny seeing as his middle daughter had disappeared subsequent to a public blowout with the man at a charity ball not too long ago. Leaving the kingdom seemed the best course of action, at least until the tabloids had something else to chase.

However, truth be told, she didn’t see much sense in returning. It would just mean being subject to her father’s whims again and she’d found herself unable to agree with the man’s business practices for far too long, much less his personality. In fact, most of Atlas’ social mores grated on her nerves, so accepting a job offer in Vale seemed like the best of her options: it put a sea between her and the rest of her family, it likely would be where she’d find her sister, and it provided her with board and a stable income while she lived there.

“Sheriff?”

But there existed a few... caveats.

She looked up, watching as the Mayor of the small town trudged in, a heavy weight to his brow. Young- younger than herself, at any rate- but already looking far past his years as he pulled out the chair on the other side of her desk and plopped down. At least a head taller than her with broad shoulders and deeply tanned skin, Yatsuhashi would be entirely out of place among the cold snow of Atlas, though her blended in with the locals far better than she did- a foreigner in a strange land, yet given a badge and expected to uphold laws like someone born to it. Were she a little less keen, she might blame this peculiar choice on his inexperience or his youth, but Winter had done her research prior to accepting the position.

No local would be foolish enough to take the badge.

“Can I help you, Mayor Dashi?”

“Yatsu, please. We’re a bit informal around here.” He ran a hand over his face and sighed.

She couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Yet, you address me as ‘Sheriff’, even before my first official day on the job.”

“Well, allow me to rephrase.” He gave her a wan smile. “We’re informal but you’re the newcomer we gotta butter up to keep around.”

“Tell me, what’s so difficult about this position that it’s remained open for so long?” Tilting her head, she watched the line of his shoulders become more tense, as if dreading that very question. So, she decided to do one better. “And why won’t any local take it?”

“You may be new around here but I suspect you know a thing or two about the Branwen gang? Maybe the White Fang gang, too?”

That brought a frown to her lips. “Yes, to both. Notorious gangs that are responsible for multiple robberies, constantly eluding arrest- both make their home somewhere on the Vale frontier. The location varies based on the telling.”

“Well, wonder no more.” He pointed towards the door. “To the west, we have the White Fang gang’s territory.” Then towards the back wall of the jail. “To the east, the Branwen gang.” A sigh left his lips as he passed a hand over his face. “We’re smack between them. If they aren’t tearing up the town in shootouts, they’re taking turns stealing our cattle and supplies. Half the town wants to leave but we’ve no place to go. The only way out is to join one gang or the other and we’re honest folk.” The Mayor spread his hands. “If we don’t do something soon, we’re gonna starve out here.”

Winter pressed her lips into a thin line, looking down at the twin six shooters holstered at her thighs. She didn’t bring many personal effects from Atlas aside from her pistols and a saber from her service but the last sheriff at least left behind a long rifle for her to use, currently mounted on the far wall. If she’d known the odds she’d be facing, she would’ve tried smuggling a few more weapons in her luggage.

Then her eyes went to the shining, five pointed star badge set on the desk. “Very well. Do you have any information on the bandits most often seen around town?”

The Mayor nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a thin stack of papers. “Here are the wanted posters we had printed up a few months ago. We... don’t have the money for a reward but these five have stirred up enough trouble that even Vale is offering a reward.”

“So, catch them, turn them over to the feds, and use the reward money to save the town.”

“That’s the plan.”

“I’m glad there’s no pressure.” She held out a hand. “Tell me more about them.”

As he handed her the posters, she looked them over, listening intently to the information provided. Any bit of advantage she could get would be vital.

“That first one there is known only as The Belladonna- a cat Faunus thief who excels at train robberies. She’s usually content to just take what she wants and leave without hurting anyone.” Winter looked at the crude ink rendering, hair and ears blending together. No scars or birth marks- fairly nondescript but there weren’t many Faunus in the area- or humans, for that matter- so spotting her out shouldn’t be too difficult. “She operates with a partner, the current leader of the White Fang gang. He’s known as ‘The Bull’ for... fairly obvious reasons.” A bull Faunus- how original- with back swept horns and an ornate mask of some sort obscuring his eyes. “He’s... much more trouble.”

“Is he ever seen without his mask?”

“Not that anyone’s lived to tell.”

She nodded. Frankly, she didn’t think it wise to confront the primarily Faunus White Fang gang right off the bat. Given her lineage, she’d likely bring more trouble than the group already gave the small town. Best to give it time, see if she could establish a persona distinct from her family before attempting to make contact- or, if that failed, have a plan ready for when the all out war began. “And the other three?”

“Branwen gang.” Yatsuhashi grimaced. “First one’s the leader, Raven Branwen. She’s... somethin’ alright. Usually doesn’t come around unless there’s a big prize on a train or a big herd passing through.” Wild hair, a scowl, and a bandanna around her neck- again, rather nondescript, save for the peculiar cowlick. “Then, there’s Qrow Branwen- he’s Raven’s brother. Mostly just a lousy drunk who’ll trash the saloon once he can’t walk straight.” Scruff along his jaw and a cocky smirk that seemed to radiate indifference, he had the same messy hair even if he lacked the scowl. “And then, there’s Yang Branwen. Raven’s kid, probably gonna take over the gang one day. She’s the heavy hitter, goes on almost every run the gang goes on. Don’t let her get in close; she has a wicked right hook that’ll put your lights out.”

Same cowlick as her mother, but where the other woman had a wild mess of black ink for hair, Yang didn’t, nor the scowl. Just a bandanna around her neck and a little smirk- not as cocky, but certainly speaking to a level of arrogance.

She could use that.

“How old is Yang?”

Yatsuhashi seemed surprised by the question, scratching at the hollow of his jaw for a moment. “Dunno. Couldn’t be more than twenty-five? I heard somewhere that she’s got a little sister, just a few years younger, and that she’s about my age, so right around mid twenties. Why?”

“I have an alteration I’d like to make.” A small grin curled her lips. Time to find out exactly what sort of outlaws she was dealing with here. “If you could make the correction and then send these out to every neighboring town, that would be greatly appreciated.”

“What’s the change, Sheriff?”

Winter hoped, at the very least, that she didn’t make things worse.

Yang lifted her scarf a little higher, covering up her nose as they rode into town. One of the bigger ones down by the river, good place for gambling or liquor, but she and Junior were there for neither this time around. They needed to gather information about a supposed train that would be passing through laden with taxes from southern Vale bound for the capitol- a payday they hoped to get before the White Fang gang caught wind of it. After the last time they’d crossed paths with the rival bandits, they’d adopted a policy of avoiding each other- Raven had mentioned something about ‘ideological similarities’ but didn’t bother to elaborate.

Not that the woman ever did, of course. Her mother had somehow mastered the art of being both straightforward and cryptic in the same breath, an admirable but ultimately frustrating skill that Yang didn’t want in the slightest.

“You’re thinkin’ ‘bout your ma again,” Junior said, his hat pulled low over his eyes as their horses walked along the main road towards the saloon. “You always start poutin’ when you think about her.”

“I ain’t poutin’,” she replied, clearing her throat and adjusting her hat a bit. Probably one of the best ways to hide whenever she went out and about happened to be wearing a hand to cover her cowlick and tying her hair back, plus swapping her usual orange scarf for a dusty old grey one. “I just hate doing the recon part. Why can’t Qrow do this, or the twins?”

“Because your ma says you gotta learn how to do it.” The man leaned away and spat some of his chewing tobacco on the ground before turning a pointed look towards her. “Without starting a bar fight.”

“I didn’t start it last time!” She couldn’t help but smirk. “I did finish it, though.”

As they moved further into town, they passed the large wooden board filled with notices- calls for workers, latest news from the capitol, and more than a few wanted posters. Yang couldn’t help but sneak a peak at them, her spirits lifting even higher.

“Heh, my bounty went up again,” she said, pulling back on the reins as a furrow came to her brow, looking back at the board to confirm what she’d seen. “Wait a minute...”

“C’mon, kid, we can stroke your ego later, let’s-”

“Now hold on.” Swinging her leg over the saddle, she dismounted and kept her reins in hand, stepping closer to the board to inspect her poster. Aside from a pretty good artist’s rendering of her and the higher bounty, one other thing happened to catch her eye. “Wanted for... stealing my heart?” Junior stepped up beside her, chest stuttering as he tried to contain his amusement. “See Sheriff of Pastel- Pastel, ain’t that the city on the border of our territory and the White Fang’s?”

“You mean the place we shot to Hell and back last month? Yeah, that’s the place.” Junior spat again. “Last I heard, they hired some lady from Atlas to come be the Sheriff.”

“Atlas, huh?” Yang tilted her head to the side and mulled it over.

On the one hand, if this new Sheriff might be trying to get on her good side, maybe arrange a little... quid pro quo on behalf of the town, well, that was one thing. But if she wasn’t...

... well, the bandit couldn’t rightly tell what would be the aim otherwise.

“What crazy idea just popped into that head o’ yours?” He clapped her on the shoulder. “You aren’t seriously considering turning yourself over to some lady o’ the law, are you?”

“Nah.” Her lips lifted into a wide, bright smile. “But it would be awfully rude not to go introduce myself properly.”

Winter tied off her horse- a gift from the town, just like her rarely visited lodging and almost everything else she could claim to own- to the post just outside the jail, reaching up to remove her hat while glancing at the sun setting behind the line of storefronts across the street. Unlike Atlas, with its mountains and clouds, the flat land of Vale and clear sky allowed for beautiful hues of orange, pink, and purple to streak the sky as the day’s heat slowly dissipated. It would be a warm night with only the lanterns to keep her company as she studied the maps of the surrounding area, the property lines and trails the crisscrosses the frontier. At the very least, she could take off her long coat and spurs, maybe even unbutton her surcoat. Let down her hair and brush it out, try to assuage the tension built up over hours of riding around the town to visit the people, understand their needs.

Really, it just boiled down to keeping the gangs out of town. It seemed both simple and impossible at the same time.

Pushing through the door to the jail, Winter came to a dead stop as she hung her hat on the nail beside the door frame, in the process of removing her gloves and slipping her coat off one shoulder when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, a sure sign she was being watched. Sure enough, when she looked over at the desk, she saw her- Yang Branwen, in the flesh, sitting in her chair with her boots propped up on the desk, dirt falling from the sole and one point of her starred spur digging into the wood. That cowlick, the orange bandanna around her neck, the arrogant-bordering-on-cocky smile, no doubt she now stood face-to-face with one of the most wanted women in all of Vale, if not Remnant.

“Evenin’, Sheriff.” Lilac eyes gave her a once over as her smile widened. “I heard you were looking for me. Somethin’ about... stealing your heart? Quite a charge, if I do say so myself.”

“Well, I’m very aware of my tastes,” she said, taking off her long coat and hanging it beside her hat with her gloves tucked into the pocket. On the one hand, it put her pistols on display, strapped to her thighs as they were. Not that she’d need them, of course. However, when she turned back towards the desk, she noted that the threats were ignored for the moment, the bandit’s gaze intead tracing over her bare arms, her surcoat and shirt beneath lacking sleeves and hugging her frame rather flatteringly- which she had to bank on for the time being. “Although I must admit the pictures didn’t do you justice.”

“That so?” Removing them from the desk, Yang got to her feet and sauntered around, leaning back against the wood and cocking her head to one side, crossing her arms over her chest. Large biceps flexed with the motion, moving beneath tanned skin, just like her abdominal muscles stood out prominently from beneath the hem of her shirt, the leather vest over top doing little to hide the considerable solidity of her frame. One pistol hung on her hip, the other on her thigh, and she had two bits of fabric- one wrapped around her left bicep, the other just below her left knee- that had to hold some sort of significance. The bandit looked more like a mountain personified- strong, stable, immobile- and Winter would need to tread carefully. She might win a gunfight, but she’d lose hand-to-hand. “Why don’t you tell me more?"

“Looking for flattery, are you?” Summoning a childhood spent playing a part and even her military training, Winter flashed a dazzling, charming smile and began sauntering her way towards the bandit, counting her steps in the back of her mind. “Very well. I’ll admit, the first thing that caught my eye was your smile. Ink simply doesn’t do it justice.”

“Yeah?” It probably wasn’t intentional, the way her lips pulled wider at that, but it served as a good sign that she was on the right track.

“Of course. It speaks of confidence, a zest for life- both very... attractive qualities.” She reached up, unbuttoning the first button on her surcoat. “Then, your hair.”

“Really?” The leather of her gloves creaked a little as she reached up to tease at blonde strands, and that told just as much as any other part of this encounter. The bandit had put on new gloves for their meeting with old spurs- she prized functionality but wanted to make a good impression all the same. Curious.

“Wild and untamed, much like the frontier- your disregard for the law, I think, is more rooted in an understanding of what true freedom is rather than simply vagrancy.” Winter had nearly made it within arms’ reach, one of her hands sliding towards her belt while the other reached up, pushing her bangs towards her right ear.

Yang tilted her head, tucking her thumbs into her belt. “And what is ‘true freedom’ to you?”

“The ability to choose. To make your own priorities, your own rules- to seek that which you... want most.” Lowering her voice, the Sheriff took a single step closer. “To not let anything stop you, least of all the opinions of others.”

“I can’t say you’re wrong so far.” Yang pushed off the desk, and only now did it occur to either of them that the bandit stood almost a full head shorter than Winter, but that didn’t seem to bother her in the least. “I definitely get what I want, when I want it. I take it for myself, with my own two hands.”

Winter chuckled, eyes flicking down to confirm the bandit had started reaching for her hips. “I think you have the right idea. Perhaps I should take a page out of your book.”

One hand reached towards the blonde’s face, an action that seemed to be encouraged by the twinkle in lilac eyes. She canted her head, as if she might be going in for a kiss...

... right before she moved her other hand, slapping her handcuffs onto the bandit’s wrists in one fluid motion she’d practiced all week.

“What...” Yang blinked, looking down and tugging at the bonds now binding her hands together. “... the hell just happened?”

“What I want is to place you under arrest.” Winter smirked, torquing her wrist to put pressure on the cuffs and bringing the bandit to her knees with a pained groan. “And it seems I’ve gotten it.”

“Wait, did, you, what?” With a rough jerk, the blonde had no choice but to follow her until she found herself roughly thrown into the awaiting jail cell adjacent to Winter’s desk, rolling on the floor as the door slammed shut. “WHAT’S GOING ON?”

“I realize this may be something of a novelty for you, but you’ve just been arrested and detained pending transport to proper authorities.” The Sheriff briskly explained, buttoning her surcoat against and tucking the cell’s key into the pouch on her belt. “You have a cot and facilities; I’ll bring you dinner shortly.”

Getting to her feet, the bandit walked to the cell door, griping the bars with her hands and frowning. “You set me up.”

“No, I merely baited you; you set yourself up. Rather nicely too, might I add.” Winter flashed a smile- a little smug, if only because of how easy the whole process proved to be. “It’s surprising you’ve remained free this long, all things considered.”

For a moment, Yang just stared, before a laugh burst through her lips. “Alright, Sheriff. What’s your name?”

“Winter.”

“Winter, huh?” She nodded, turning around and heading to the cot, plopping down on it with a sigh and leaning back against the wall. “Good job, Sheriff Winter. You got one o’ us. That won’t work on my Ma or Uncle, though.”

“If they don’t come looking for you themselves, you mean?” She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll deal with them when the time comes.” Winter turned towards the door. “I’ll fetch your dinner. Just sit tight.”

A smile curled the bandit’s lips. “Oh, you’re actually hotter when you’re smug than when you’re fake flirty.”

Ignoring it, she left the jail and started for the saloon- they didn’t offer much in the way of food, but a pot always sat bubbling over the fire, so it would do for now.

Yang leaned her head back until it hit the wall. “So... this didn’t go like I’d planned.”

Honestly, she hadn’t expected much. After hearing a little bit about the new Sheriff in town, the bandit thought swinging by and seeing what sort of offer would be on the table warranted her attention. It never even crossed her mind that she might be walking into a trap; maybe her Ma had the right of it. She’d gotten complacent recently, riding on their notoriety to do most of the work for her. Three years ago, she would’ve seen the set up for what it was.

And... okay, maybe she would’ve fallen for it anyway. The Sheriff had strikingly blue eyes and carried herself like she could walk through fire unblinking, and wearing so many layers in this heat constituted a bold choice. It... gave her reason to pause and consider, at least, what it might be like if Winter had meant any of her flirtation in all seriousness. She didn’t have the same musculature as Yang did, a little softer in the arms and belly, but that didn’t count as a bad thing by the blonde’s estimations. Pure white hair, like the snow she’d read about- a unique trait, for sure. Her lips looked soft, if a bit cracked from the heat, and she’d have liked the chance to lick them smooth.

Maybe she should stop by a brothel on her way back to camp. Because, much to the Sheriff’s chagrin, Yang didn’t plan on spending longer than a night within the walls of the jail.

The door swung open and she looked over, noting the bowl with a spoon stuck in it held in one hand and a glass of water in the other. By the smell, some manner of stew, which would be good enough to hold her over. She hadn’t exactly planned on staying for dinner but wouldn’t turn down hospitality.

“Here,” the Sheriff said, putting both through the bars and waiting for her to come over and take them. “I’ll fetch you breakfast in the morning but that’s it. No midnight snacks.”

“Yeesh, maybe they should call you Warden instead.” Heading back over to the cot, Yang plopped down against and started eating as best she could with her wrists in cuffs. “This why you came all the way out here? Rustle up some bandits, be the long arm of the law?”

“That’s just what pays the bills.” The woman went over to her desk and sat down, pulling out a telegraph request from one of the drawers. “I came out here for the same reason you did. I needed a fresh start.” Around a mouthful of stew, she couldn’t help but laugh and shake her head. “What’s so amusing?”

“I didn’t choose this. I’m out here because I ain’t got no place else to go.” She paused to sip the water- likely, the only bit she’d get until she busted herself out. “I was born into it. Kinda.”

“Everyone has a choice.” The Sheriff frowned at her. “The Branwen gang’s only been active for twenty years or so and you’re a bit older than that.”

“Yeah, that part’s true, I guess.” Her head lolled to the side, a smile on her lips. “But when your choices are staying with the only family you have and leaving... what would you pick?”

“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person that question.” She turned her attention back to the paper in front of her. “I’ve done all I can to leave my family behind.”

“I admire that.” Another mouthful of stew. “I can’t imagine it, really. I think Ma wishes I’d leave sometimes but... she’s all I know.”

“You don’t have a father?”

“Not anymore.” She paused, a frown tugging at her lips. “He was a good man, Ma says. He lived on Patch- it’s an island, just off the northern coast. Ma liked him well enough but she hated the idea of living on an island- said it was like a prison, with the sea as the guard. She didn’t know until she’d made it all the way out here that she was pregnant with me and, by that time, traveling back would have to wait until I was born.” With as many times as she’d heard the story, she’d committed it to heart. It kept her motivated. “She came out here to raise cattle. Liked being able to see a horizon that stretched on forever, that she could just walk in any direction if she wanted to and nothing and no one could stop her. Once I was old enough to eat solid food, she figured it’d be safe to take me back to Patch and leave me with my Pa. But, when she got there...” This was always the part where Ma’s expression turned tight and dark, and danger flashed in her eyes. “They told her he’d been killed. Executed for supporting the old King even after the new government took over.” With the spoon, she stirred the contents of the bowl. It was strange, feeling sorrow for someone she’d never met, but it always made her wonder what it would’ve been like growing up with him instead. No burglaries, no hustlin’ pool, no evading the law or killing other bandits before they got her first, and no horses, no cattle, no unrelenting sun- just a normal life beneath the shade of trees and listening to the lapping sea every night. “My Ma thought about leaving me with his wife and her kid but... she was too mad to think straight. She and Pa didn’t see eye-to-eye on things, but she didn’t want him dead. So we came back out here, and Ma started up the gang. Guess she figured, if the new government wanted bloodshed that bad, she’d be the one to give it to ‘em, and she’s made pretty good on it, too.”

Busying herself with the stew, Yang ate as silence filled the room.

“Why tell me all this?” The Sheriff pushed away from her desk, quirking a brow at the cell.

“Well, for one, you probably won’t believe it anyway.” She shrugged. “And, for another, it’s not like I get to talk about it at camp. It just launches another rolling rant about how the government is shit and we’re better off without ‘em.” A sip of water, followed by a bitter chuckle. “Besides, you act like you know the first thing about me, telling me I had a choice in all this. What am I supposed to do? Run off to the big city? Land a job doing... what? The only skills I got ain’t gonna cut it anywhere that glitters. No one’s offering me a way out, so I might as well stick with what works.”

Winter crossed one leg over the other, propping her head up with her arm and resting her elbow on the desk. “Being in a jail cell counts as ‘what works’? That type of thinking will get you killed.”

“Everybody dies,” she replied, jerking her chin towards the Sheriff. “And you’re one to talk. Putting yourself between two gangs is a good way to get yourself killed, too.”

“I’m willing to gamble with my life, if it means securing my happiness.”

“That sounds like a roundabout way of calling me a coward.”

“If the boot fits.”

A smile curled Yang’s lips. “You’re a helluva spitfire, ya know that?”

“Good to know I have your approval.” Getting to her feet, Winter turned towards the door. “I’m going to drop this off at the post office. I’m sure someone from Vale will be here to pick you up in a few days. Until then-”

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Junior stepped in, wearing his nicest duds and a fresh cut to his beard. He actually looked decently respectable. “Oh, apologies, Sheriff. Almost hit ya with the door there.”

“It’s not a problem, Mister...”

“Xiong, though most just call me Hei.” Reaching up, he tipped his hat politely. “I own a saloon down in Pale Valley. Passing this way, heard there’s a new Sheriff in town, thought I’d come an’ introduce myself.”

Winter’s expression hardened a moment later as he turned his head to spit. “Take that outside.” He raised a brow at her, perhaps surprised by the sternness of her tone. “This is a jail, not a saloon, and I’m not a fan of tobacco, no matter the form.”

Slowly, he nodded, stepping towards the door and spitting, hooking a finger through his lip to toss out the wad. “Apologies, Sheriff.”

“Consider yourself warned.” She held up the paper. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to have this message sent out tonight.”

“Er, it’s well past sunset, though.” Junior reached up, scratching at his beard. “I, uh, suppose you could go find Ren and ask his to send it anyway, though. He’s a good man, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

For a moment, the Sheriff seemed to mull the idea over, glancing over towards Yang in her cell. “I... suppose it could wait until morning. It’s not like she’s going anywhere.”

Only then did Junior look her way, feigning surprise- and hiding his amusement- rather well. “Well I’ll be a rattlesnake’s uncle, is that Yang Branwen of the Branwen gang?”

“Indeed it is.”

“Damn, Sheriff, you mean business!” A hearty laugh left his lips as he lightly slapped her shoulder. A brief flicker of annoyance passed over her expression for a moment and the bandit had to hide her smile behind the cup of water. “I can’t wait to tell the folks down in Pale Valley about this. Maybe I can convince a few to come and settle out here, with an officer like you protecting people.”

“I’ll thank you to keep this quiet for the time being.” Blue eyes shot her way. “I’d rather have this one sent off before the rest of the gang shows up.”

“Of course, Sheriff.” He smiled and tipped his hat again. “Well, I’d best bunk down for the night. Gotta get up early to make it back to Pale Valley. You have yourself a good night, Sheriff.”

“You too, Mr. Xiong.” Now with her errand postponed until the morning, Winter returned to her desk, setting the telegraph paper down and crossing her arms over her chest.

Finishing off her water, Yang set the cup and bowl just outside her cell door before returning to her cot. “It’s gettin’ mighty late, Sheriff. Aren’t you gonna grab some shut eye?”

“As long as you’re in that cell, I’ll be sleeping here.” She nodded towards a corner the bandit couldn’t see. “So sorry to foil your escape attempt before it’s even began.”

“Now, Sheriff, there’s no reason to be so mean about it.” A chuckle slipped past her lips as she settled back against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. But then, her curiosity got the better of her and a question popped out. “What’s so bad about your family that made it so easy for you to turn your back on ‘em?”

Something flickered across the woman’s face- too fast to discern, really- but it caught Yang’s attention all the same, watching as her shoulders rose slightly and expression hardened. She’d touched a nerve, to put it lightly.

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Maybe not, but, hey, for as shit as my criminal family is, at least I got people.” She gestured around. “You’re out here all alone.”

“I’ve lived my entire life alone.” A twitch of her eyes, almost a wince- an obvious tell she would’ve missed had she not been watching so closely. “This is nothing new, save for the removal of a pretense otherwise.”

“There’s someone you miss.” Holding up a finger, she smirked. “Just one, I think, but for that one, you do regret not being there.” With a bit of smugness in her tone, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes again. “I may be a coward, but I can honestly say I was there for my family when they needed me. Guess that’s our trade off, Sheriff.”

Yang could feel the icy cold glare shot her way, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end from the shiver she just barely repressed creeping through her. She’d just hammered onto the Sheriff’s hot button hard and, honestly, she was very impressed with the woman’s ability to keep her cool, even as furious as she had to be right then. Being called a coward came often enough when she favored the color yellow as often as she did, so that didn’t bother her none, but if someone had gotten under her skin the way she’d gotten under Winter’s, she’d be punching her way through the wall.

But not the Sheriff. She just sat there, glaring, furious but biting her tongue.

Probably not good for the woman’s health but it wouldn’t matter much longer. With all the information she wanted for the moment, Yang could just sit back and bide her time a little longer.

Winter’s brows furrowed as drew in a deep breath through her nose. Strange- she could smell freshly cooked eggs and bacon. And she didn’t remember making it to her cot the night before, or grabbing her coat to use as a blanket.

Forcing her eyes open, she sat up, her own jacket sliding down as she looked around, blood running cold a moment later.

The jail cell door stood ajar, a plate with scrambled eggs and bacon sitting on her desk, and she quite clearly remembered sitting in her chair prior to nodding off.

Launching herself to her feet, she went over to the desk, finding the telegraph message she’d written the night before turned over and a new message scrawled across the page.

Sorry to disappoint, Sheriff, but I’m afraid I can’t join you for breakfast. Tucked you in proper- you shouldn’t sleep in that chair, ya know. It’s murder on your back. Oh, and thanks for dinner. See you around! -Yang P.S. Glad you didn’t send this message off. That would’ve been mighty embarrassing!

Pressing her lips into a tight line, she crinkled the paper as her hand curled into a fist. “Damned bandit.”

Grudgingly, she sat down at her desk and pulled the plate closer to her.

No reason good food should go to waste.

Yang looked at the horizon, having traveled these parts long enough to pick out even the most minute of landmarks. Given their fresh horses and the sun not being nearly as relentless as usual for this time of year, they’d probably make it back to camp before noon.

“So...” Junior ventured carefully. “We gonna tell Raven about this?”

“Hell no.” A laugh bubbled up from her chest. “You know she hates when I clown on the law. And we ain’t tellin’ Uncle Qrow either; he’s just as bad.”

The look he shot her said that he didn’t believe she was ‘clowning’ in the slightest but he kept silent, the jingling of their tack and beating of their horses hooves the only sound to accompany them.

Yang allowed her mind to wander for a moment, back to the jail. She wondered how mad the Sheriff would be when she woke up and found the plate and note, but she could clearly picture the way her brows would furrow and her lips turn down at the corners in a severe frown.

And she had to admit... it was kinda cute.

#TRR writes #Outlaw!Yang and Sheriff!Winter AU #Elderburn #Monochrome

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bhushita · 6 years

Text

Lopamudra’s Wedding

BY BHUSHITA VASISTHA | FICTION

Many years ago, when the earth was still very young and her every toss and turn frightened mortals, propelling them to create a pantheon of omnipresent gods, there was a great learned yogi-alchemist named Agastya. He was convinced that there was a mysterious pattern, which governed the earth, and knowing these patterns would free humans of their enslavement to the Devas, the race of fair-skinned ones, who claimed to possess secret powers to the mystery of nature.

He believed that no man knew any more than the other man to make him any superior. He often argued that humans were enslaved not because of any innate inferiority but simply because they were too lazy to find out for themselves. They didn’t, he thought, put their heart into solving the questions that puzzled them and therefore settled for myths and stories. He was determined to find the way nature truly worked, and spent hours studying the movement of birds, the swiftness of their flight against gravity and tried to create a flying contraption that could emulate this motion.

Naturally, Agastya wasn’t an easy Brahmin to be around. He asked questions difficult to answer, challenged the long-standing traditions and argued that our scriptures perpetuated fear and bigotry. His ways gradually drove him to the fringes of Brahmin community and they dismissed his existence not with vehement censure but simply with sardonic smiles. He was often found toiling in his lab, playing with strange evanescent chemicals. Strange stories abounded around the solitary alchemist. They said he stole and operated on dead carcasses, some claimed to have heard him speak to them. People had slowly forgotten all about him,until much later when he successfully designed the first flying machine. He was already an old man when he launched his first flight.

The Devas, who were always quick to recruit scientists to advance their Goddom, recognized and made Agastya one of their own. It was a strange twist of fate that Agastya, who started his scientific endeavors to debunk the myth of superior race, was granted a place among them as the reward of his discovery. Some of his young disciples, who called themselves Anarchists, accused Agastya of compromising their ideology for the luxury and comfort of the pantheon. They went ahead to accuse Agastya of all kinds of debaucheries, but to be quite honest we don’t know much about that. These are hearsays, the unauthenticated voices of history, which always threaten to malign a great man like Agastya.Any serious scholar will stick to the official pages of history in which Agastya appears as a glorious scientist, who devoted his entire life to the pursuit of truth. So single-minded was Agastya in his pursuit that he would have never married if not for the strange encounter with his dead ancestors one day.

It was a beautiful morning. The cool breeze rolled down the mountains in gentle waves, unfurling the petals of fragrant tuberose and plumeria. The sky was clear. Agastya had just finished his morning ablutions and was wrapping loincloth around his waist. His lithe body glistened under the tender morning sun. After finishing his prayers, Agastya set out towards his abode. There was a kind of playfulness in nature. A bunch of sparrows glided with elegant ease through the crisp air, singing along a chorus of a happy tune. The raspberry shrubs were laden with ripe fruits that gave off a sweet, tangy flavor to the air. Agastya plucked a few berries and ate them. They melted gently, leaving the exquisite flavor of spring in his mouth. Riveted, he walked along the trail humming a hymn, an ode to spring, that he had composed a few days ago. As he reached near the huge banyan tree, which stood on the bank of a small creek, which winded around his ashram, he caught a strange sight – a bunch of elderly people hung upside down by a not so tall bush, the silver tuft of their hair swaying to the whims of the wind.

“Who are you?” asked Agastya with no small wonder. “And why are you hanging upside down on this puny bush?”

“We are your ancestors,” they replied in unison. “We are hanging by in this bush because unless you marry and give birth to a son, we cannot transcend the earthly realm and ascend to the otherworld.”

“That is rather strange,” replied the yogi. “Do we not ascend to heaven because of our own merit?”

“No, it is not enough,” said one his ancestors. “Good deeds are desirable but not enough. Unless your lineage is expanding on earth, you cannot enter heaven, so is written in our scriptures.”

“Alas! I am already an old man now. I am not sure anyone would be willing to marry me, much less beget a child for me.” Agastya tried to reason his way out, but his ancestors assured that the yogis have always been desired by the most beautiful of the women and he would find no trouble finding the bride given his accomplishment.

They might have been right about other yogis but not about Agastya. It turned out that Agastya had accomplished so much as a man that it was difficult to find a woman who could be of his match. For months, Agastya wandered far and wide looking for a bride. There was no shortage of young and beautiful maiden, well-adorned, well-spoken, adept in household work and art of love. However, when it came to Agastya, he found them far too meek and submissive to arouse his passion.

After roaming for months together, Agastya decided what he sought in a woman was nothing less than perfect, so the only way to find such a bride was to mould one. So, he carefully assembled the most beautiful parts of all animals, the most sublime essence of all flowers, the sensitivity of water, the infinite wisdom of the ether, the gentleness of wind and brilliance of fire and created a girl child – Lopamudra.

Lopamudra was, by definition, the essence of everything sublime – from beauty to wisdom to aesthetics. Agastya looked at his brainchild in awe and decided to leave her in care of King of Vidarbha until Lopamudra would come of age. The king was utterly pleased to welcome Lopamudra, as he had been desirous of progeny at the moment. Princess Lopamudra grew up not just to be exceedingly beautiful but equally astute. Her spontaneous wit and relentless curiosity often put the royal scholars in trouble. But her father, the king, revelled in his young and prodigal daughter. When Lopamudra came of marriageable age, the king started looking for suitors. The princes came from far and away in the hope of winning the beautiful bride, but Lopamudra rejected them all for she found them inferior to her.

When Agastya heard of it, he set out to the kingdom of Vidarbha for Lopamudra. He was received amicably by the king, however, when he heard the sage’s proposal, he was heartbroken. He had brought up Lopamudra with great care and in luxury. Imagining her as the wife of an ascetic, and an ascetic who was old enough to be her father, his heart sank. He told Agastya that he would consult with the queen and give his decision the next day. That night the king summoned queen to his quarter and discussed the issue. Agastya was renowned for his esoteric powers. Rejecting his proposal might be provoking his wrath, which would be inauspicious for the kingdom.

Meanwhile, the princess Lopamudra was told by her maids that an old sage had arrived with the marriage proposal for her. That evening the Princess sat before her dressing table for a long time, taking off her ornaments one by one until she shed them all. She took off her silk drapes and wore a modest cotton wrap. Her large kohled eyes shone like pristine lakes on her moon-like face. She kept staring at the image on the mirror searchingly. The sun rolled down the skies, and the moon soared noiselessly through the mango orchard. The harshness of daylight had given away to the quivering, mercurial light that made all inanimate objects stir back to life. The silk drapes on the window danced to the tunes of wind in graceful swings. The slender eucalyptus tree outside her window quivered in some silvery feverishness. The princess felt a strange restlessness assail her being, too. The owl hooted twice. Lopamudra listened carefully to the sound of footfall in the corridor; there were none. She wrapped a shawl around her head and walked into the garden. The black, inky waters of the darkness filled the garden, making the pathways, so well trodden in the daytime, suddenly unknown and mysterious. She walked cautiously, trying not to disturb the calm of the night or to stir wrathful monsters from her womb. She walked as light as the shy parijata buds that landed weightlessly on the garden-floor, leaving behind their heady fragrance on the wind. When Lopamudra opened the gates of the lodge where Agastya had chosen to stay, it was the dense fragrance of parijata blossoms that first hit him. Inhaling the sweet, intoxicating air, Agastya turned around to find the princess, who was lighter than the wind. She almost appeared to be floating on air, just like the parijata fragrance. Agastya examined his unannounced guest with some strain in the dim light of kerosene lamp. She appeared as ferocious as she was calm. Her face had the solemn gravity of the moon, but something of fire blazed from within her skin. Agastya couldn’t say she was beautiful — she was far more than that. He couldn’t phrase how he felt about the princess. Her being was not just an invitation but a challenge.

“You cannot be anyone else but Lopamudra,” said Agastya. The princess thought she could detect a hint of relief in his tone but relief from what she did not know.

“Why couldn’t it be anyone else?” she questioned as she locked the wooden lattice door behind her. Agastya thought it was uncharacteristically bold of her to shut the door.

“Because there has been no woman in this world, who can captivate me. Except one, who goes by the name of Lopamudra. Considering how I, the great sage Agastya, feel utterly helpless in front of you at the moment, I know that you are Lopamudra.”

The princess smiled, thought over the statement for a while and said, “You really are proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Well, I could be,” he replied laughing and gesturing her to sit on a wooden chair, next to his bed. “But many would agree that my pride isn’t entirely unfounded.”

The princess, instead, sat on his bed. As she sat cross-legged on the bed, facing the sage directly, she took off her shawl. Yet again, Agastya was at a loss for words. Lopamudra was unlike anything he had seen or imagined. Indeed, in one way, she seemed to mirror himself, in a younger body of a woman. But there was also something decidedly boyish about her. She reminded him of something of himself, but he could not say just what. She sat with no feminine self-consciousness or with any calculated poise to intrigue. She simply sat there with authority, with a strange asexual, transcendental charm about her.

“Of course,” she said, “I was very thrilled when I first read of your alchemic formulas and theories on aviation. But what had really impressed me was how you thought marriage was a futile institution and were determined to pursue your scientific discoveries without submitting to these social formalities. And now suddenly, you are looking for a bride. Agastya, I am curious — what made you change your mind?”

Lopamudra spoke with great passion and conviction. She made him feel that she spoke each word with great earnestness and expected nothing less in return.

“You seem to know a great deal about me already, my dear princess,” the sage replied. “You might as well know that I have agreed to marry only to free the souls of my ancestors from their earthly bondage.”

“We both know that it is only an excuse. Such baseless and superstitious fabrications cannot fool a man of your mind. Tell me Agastya why did you decide to marry?” Lopamudra insisted.

“I do not think they are baseless, princess. It has been written in the Scripture.”

Princess replied rather irritatedly, “You certainly don’t think that everything that is written in the Scripture is true. Not you of all people, Agastya!”

“They have been handed down the generations for a certain reason. Only truth stands against the test of time, Lopamudra,” Agastya replied.

“Don’t be so naïve, Agastya,” the princess quipped. “The scriptures are nothing but documented histories. And we know well enough that history reflects the bias of its authors. So, history is bound to be partial and therefore didactic and oppressive. Anyone who lives as dictated by history is unwilling to use his power of reason, which is not something I expected from you.”

“But what fault do you find with the scripture, give me an example and I will explain it to you, princess,” replied the sage. The moon was now right across the window, throwing the shadow of the tall parijata tree on Lopamudra’s body. Its coolness did nothing to sooth the young princess, consumed by the heat of a passionate discussion. The cool breeze could only sweep past her lithe body, releasing the fragrance sweeter than that of the flower.

“What do you make of the story of Samudra Manthan, the Great Churning of the Ocean, where the Devas claimed everything precious that came out of the churning as theirs, depriving Danavas of their rightful share, for instance?”

“Well, you are probably taking about Amreet, the elixir of life,” Agastya said and paused for a while. A firefly had come and settled on Lopamudra’s hair. He looked at this tiny creature, which pulsated with so much life. Agastya tried to remember the days when he used to question the validity of the rules of Devas like Lopamudra, but it seemed so distant that it might as well have been in a previous life. He reminisced about this phase of his life with some amusement. He thought when we are young we must find some fault with the world that we shall set out to change but on growing old we realize the world had always been perfect.

“Yes!” Lopamudra demanded, nudging him out of his reverie.

“Lord Vishnu did so to prevent the world from destruction,” said Agatsya. “Imagine if the Danavas had attained the power of immortality, they would have destroyed everything.”

“See?” the princess said solemnly. “How could you just make assumptions? When you look into the pages of histories, the Devas have been involved in all sorts of atrocities from stealing the wives of others to deluding the yogis and yet none questions what have the Devas done with their immortality. If you read the ancient scripture, there is no evidence as to why the Devas might be more righteous than the Danavas. It only mentions that Devas were relatively fair complexioned and more proportionately built, whereas Danavas were dark skinned and more heavily built. There is no moral ground to suspect they might be any eviler than the Devas. That is pure racism and nothing else. Imagine, if the Danavas had somehow managed to get exclusive claim over the elixir and write the scriptures, what would be the prices you would be paying to free your ancestors?”

Agastya laughed and replied, “It’s a charming debate, but if you really want to know Lopamudra, we always speak in symbols and lore. The Good and the Evil are two extremes poles on which the rope of life extends. In reality, there is no isolated good or evil.”

“No, but I still find the assumption of the superiority of the Devas questionable. And I find it equally questionable that you are ready to marry against your principle because these scriptures written by the Devas tell you to do so to free your ancestors.” Lopamudra persisted stubbornly. A gust of wind rolled freshly into the room. The firefly flew away from her hair.

“Well, the scriptures are valid not because I can furnish logic to prove it but because they are so by nature” Agastya said.

“Now you are talking like Hitler,” Lopamudra replied quickly. “You repeat a lie for thousand times and it becomes truth”

Agastya looked at her in disbelief. He didn’t know Lopamudra was also adept in time-traveling. “That is an inappropriate comparison. But more importantly, time-traveling is unadvisable to ordinary people, and you shouldn’t be citing examples from the time that hasn’t happened yet.”

“On the contrary, Agastya, I think everyone should do time-traveling at least once in their lifetime.” The princess replied with ease but it was evident that she immediately realized the foolishness of her thoughtless disclosure. Further, she had practised the time-traveling meditation from one of the treatises of Agastya himself. No one knew of her lofty flights across time, except the owl, who lived in a tree outside her window. Lopamudra was twelve years old when she first traveled across time successfully.

“Why would you want to travel across time, Lopamudra?” Agastya asked her after looking out the window for a rather long time. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the distant hoot of an owl.

“I don’t know, Agastya. In the beginning, it was just pure curiosity. I used to be so bored at the palace, as you can imagine. And I started reading books, all sorts of books. I read one of your books on time traveling, and since then I have wanted nothing more than to meet you. So initially, I just time traveled in the future to see if I would ever meet you. I was surprised by how I was fated to marry you. So, I was further intrigued, and I started traveling backwards to know who you were. There were things that I liked and there were things, I couldn’t quite cope with. The present was bland and mundane. It didn’t offer much meaning to my queries. So, I started traveling across time frequently. I came across many interesting people like Jaratkaru, who reminds me of you. I met women like Damyanti and Shakuntala, so devoted to their husbands. But as I started travelling forward, I also met women like Simone De Beauvoir, Joan Moreau and Anais Nin. Looking at all these different kinds of women, so admirable and inspirational in so many different ways, I started to realize no ideal of truth, beauty or justice was fixed; every ideal was in continuous flux. That way Hegel is going to be quite right. This infinite vastness of possibilities both intrigued me and comforted me. I realized without exploring the dimensions of time, we make the mistake of considering our opinions or privileges as right and God-given, not realizing our ideals of truth or justice or beauty are simply manufactured to suit the status-quo of the given time.”

They both kept quiet. Lopamudra was playing with her shawl, braiding the threads listlessly. Agastya was filled with the most tender feelings for Lopamudra. One could not even call it love as such.He could only approximate it to the feeling that King Jadabharat had for the young fawn, for whose love the king relinquished his merits to enter heaven and chose the earthly bondage and suffering. She was playing with the fire and he was worried if Lopamudra was sufficiently armed not to be crushed by so much knowledge. He did not even know what to say to her. He wanted to embrace her but that would be inappropriate.

He sighed and asked Lopamudra, “So, coming back to our point, why do you think I might have decided to marry you?”

“I don’t know, Agastya,” Lopamudra said. “If it was just the matter of a son to free your ancestors as the scriptures say, you, who created me from your mind, could have easily created a son. But that wouldn’t do. You have desired for a woman, Agastya. Not for your ancestors, but for yourself. Freud would have been quicker to decipher your unconscious motive. I can only say that you are rationalizing yourself; perhaps because you consider yourself too sagely to admit to yourself that like everyone else, you crave for human flesh.”

“If it was just a matter of a human body, why it couldn’t be anyone else? Why did I have to create you?” Agastya asked. His cheeks had grown redder under the silver of his beard. He was afraid if Lopamudra could see through them.

“Don’t be foolish, Agastya. You did not create me any more than God created Eve out of Adam’s bone. It is logically incongruent because if God indeed created Eve out of Adam’s rib, there would only be the male chromosomes, and therefore God might have created Evan but not Eve. I am well aware that I am your illegitimate child. You forget that I often do time-traveling.”

Agastya heart drummed a loud tick and it went quiet. Despite the cool breeze, he broke out into a sweat. When his heart resumed pounding, a rush of blood surged and he felt momentarily blinded. Agastya closed his eyes, his face was disfigured by the painful convulsions. “I don’t remember that Lopamudra,” he said finally, his voice thin and shivering.

“It is hardly surprising,” the princess replied. “We often shove the unpleasant memories into our unconscious mind, don’t we? We never know who we are.” She looked at Agastya with prying eyes but he remained impenetrable like a blind marble statue. The princess continued, “We continuously create our image of who we think we are by selecting a few flattering memories and discarding the rest. But I don’t blame you. It is the same with me. Trapped in millions of memories, I struggle to understand who I am but I only manage to catch a few fleeting phantoms and mistake those apparitions to be me. It’s a tiresome business.” Lopamudra sighed and closed her eyes. Her face had grown tired and old somehow. When she noticed that Agastya still didn’t elicit any visible reaction she continued with her soliloquy. “For example, knowing it all too well that I am your illegitimate child, I still find myself attracted to you. In all certainty, I shall agree to marry you. Of course, this truth won’t go into history. The scriptures will say that the great sage Agastya created a beautiful brainchild to release his ancestors from earthly bondage. I have read those future scriptures too. History is not what it says, but often, what it tries to hide, and all scriptures are nothing but histories. I don’t fool myself that you are marrying me to free your ancestors and nor should you.”

The wind shook the parijata flowers and they went twirling in the air. Agastya opened his eyes and saw that a few of them woven themselves into Lopamudra’s hair. Agastya stared blankly at those flowers for a long time. White wasn’t just white, he remembered from the Book of Alchemy; it was a rainbow, trapped cleverly.

Lopamudra’s flesh shone like a lump of soft, kneaded dough under the pale moon. Agastya felt terrified of her. He abruptly shut his both eyes with his palms and began to weep.

“Don’t weep,” Lopamudra said. “Tomorrow morning I shall announce my desire to marry you to my father, the king. And don’t weep over the stories. All stories are lies, including mine. To speak is to lie. What is told is always partial. I love you Agastya, not because we are holy or special or sacred. We are none. We are beings trapped in a human body, craving things that are not always holy. You, despite your wisdom, crave for a woman’s body just like anyone else. And I, knowing all too well that you are my father, desire for you. We are this. We are what defies our conscience. We are what baffles us. We are what we condemn. And we are together not because we are going to do holy things together but because we are going to allow ourselves what it is to be a human. Your ancestors are not suspended because you don’t have a son but because you have misunderstood your own desires. Fame or knowledge doesn’t liberate, Agastya, we are only liberated when we embrace tenderly that which is the darkest and the ugliest in us. I embrace you, I embrace you like thousand fragrant lotus blossoms, I embrace you like the levitating light of heaven, I embrace you like you were my own newborn. Don’t be afraid Agastya, the moon shall not wait for us forever.”

Agastya only remembered that white flower with the delicate orange stalk in her hair. He couldn’t remember when the princess left or when the morning arrived. When he regained himself, the bright orange sun was floating above the white, muslin-like clouds, which reminded him of the parijata flowers again.

http://mithilareview.com/vasistha_06_18/

#bhushita vasistha #Mithilia Review #science fiction #south asian speculative fiction #fiction #Original Work #spilled ink

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icariahq · 4 years

Text

Thanks for applying Ciara! We look forward to seeing Kassandra around the island. Make sure to send your blog in within the next 24 hours or reach out to us if you need an extension. Alycia Debham-Carey is now taken!

Admin Note: We are alright with either of the biographies given. Just reach out to us with any questions/to inform us of which one.

( ALYCIA DEBNAM-CAREY, FEMALE, SHE/HER) ⌇ have you seen KASSANDRA WEST around icaria? they are the 28 year old child of KRATOS. they remind me of the SMELL OF ROASTING ESPRESSO, FITTED LEATHER JACKETS, and THE MESSY SHEETS OF AN UNMADE BED. They’ve been on the island for #0 YEARS/ 0 MONTHS/ 18 DAYS.

OOC INFO:

CIARA / SHE/HER | 29 | PST

ROLEPLAYING EXPERIENCE

I’ve been RPing on tumblr since 2010.

TRIGGERS

Nothing that I’m sure hasn’t already been said.

IC INFO:

WHO ARE YOU BRINGING TO THE ISLE?

FACECLAIM: Alycia Debnam-Carey

NAME: Kassandra West

AGE: 28

BIRTHDAY: May 18th, 1992

OCCUPATION: Bouncer at Nightshade

HOMETOWN: Portland, Oregon

PETS: Recently found a puppy outside of the Nightshade and took it in. Named it Nugget.

POWERS:

(BIO ONE): Premonitions and strength. The premonitions she can’t control and they come when she’s least expecting them. As for the strength, it only really is ever used when she gets into a rage. And she rarely lets that side of her slip.

(BIO TWO): I’m not sure if the premonition will be something you’ll allow so if that’s the case then I do have other ideas for her because of the fact that Kratos’ powers are strength, might, and the ability to manipulate the elements through a divine focus (a weapon of some kind). So I do have an alternate bio for her if that would work better. It’s basically the same but with things tweaked to take away the foresight as it were. Her powers would be strength and elemental manipulation through her divine focus (a sword).

BIOGRAPHY:

Kratos, better known to most as Zeus’ lapdog, had gotten into many tough situations. But this specific one just had to be the worst of all. He knew better to not make deals with Witches but his thirst for power got the better of him. In exchange for increasing his strength, he would allow his first born to be given a curse. They told him that the child would be cursed with foresight, something that Kratos didn’t see a single problem with. It didn’t affect him in any way, in fact, it could benefit him if he really thought about it. So he gave away his child without a second thought.

Cut to Portland, Oregon 1992 where Kassandra West was born and raised by a single mother. Her mother supported Kass until the young girl started saying she could know stuff sometimes before it happened. That and there was the matter of her being stronger than your average girl. To the mother’s credit, it’s not like she had any clue as to who a drunken one night stand had landed in her bed. The problem with Kassandra’s “gift” was that she couldn’t control whatever it was and definitely didn’t understand half of the things she saw. When she was sixteen years old, she saw her mother kicking her out of the house in a vision but wouldn’t know the reason as to why until nearly a month later. Who knew that coming out as gay would be the last straw that broke the proverbial problem child’s back?

What’s worse is that her mother never did tell her who the mysterious man was that Kassandra kept seeing in her dreams, the one that she kept meeting but hadn’t met yet. The day she was kicked out was the day she’d been dreaming about since she was six years old; it was the day that she found out that Kratos, an actual fucking Greek God, was her father. Ever since finding out who she really was, she chose to spend less time around mortals and more around people that wouldn’t be ashamed of what she saw. Kratos spoke often of Zeus and promised that in time, she would get to meet him despite that not being his promise to make. She offered her “gift” to her father as a sign of good fortune if only it meant that one day he would keep his word. What he didn’t know was that 90% of the time, the flashes of imagery that she saw never truly made sense enough for her to decipher.

Anything she’s learned of the other Gods and Goddesses has been manipulated and warped by Kratos’ point of view. Someone talked shit? She’d find out why. Someone was planning a coup? Snuff it out. She didn’t really need foreknowledge to learn how to be conniving, to wear a mask, to appear more put together than she was, to manipulate. Kassandra was truly just another weapon at her father’s disposal. Not that she knew that, of course. When everything went down with Nyx she wanted to check out the island for herself, wanted to gather intel and bring it back, anything to potentially help Zeus. Kratos eventually let her go with empty promises of things that Kassandra didn’t know would never come. She’d stop this uprising in the bud, all for her father and all for the God he swore allegiance to. After all, anyone who disobeyed Zeus was a traitor. Right?

******

Alternate Bio:

Kratos, better known to most as Zeus’ lapdog, had never wanted a child but one night he decided that the world would be made better by gracing it with a son. So he went and made his mark with a mortal woman, something that he would later learn to regret. He promised himself that when his son reached sixteen years of age, he would introduce him to the “proper” side of the family and he would have a choice to assume his place amongst the other demi-gods. He left a seemingly ordinary blade that would beckon his son to him once he turned sixteen, setting the stage for them to one day meet.

Cut to Portland, Oregon 1992 where Kassandra West was born and raised by a single mother. Her mother supported Kass until she started acting strangely, displaying strength that was more than your average girl had. To the mother’s credit, it’s not like she had any clue as to who a drunken one night stand had landed in her bed. The problem with Kassandra’s “gift” was that she couldn’t control whatever it was and definitely didn’t understand half of the things she could do. When she was sixteen years old, her mother kicked her out of the house, leaving her to deal with her weird shit all on her own. Who knew that coming out as gay would be the last straw that broke the proverbial problem child’s back?

The day she was kicked out was the day she found herself wandering to the nearby forest until she came to what looked like some weird kind of ruin. A low hum greeted her and it was then that she laid eyes on a gleaming sword. Curiosity got the better of her and upon touching it, she found out that Kratos, an actual fucking Greek God, was her father. After the initial shock (and disappointment) wore off that he hadn’t had a son, Kratos offered her the same fortune. Kassandra took it without a second thought, eager to leave behind a place that had no such love or warmth for her. As the years went on, Kratos spoke often of Zeus and promised that in time, she would get to meet him despite that not being his promise to make. She offered her “gifts” to her father as a sign of good fortune if only it meant that one day he would keep his word.

He raised Kassandra with the ideology of her being an enforcer just like he was. Anything she’s learned of the other Gods and Goddesses has been manipulated and warped by Kratos’ point of view. Someone talked shit? She’d find out why. Someone was planning a coup? Snuff it out. She didn’t really need her strength or her sword to learn how to wear a mask, to appear more put together than she was, to manipulate. Kassandra was truly just another weapon at her father’s disposal. Not that she knew that, of course. When everything went down with Nyx she wanted to check out the island for herself, wanted to gather intel and bring it back, anything to potentially help Zeus. Kratos eventually let her go with empty promises of things that Kassandra didn’t know would never come. She’d stop this uprising in the bud, all for her father and all for the God he swore allegiance to. After all, anyone who disobeyed Zeus was a traitor. Right?

ANYTHING ELSE:

Lisa referred me to this group. I apologize in advance for the length of everything but I got excited writing these and well, figured it would be best to give more than one route because I do not want to have an overly-meta character. Let the chaos potentially commence!

#icaria: accepted #submission

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tragedienes-archive · 5 years

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@fiinalgiirls,

before she knew what the world truly held outside of jamestown, she could only suspect that it wasn’t as her father said. if there wasn’t something better out there, would her mother have chosen to leave with her brothers? the older she got, the more she realized that whether it was better or worse out there, she could understand why her mother left more and more. whatever the outside world held, it surely had to be better than jamestown. old enough to remember a time before there were many mothers and the tales of the outside world were merely of decadence. old enough for a seed of doubt to be planted by her mother’s decision to leave and nourished by her father’s megalomania. if she had been taken from that place with her brothers, she would’ve loved her father forever. she can’t exactly thank her mother for letting a child make the choice, but nor can she deny that it was the only path that could have led her to the truth.

it wasn’t that difficult, astrid thinks, for gus to find lauren. he seems to be living a good life, though one, perhaps, much outside of their father’s ideology. the politics are all new to her and it’s difficult to wrap her head around how some of them are even debatable, but she can almost say that she’s proud of her brother, even if she doesn’t really understand his job. she’s been able to read up on most of his life through a wikipedia article that gus showed her ( though she’s still wrapping her head around the internet ). she hasn’t approached peter or their mother yet, but they’re further away. lauren is closest in location and astrid remembers him better than peter. their mother? well, she’s not ready to even think about talking to her yet.

she’s played this scenario over and over again in her head. how can she explain what life has been like in jamestown in their absence? that there are more children of his by the year and less food to feed him. that there are people working and working on little sleep and with sugary foods while she and her father lived in the biggest house alone drinking milk and eating real meals. perhaps she’s only lucky enough to have doubt, because of her father’s kindness. no one can think about dissent when they’re deprived of the calories and nutrients for healthy brains. can she tell them about her father’s increasing temper and paranoia or his assertion that the world outside of jamestown is mostly decimated by greed and nuclear war? she can’t even understand herself why james crone even let gus and the rest of the crew into jamestown in the first place, except under the guise that he would be able to make himself a beacon, leading more lambs to the slaughter flock.

if astrid felt like a bird in a gilded cage back home, she had not known what a gilded aviary could be. her brother’s home is beautiful and curious to her and she can’t help stealing glances at her surroundings with the same tentativeness she looks at her brother’s grown face. how many times had she wondered if he was even alive at all? “i had help.” she tells him, picking up a framed photo of a woman. “who’s this?” she asks, before realizing that she owes him more of an explanation than that. she sets the frame down. there’s time for it later. “i mean, our father agreed to let some people come to jamestown and make like a documentary for it or something. gus calls it a podcast?” she speaks with uncertainty–the insecurity of ignorance that plagues her in this world. in jamestown she was smart; in the real world, she’s less educated than a child and it’s an open wound. “one of them, gus, helped me leave. helped me find you and peter.” she doesn’t add mom, that’s too much to say she decides, as peter’s name cracks in her voice. “i came here first.” she tells him slowly.

lauren is happy to see astrid. he is relieved his sister is alive, breathing. here, in his apartment, no longer just an abstract memory. lauren, peter, and linda had many emotions over leaving her behind, but over the years, they have ultimately come to mourn her. they mourned the fact they left her, didn’t drag her out by her hair and just dealt with whatever horrors james would come up with. they mourned the loss of their sister, their daughter, made peace with the fact that they would no longer watch her grow up, grow up right along side her. they could not protect her anymore, laugh with her, take care of her. finally, in the end, they had mourned astrid completely, as if she had died. knowing she was alive down in bolivia, but feeling she was dead in england, the rest of the world. jamestown was a universe of its own, they were lucky to get out when they did, and the few members that managed to escape post-true crone exodus only told stories that proved they had done the right thing. he had mourned her so completely that her being alive, an actual person and not a ghost, not a missing limb, feels like being dropped into freezing water. he listens to her tell her escape story, finally she has one of her own, but it seems less... dramatic? is that the word? it doesn’t seem like she walked hand in hand with her mother and brother through country borders and desert landscapes. she had help from a worldly man, as dad would’ve called him.

ah, the documentarian. or he supposes it’s the podcaster. the subject of the crone family, crazy communist cult and all, was one of interest to many people; true crime, as he quickly learned it was called, was always a popular subject but even more now in the internet age. lauren had been approached many times over the years, people wanting to tell the real story of the crone family, what horrors really happened down there and just how much entertainment they could squeeze out of it, but it didn’t seem like any of them cared what had actually happened to lauren and his mother and brother. the miraculous escape story of the cult leader’s family (sans daughter) was tabloid fodder over sixteen years ago, but even then everyone was just left wondering why they got out of there, not how they got out. decades removed from it, lauren can partly understand it. the craving for the real meat of it, suburbanites in middle america that cannot fathom that idea of a crazed man with hundreds of followers, most of them his own offspring, despite the number of active cults in america (lauren regularly keeps an eye on the statistics, hoping the number drops and never rises). the horrible thought that some people can view a regular man as a god, all while rejecting the idea of god. james crone is a living christ the redeemer statue, lenin in the kaluzhskaya square, abraham lincoln in his memorial. truthfully, lauren wouldn’t be surprised if their father made his other children, his devoted followers, erect a statue of himself, made of straw or iryanthera juruensis leaves.

many have sniffed around the carcass of the crone family story, but lauren rarely entertains the vultures. once, he was even offered a book deal and almost took it, but he’s become quite private in his later years. he’ll keep the secrets of his father if he has to, but he has even more secrets now, man of politics that harbors the secrets of his clients now, too. and really, why should they have a look into jamestown? lauren hates that place more than he hates anything in the world, even though he hasn’t been back since his escape, its memory burned into him like a brand—and in his barest moments, he misses it deeply, yearns for it like clean jungle air. jamestown may have many sons and daughters these days, but it does belong to lauren, a trueborn crone child, the first born; above all, peter or astrid, their many half-siblings, it belongs to him. above all, jamestown is his legacy, and sometimes in those barest moments, he wonders if he’s spit in the face of that legacy, leaving like so, staying away for so long. candace wanted to have children with him, but she understood why he wouldn’t, knew in the vaguest sense what had happened to him as a child, only knowing what lauren allowed her to, but a continued bloodline wouldn’t last like the very idea of godhood, a statue that stands forever.

she’s come to him first. makes sense, as he lives in d.c. and peter back in portsihead along with their mother. it makes sense, but lauren thinks she’d have come to him first anyways, no matter her location. lauren, besides their father, had been her favorite when they were children, and he held a love for her that was different than his love for peter; both were his younger siblings, but she the only sister, the true sister. peter had felt it, too, he knew that. astrid was their baby as much as she was james and linda’s, that’s what made it so hard to leave her behind. if the crone followers were to construct a statue in devotion to james, peter and lauren would’ve made one in remembrance of astrid. she may be alive and well right in front of him, but that statue would forever be the little girl they left behind. “and mum?” he asks. if she has a hard time speaking of mother, he equally has a hard time speaking of father. perhaps this is how children of divorce feel. a journalist once made a joke that linda’s escape was the most dramatic divorce in history and lauren would’ve laughed if he knew what divorce was at the time.

oh, now he certainly does know divorce. well, not really, as candace has only left him. their papers are not signed, nor drafted, it’s been a year since she left but lauren has the firm idea that she’ll be back someday. he thinks candace has the same idea, as she’s not yet contacted a lawyer. for all intents and purposes, she is his wife and he is a married man. to the public, he is a married man, despite the whispers around the hill about his wife’s absence from public events and how some senator’s wife saw her moving her stuff out of their apartment a long time ago. astrid had asked about her before quickly moving on, so he gestures towards the picture she set down to get the topic out of the way.

“that’s my wife, candace. she’s visiting her parents right now in wisconsin, she’s an american. we met in uni.” he frowns briefly, not because of her absence from his life but astrid’s. their wedding had been quite small, no bridesmaids or groomsmen (candy had plenty of friends, but lauren only had peter and she had been sensitive of the fact, of how lonely his side of the altar would’ve been), just her large family and him with his small one; brother, mother, and grandmother. he wonders now if astrid had been around, had gone with them, if she’d been a prospective bridesmaid. somehow, in another universe where astrid had escaped with them, lauren thinks candace might not have left him, willing to stay with him a little longer if she had an ally in her sister-in-law. perhaps she would’ve just left sooner. “do you have a place to stay, astrid?”

#fiinalgiirls #lauren crone › narrative.#( lauren. ) astrid.#cult mention tw #holy SHIT this got long. me sorries

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newyorktheater · 4 years

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“Is anyone surprised Donald Trump has a problem with a strong woman” Joe Biden said in his speech today introducing his running mate, Kamala Harris. Both speeches are below, in video and transcript.

“This is a moment of real consequence for America,” Harris said. “Everything we care about, our economy, our health, our children, the kind of country we live in, it’s all on the line. We’re reeling from the worst public health crisis in a century. The president’s mismanagement of the pandemic has plunged us into the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression and we’re experiencing a moral reckoning with racism and systemic injustice that has brought a new coalition of conscience to the streets of our country, demanding change. America is crying out for leadership, yet we have a president who cares more about himself than the people who elected him. A president who is making every challenge we face even more difficult to solve.

“But here’s the good news, we don’t have to accept the failed government of Donald Trump and Mike Pence in just 83 days…”.

(The speeches at 27:20 in the video)

youtube

Joseph Biden

Good afternoon everyone. To me and to Kamala, this is an exciting day. It’s a great day for our campaign and it’s a great day for America in my view. Over the past several weeks I have had the incredible privilege of meeting and spending a good deal of time with a group of talented women leaders, all of whom are qualified to be president. With each one, the more I learned about them, the more I talked to them, the more impressed I was even though I knew them before. I want to thank each and every one of them for being part of this process and I look forward to working with them as we rebuild this country to get elected and once we are elected God willing.

A Serious Moment for Our Nation

I approached this with a seriousness of purpose and of mind because this is a serious moment for our nation. We’re at one of those inflection points, you’ve heard me say that before, in our history. A life-changing election for this nation and the choice. The choice we make this November is going to decide the future of America for a very, very long time and I had a great choice. Great opportunities. I had a great choice but I have no doubt that I picked the right person to join me as the next Vice President of the United States of America and that’s Senator Kamala Harris. You know, it seems Americans all across this nation, at least at the outset here agree with me. Yesterday we had our best grassroots fundraising day of the campaign, more than double our previous record, and in doing so, we set a single day record for online political fundraising and I think I know why. So I hope that you’ll join us as well, those of you listening today. Go to joebiden.com today, $5.00, $10.00, whatever.

A Proven Fighter…A Pioneer Kamala, as you all know is smart, she’s tough, she’s experienced, she’s a proven fighter for the backbone of this country, the middle class, for all those who are struggling to get into the middle class. Kamala knows how to govern. She knows how to make the hard calls. She’s ready to do this job on Day One and we’re both ready to get to work, rebuilding this nation and building it better. As attorney general of the largest state in the country, Kamala took on the big banks over mortgage fraud and won. Took on big oil that wanted to pollute without consequences. She was a pioneer in marriage equality and tackled the gun lobby. You know, we’ve all watched her in the United States Senate go toe to toe with Trump officials trying to hide the truth, asking the tough questions that needed to be asked and not stopping until she got an answer and when none was forthcoming it was obvious what the answer was.

As a member of the Intelligence Committee and the Judiciary Committee, she’s been the center, in the middle of the most critical national security challenges our country faces. Well aware, well aware of all the threats to this nation and ready to respond to them.

Her story is America’s story

As a child of immigrants, she knows personally how immigrant families enrich our country as well as the challenges of what it means to grow up black and Indian-American in the United States of America. Her story is America’s story, different from mine in many particulars, but also not so different in the essentials. She has worked hard, she has never backed down from a challenge, and she has earned each and every of the accolades and achievements that she has gained. Many of them often in the face of obstacles that others put in her way but never quit, and this morning, all across the nation, little girls woke up, especially little black and brown girls, who so often feel overlooked and undervalued in their communities, but today, today just maybe, they’re seeing themselves for the first time in a new way, as the stuff of presidents and vice presidents.

The 3:00 A.M Agenda

In her campaign in the primary, Kamala often talked about what she referred to as the 3:00 a.m. agenda, about moms and dads awake late at night in their kitchens, worried, scared, uncertain about how they were going to take care of their families, about how they were going to pay the bills, about how they were going to make it, simply make it. Growing up in Scranton and Claymont, Delaware, I saw that struggle with my family as well. Kamala saw it with hers as well and millions of Americans are living that struggle as we speak, especially in this moment of crisis, especially with so many jobs lost. Kamala and I both know that all folks are looking for as my dad would say is an even shot, just give me a shot, a fair shot, a shot at making it and it will be the work of our administration to make sure they get a fair shot.

Whining is What Donald Trump Does Best Working families need someone on their side in this nation because they certainly don’t have anyone in the president now on their side. That’s going to change in a Biden-Harris administration. It’s going to be gratifying to see the strong, enthusiastic reaction to Senator Harris as our next vice president. It comes from people all over the country, it’s already occurring. All over the country, all ideological views, all backgrounds. Events of course, we are predictable, some of them. It comes from all over except of course from Donald Trump’s White House and his allies. You all knew it was coming. You could have set your watches to it. Donald Trump has already started his attacks, calling Kamala “nasty”, whining about how she is “mean” to his appointees. It’s no surprise because whining is what Donald Trump does best, better than any president in American history.

Is anyone surprised Donald Trump has a problem with a strong woman or strong women across the board? We know that more is to come, so let’s be clear. If you’re a working person, worried about whether or not you have a job to go to, whether or not you’ll be able to pay your mortgage, pay your rent, worried about the poison in the air you breathe, the water you drink, worried about your civil rights, even your basic right to dignity which is under attack with this administration, Kamala Harris has had your back and now we have to have her back.

She’s going to stand with me in this campaign and all of us are going to stand up for her. On January 20, 2021, we’re all going to watch Senator Harris raise her right hand and swear the oath of office as the first woman ever to serve in the second highest office in America in this land, and then we’re going to get to work, fixing the mess that President Trump and Vice President Pence have created, both at home and abroad through four years of mismanagement and coddling of terrorists and thugs around the world.

No real leadership or plan from the President

Not only will America dig itself out of this hole they put us in, we’re going to build. We’re going to build back and we’re going to build back better. We have a public health crisis. While he’s in court trying to do away with health care, with more than five million reported infections, 165,000 people dead and climbing as a consequence of COVID-19 and still, months later, no real leadership or plan from the President of the United States how to get this pandemic under control. No real help for the states and local governments trying to fill the vacuum of leadership from the White House. No real help for children and educators, for small businesses and frontline workers, they’re the ones that are holding our country together. Instead, he’s issuing executive orders and making promises that in the end will defund the Social Security system while insisting that this virus will disappear.

The Joe Biden and Kamala Harris administration will have a comprehensive plan to meet the challenge of COVID-19 and turn the corner on this pandemic. Masking, clear science-based guidance, dramatically scaling up testing, getting states and local governments the resources they need to open the schools and businesses safely. We can do this. We just need a president and vice president willing to lead and take responsibility. Not as this president says, “It’s not my fault. The governor should thank me more.”

As that old saying goes, give me a break. We have an economic crisis and more than 16 million Americans, 16 million, still out of work. Donald Trump is on track to break another record. On track to leave office with the worst jobs records of any American president in modern history, but instead of doing the hard work, of meeting face to face with congressional leaders, Democrats and Republicans in the White House like every other president has done in a crisis, to get Americans the relief they need and deserve, Donald Trump is on the golf course. If I told you this three years ago you’d look at me like I was being crazy. He hasn’t even met with the leadership. He doesn’t have time it appears.

We have a climate crisis that Donald Trump refuses to even acknowledge. When he thinks about climate change, all we hear is the word hoax. A Biden-Harris administration is going to meet the climate crisis, protect the health of the American public. Along the way, we’re going to deliver one word, jobs. Good paying jobs. We have a racial justice crisis. Donald Trump seeks only to inflame it with his politics of racist rhetoric and appeals to division.

The Third Anniversary of Charlottesville

Today’s not only the day I’m proud to introduce Senator Kamala Harris as the vice presidential nominee of the Democratic Party. It’s also the third anniversary of that terrible day in Charlottesville. Remember? Remember what it felt like to see those neo-Nazis, close your eyes, and those Klansmen, white supremacists, coming out of fields, carrying lighted torches, faces contorted, bulging veins, pouring into the streets of a historic American city, spewing the same antisemitic bile we heard in Hitler’s Germany in the ’30s. Remember how it felt to see a violent clash ensue between those celebrating hate and those standing against it? It was a wake up call for all of us as a country. For me, it was a call to action. My father used to say, silence is complicity, not original to him, but he believed it. At that moment, I knew I couldn’t stand by and let Donald Trump, a man who went on to say when asked about what he thought he said, there were very fine people on both sides, “Very fine people on both sides.” No president of the United States of America has ever said anything like that, see him continuing to attack everything that makes America America. I knew we were in the battle for the soul of the nation. That’s when I decided to run. I’m proud now to have Senator Harris at my side in that battle because she shares with the same intensity I do, for she’s someone who knows what’s at stake.

Who are we as a nation? The question is for all Americans to answer, who are we as a nation? What do we stand for? And most importantly, what do we want to be? Someone who knows that the future of this country is limited only by the barriers we place on our own imaginations because there’s nothing Americans cannot achieve what we put our minds to it and we do it together.

One of the reasons I chose Kamala is because we both believe that we can define America simply in one word, possibilities. Possibilities. Let me say it again, possibilities. That’s America. That’s what sets this nation apart, is that everyone, everyone, the ability for everyone, and we mean everyone, to go as far and dream as big as hard work and their God-given ability will take them.

The Last Person IN The Room When I agreed to serve as President Obama’s running mate, he asked me a number of questions, as I’ve asked Kamala, but the most important was he asked me, what I wanted most importantly. I told him I wanted to be the last person in the room before he made important decisions. That’s what I asked Kamala, I asked Kamala to be the last voice in the room, to always tell me the truth, which she will, challenge my assumptions if she disagrees, ask the hard questions because that’s the way we make the best decisions for the American people.

A Family Affair

I got a chance to spend some time at my home today with Kamala and Doug, and I want to thank them. I thanked them then, but thank them publicly for agreeing to join and take this journey with Jill and me. Doug, you’re going to have to learn what it means to be a barrier breaker yourself in this job you’re about to take on, America’s first Second Gentlemen. And although they’re not with us here today, I want to thank Ella and Cole as well.

I had a chance to speak to Doug’s mom and dad, and Ella and Cole, and we’re going to get our kids together to let them know what’s coming. My grandchildren are about the age of their children. I got to speak to them. My campaign has always been a family affair, every campaign I’ve run. So I’ve got some news for you, you’re all honorary Bidens. And here’s the best part, Kamala, you’ve been an honorary Biden for quite some time.

I came first to know who Kamala was through our son, Beau Biden. They were friends. They served as attorneys general at the same time. They took on the same big fights together, Kamala in California, Beau here in Delaware. Big fights that helped change the entire country. I know how much Beau respected Kamala and her work, and that mattered a lot to me, to be honest with you, as I made this decision. So now we need to get to work, pulling this nation out of these crises we find ourselves in, getting our economy back on track, uniting this nation, and yes, winning the battle for the soul of America. My fellow Americans, now let me introduce to you for the first time, your next vice president of the United States, Kamala Harris. Kamala, the floor is yours.

Kamala Harris

Thank you, Joe. As I said, Joe, when you called me, I am incredibly honored by this responsibility and I’m ready to get to work. I’m ready to get to work.

Everything we care about, our economy, our health, our children, the kind of country we live in, it’s all on the line. After the most competitive primary in history, the country received a resounding message that Joe was the person to lead us forward. Joe, I’m so proud to stand with you. I do so mindful of all the heroic and ambitious women before me whose sacrifice, determination and resilience makes my presence here today even possible. This is a moment of real consequence for America. Everything we care about, our economy, our health, our children, the kind of country we live in, it’s all on the line. We’re reeling from the worst public health crisis in a century. The president’s mismanagement of the pandemic has plunged us into the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression and we’re experiencing a moral reckoning with racism and systemic injustice that has brought a new coalition of conscience to the streets of our country, demanding change. America is crying out for leadership, yet we have a president who cares more about himself than the people who elected him. A president who is making every challenge we face even more difficult to solve.

But here’s the good news, we don’t have to accept the failed government of Donald Trump and Mike Pence in just 83 days. We have a chance to choose a better future for our country. So Joe, Dr. Biden, thank you for the trust you’ve placed in me. Jill, I know you will be an incredible First Lady. My husband, Doug, and I are so grateful to become a part of your extended family.

Remembering Beau Biden Ever since I received Joe’s call, I’ve been thinking, yes, about the first Biden that I really came to know, and that of course is Joe’s beloved son, one of his beloved sons, Beau. In the midst of the Great Recession, Beau and I spoke on the phone practically every day, sometimes multiple times a day, working together to win back billions of dollars for homeowners from the big banks of the nation that were foreclosing on people’s homes.

Let me just tell you about Beau Biden. I learned quickly that Beau was the kind of guy who inspired people to be a better version of themselves. He really was the best of us. And when I would ask him, “Where did you get that? Where did this come from?” He’d always talk about his dad. I will tell you the love that they shared was incredible to watch. It was the most beautiful display of the love between a father and a son. Beau talked about how Joe would spend four hours every day riding the rails back and forth from Wilmington to Washington so he could make breakfast for his kids in the morning and make it home in time to tuck them in bed each night. All of this so two little boys, who had just lost their mom and their sister in a tragic accident, would know that the world was still turning, and that’s how I came to know Joe.

He’s someone whose first response when things get tough is never to think about himself, but to care for everyone else. He’s someone who never asks, why is this happening to me? And instead asks, what can I do to make life better for you? His empathy, his compassion, his sense of duty to care for others is why I am so proud to be on this ticket.

Family means everything to me Joe and I, yes, we are cut from the same cloth, family is everything to me too. I cannot wait for America to get to know my husband, Doug, and our amazing kids, Cole and Ella. Because whether I’m cheering in the bleachers at a swim meet, or setting up a college room dorm, or helping my goddaughter prepare for her school debate, or building Legos with my godson, or hugging my two baby nieces, or cooking dinner, Sunday dinner, my family means everything to me. I’ve had a lot of titles over my career, and certainly vice president will be great, but Mamala will always be the one that means the most.

My mother and father, they came from opposite sides of the world to arrive in America, one from India and the other from Jamaica, in search of a world-class education. But what brought them together was the civil rights movement of the 1960s. That’s how they met, as students in the streets of Oakland, marching and shouting for this thing called justice in a struggle that continues today, and I was part of it. My parents would bring me to protests, strapped tightly in my stroller. My mother, Shyamala, raised my sister, Maya, and me to believe that it was up to us and every generation of Americans to keep on marching. She’d tell us, “Don’t sit around and complain about things, do something.” So I did something, I devoted my life to making real the words carved in the United States Supreme Court, equal justice under law.

Thirty years ago, I stood before a judge for the first time, breathed deep and uttered the phrase that would truly guide my career and the rest of my career, Kamala Harris for the people. The people, that’s who I represented as district attorney, fighting on behalf of victims who needed help. The people, that’s who I fought for as California’s Attorney General when I took on transnational criminal organizations who traffic in guns and drugs and human beings. And it’s the people who I have fought for as the United States Senator where I’ve worked every day to hold Trump officials accountable to the American people. And the people are who Joe and I will fight for every day in the White House.

The Cast Against Trump and Pence

Let me tell you, as somebody who has presented my fair share of arguments in court, the case against Donald Trump and Mike Pence is open and shut. Just look where they’ve gotten us, more than 16 million out of work, millions of kids who cannot go back to school, a crisis of poverty, of homelessness afflicting black, brown, and indigenous people the most, a crisis of hunger afflicting one in five mothers who have children that are hungry and tragically, more than 165,000 lives that have been cut short, many with loved ones who never got the chance to say goodbye. It didn’t have to be this way. Six years ago, in fact, we had a different health crisis, it was called Ebola. We all remember that pandemic, but you know what happened then? Barack Obama and Joe Biden did their job. Only two people in the United States died. Two. That is what’s called leadership. B

ut compare that to the moment we find ourselves in now. When other countries are following the science, Trump pushed miracle cures he saw on Fox News. While other countries were flattening the curve, he said the virus would just poof, go away, quote, like a miracle. So when other countries opened back up for business, what did we do? We had to shut down again. This virus has impacted almost every country, but there’s a reason it has hit America worse than any other advanced nation. It’s because of Trump’s failure to take it seriously from the start, his refusal to get testing up and running, his flip flopping on social distancing and wearing masks, his delusional belief that he knows better than the experts.

All of that is reason. And the reason that an American dies of COVID-19 every 80 seconds. It’s why countless businesses have had to shut their doors for good. It’s why there is complete chaos over when and how to reopen our schools. Mothers and fathers are confused and uncertain and angry about childcare and the safety of their kids at school. Whether they will be in danger if they go, or fall behind if they don’t.

Trump is also the reason millions of Americans are now unemployed. He inherited the longest economic expansion in history from Barack Obama and Joe Biden. And then, like everything else he inherited, he ran it straight into the ground. Because of Trump’s failures of leadership, our economy has taken one of the biggest hits out of all the major industrialized nations with an unemployment rate that has tripled as of today. This is what happens when we elect a guy who just isn’t up for the job. Our country ends up in tatters, and so does our reputation around the world.

Building the Country Back But let’s be clear. This election isn’t just about defeating Donald Trump or Mike Pence. It’s about building this country back better. And that’s exactly what Joe and I will do. We’ll create millions of jobs and fight climate change through a clean energy revolution, bring back critical supply chains so the future is made in America, build on the affordable care act. So everyone has a peace of mind that comes with health insurance, and finally offer caregivers the dignity, the respect, and the pay they deserve. We’ll protect a woman’s right to make her own decisions about her own body, root out systemic racism in our justice system, and pass a new voting rights act. A John Lewis voting rights act that will ensure every voice is heard and every voice is counted.

The Civil Rights Struggle The civil rights struggle is nothing new to Joe. It’s why he got into public service. It’s why he helped reauthorize the voting rights act and restore unemployment discrimination and employment discrimination laws. And today, he takes his place in the ongoing story of America’s march toward equality and justice, as the only, as the only who has served alongside the first black president and has chosen the first black woman as his running mate.

Who We Are As A Country

But as Joe always points out, this election is about more than politics. It’s about who we are as a country. And I’ll admit over the past four years, there have been moments when I have truly worried about our future. But whenever I think that there is a reason for doubt, whenever I’ve had my own doubts, I think of you, the American people, the doctors and nurses and frontline workers who are risking your lives to save others, the truck drivers and the workers in grocery stores, in factories, in farms, working there, putting your own safety on the line to help us get through this pandemic. The women and students taking to the streets in unprecedented numbers. The dreamers and immigrants who know that families belong together. The LGBTQ Americans who know that love is love. People of every age and color and creed who are finally declaring in one voice that yes, black lives matter.

All across this country, a whole new generation of children is growing up hearing the cries for justice and the chance of hope on which I was raised. Some strapped into strollers of their own. And trust me, it’s a song you’ll never forget. So to everyone, keeping up the fight, you are doing something. You are doing something great. You are the heroes of our time and you are the reason I know we are going to bring our country closer to realizing its great promise. But to do it, we’ll need to work, organize and vote like never before, because we need more than a victory on November 3rd. We need a mandate that proves that the past few years do not represent who we are or who we aspire to be.

Joe likes to say that character is on the ballot. And it’s true. When he saw what happened in Charlottesville three years ago today, he knew we were in a battle for the soul of our nation. And together with your help, that’s a battle we will win. Earlier this year, I said, “I do whatever Joe asks me to do.” And so now I’m asking you to do the same. So visit joebiden.com to get involved in this campaign and vote, because electing Joe Biden is just the start of the work ahead of us. And I couldn’t be prouder to be by his side, running to represent you, the people. Thank you and may God bless the United States of America. Thank you.

Joe Biden and Kamala Harris Delaware Speeches August 12, video and transcript "Is anyone surprised Donald Trump has a problem with a strong woman" Joe Biden said in his speech today introducing his running mate, Kamala Harris.

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harrypotterfirsttime · 4 years

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JK Rowling’s essay about why she’s a TERF: Full Overview

Be forewarned, this is going to be LONG. I started reading the Goblet of Fire today and saw that JK Rowling has written and posted an ESSAY about why she’s speaking out about her blatant transphobia. I never intended for this blog to be about her, but since this is happening while I am attempting to read the series for the first time, I feel compelled to address it.

“This isn’t an easy piece to write, for reasons that will shortly become clear, but I know it’s time to explain myself on an issue surrounded by toxicity. I write this without any desire to add to that toxicity.”

I cannot fathom how she believed this would be a good idea and not add to the toxicity surrounding this issue. During pride month. When Black Lives Matter is protesting for equal rights. How is this necessary?

“My interest in trans issues pre-dated Maya’s case by almost two years, during which I followed the debate around the concept of gender identity closely. I’ve met trans people, and read sundry books, blogs and articles by trans people, gender specialists, intersex people, psychologists, safeguarding experts, social workers and doctors, and followed the discourse online and in traditional media. On one level, my interest in this issue has been professional, because I’m writing a crime series, set in the present day, and my fictional female detective is of an age to be interested in, and affected by, these issues herself, but on another, it’s intensely personal, as I’m about to explain.”

Not much to say here, except that this paragraph is meant to tell us that she’s considered including this debate in a fictional book she’s writing for some reason, and that she has allegedly had time to talk to all of these extremely knowledgeable people who all failed to inform her that trans people don’t actually hurt her or take anything from her.

“Months later, I compounded my accidental ‘like’ crime by following Magdalen Burns on Twitter. Magdalen was an immensely brave young feminist and lesbian who was dying of an aggressive brain tumour. I followed her because I wanted to contact her directly, which I succeeded in doing. However, as Magdalen was a great believer in the importance of biological sex, and didn’t believe lesbians should be called bigots for not dating trans women with penises, dots were joined in the heads of twitter trans activists, and the level of social media abuse increased.”

Just take a moment to laugh at the fact that she misspelled Magdalen Berns’ last name. But to clear things up, yes, Magdalen was suffering from a fatal aggressive brain tumour, but no, she was not a brave young feminist, she was an extremely outspoken transphobe, who regularly made videos misgendering, slandering, and twisting the words of trans people and trans activists in order to victimize herself. The vast majority of trans people will agree that you shouldn’t date anybody that you don’t want to date, or have any kind of sex with anyone that you don’t like. But Magdalen took it a step further, and said that NO lesbian could have sex with somebody with a penis and still be a lesbian, and NO lesbian could have a penis, despite trans lesbians continuing to exist to this very day. [for sources, Magdalen’s twitter and youtube channel remain active]

“I’d stepped back from Twitter for many months both before and after tweeting support for Maya, because I knew it was doing nothing good for my mental health. I only returned because I wanted to share a free children’s book during the pandemic. Immediately, activists who clearly believe themselves to be good, kind and progressive people swarmed back into my timeline, assuming a right to police my speech, accuse me of hatred, call me misogynistic slurs and, above all – as every woman involved in this debate will know – TERF.”

I can completely understand taking a step back from Twitter for mental health reasons (perhaps we all would have been better off if this had been an indefinite hiatus). To be clear, no activists are claiming the right to police your speech. People are speaking up against your speech because it is hateful and contradictory to current research about transgender people and the best way to treat and support us effectively. Some people maybe using misogynistic slurs, which I don’t condone, but let us be clear that TERF is not one of them.

“But accusations of TERFery have been sufficient to intimidate many people, institutions and organisations I once admired, who’re cowering before the tactics of the playground. ‘They’ll call us transphobic!’ ‘They’ll say I hate trans people!’ What next, they’ll say you’ve got fleas? Speaking as a biological woman, a lot of people in positions of power really need to grow a pair (which is doubtless literally possible, according to the kind of people who argue that clownfish prove humans aren’t a dimorphic species).”

I cringed hard at ‘speaking as a biological woman’, because that’s just the kind of language that TERFs consistently use to make it clear that they are NOT under any circumstances to be mistaken for trans. The notion that these people, institutions and organizations are ‘cowering’ out of fear of being transphobic as opposed to wanting to openly support and welcome trans people as they would any other person is extremely biased. And as a last note, people using clownfish are trying to show that sex is noy cut and dry binary, it varies between species, and there is so much more to it than ‘XX vs XY’ and ‘penis vs vagina’ like JK Rowling and company seem to think.

“So why am I doing this? Why speak up? Why not quietly do my research and keep my head down?

Well, I’ve got five reasons for being worried about the new trans activism, and deciding I need to speak up.

Firstly, I have a charitable trust that focuses on alleviating social deprivation in Scotland, with a particular emphasis on women and children. Among other things, my trust supports projects for female prisoners and for survivors of domestic and sexual abuse. I also fund medical research into MS, a disease that behaves very differently in men and women. It’s been clear to me for a while that the new trans activism is having (or is likely to have, if all its demands are met) a significant impact on many of the causes I support, because it’s pushing to erode the legal definition of sex and replace it with gender.”

I don’t think anyone will argue that JK Rowling’s charitable trusts and funds are a bad thing. But her need to specify that these have an ‘emphasis on women and children’, imply that survivors of domestic and sexual abuse cannot be men or trans people, and for some reason pointing out that MS can present differently in men and women, are all red flags that these are issues she’s injecting into her charitable efforts, as opposed to actual threats to the causes she supports. The fear that transphobes have over people being classified by the gender they experience and walk through life presenting with instead of the genitals they have underneath a few layers of clothes is ridiculous, especially when you strip it down like this.

“The second reason is that I’m an ex-teacher and the founder of a children’s charity, which gives me an interest in both education and safeguarding. Like many others, I have deep concerns about the effect the trans rights movement is having on both.

The third is that, as a much-banned author, I’m interested in freedom of speech and have publicly defended it, even unto Donald Trump.”

The movement to secure equal rights and protection under the law for transgender people will not have a negative effect on children or education, other than allowing kids to learn more about the diversity among people they’ll interact with throughout their lives. And once again, nobody is trying to tell you that you cannot say these things, only that you will face consequences for saying them, like Donald Trump does daily. Trans people and activists don’t even have the power to affect the right to freedom of speech, so this is a moot point.

“The same phenomenon has been seen in the US. In 2018, American physician and researcher Lisa Littman set out to explore it. In an interview, she said:

“Her paper caused a furore. She was accused of bias and of spreading misinformation about transgender people, subjected to a tsunami of abuse and a concerted campaign to discredit both her and her work. The journal took the paper offline and re-reviewed it before republishing it. However, her career took a similar hit to that suffered by Maya Forstater. Lisa Littman had dared challenge one of the central tenets of trans activism, which is that a person’s gender identity is innate, like sexual orientation. Nobody, the activists insisted, could ever be persuaded into being trans.”

There are reasons clearly stated above why Lisa Littman and her work should be discredited for publishing this work and claiming it to be a study (especially because it was not published in any journal and was therefore not subjected to peer-review). Also, for argument’s sake, why do people like JK Rowling take people’s word for it when they report their sexual orientation, but not their gender? Why should one be recognized as innate, but not the other? Both can only be determined by the individual and their internal thoughts and feelings and urges and sense of self. Nobody can be persuaded to be trans any more than anyone can be persuaded to be gay, or lesbian, or bisexual.

“The argument of many current trans activists is that if you don’t let a gender dysphoric teenager transition, they will kill themselves. In an article explaining why he resigned from the Tavistock (an NHS gender clinic in England) psychiatrist Marcus Evans stated that claims that children will kill themselves if not permitted to transition do not ‘align substantially with any robust data or studies in this area. Nor do they align with the cases I have encountered over decades as a psychotherapist.’”

I didn’t think it needed to be said, but a single psychiatrist’s experience is not representative of the entire reality. Many people misquote studies in order to make them work for their agenda. Studies show that trans people have higher suicide attempt rates, not higher rates of actually killing themselves. To insert personal experience like Marcus Evans did, I attempted suicide multiple times, and experienced high levels of depression and anxiety directly tied to my gender dysphoria, all of which has been alleviated since being allowed to medically and socially transition. There are hundreds if not thousands of other trans people who will report similar struggles to myself.

“The writings of young trans men reveal a group of notably sensitive and clever people. The more of their accounts of gender dysphoria I’ve read, with their insightful descriptions of anxiety, dissociation, eating disorders, self-harm and self-hatred, the more I’ve wondered whether, if I’d been born 30 years later, I too might have tried to transition. The allure of escaping womanhood would have been huge. I struggled with severe OCD as a teenager. If I’d found community and sympathy online that I couldn’t find in my immediate environment, I believe I could have been persuaded to turn myself into the son my father had openly said he’d have preferred.”

Comparing having OCD to suffering with gender dysphoria and all the side effects it can have (many of which she listed here) is offensive. So is saying that she, too, may have transitioned, because she clearly is very comfortable as a cis woman. Trans men do not transition to escape womanhood, we transition because at our core we know we are not women and this causes us deep turmoil, on top of all the sexism and misogyny we face as a result of moving through the world being perceived as women while in the closet. Comparing the admittedly terrible experience of growing into a world riddled with sexism and misogyny to that same experience topped with multiple deeper levels of emotional turmoil is just not a comparison any cis person can make or attempt to understand, which is difficult to hear and accept for JK Rowling I’m sure. If there were online communities when JK Rowling was struggling with severe OCD, she likely would have found sympathy in other people who have OCD. The following implication (out of nowhere) that there are trans people online luring in teenagers with unrelated mental health struggles trying to ‘persuade’ them to transition is just ridiculous and I cannot believe she attempted to make this comparison.

“As I didn’t have a realistic possibility of becoming a man back in the 1980s, it had to be books and music that got me through both my mental health issues and the sexualised scrutiny and judgement that sets so many girls to war against their bodies in their teens. Fortunately for me, I found my own sense of otherness, and my ambivalence about being a woman, reflected in the work of female writers and musicians who reassured me that, in spite of everything a sexist world tries to throw at the female-bodied, it’s fine not to feel pink, frilly and compliant inside your own head; it’s OK to feel confused, dark, both sexual and non-sexual, unsure of what or who you are.”

Just to clarify for JK Rowling, trans men and trans women both existed in the 1980s, and long before that. If she had been a trans man, she would have been able to pursue a social or medical transition. Those trans people in the 80s also turned to books and music to get through their struggles. It has been long documented that women and girls have negative feelings towards their bodies that are mainly rooted in the misogynistic society we all have to grow up in, and it’s a battle that trans people fight to end alongside cis women. I think JK Rowling will also find that trans people are at the forefront of making it known that gender roles and stereotypes are not necessary and should not be the standard for being a man or woman; women do not need to like pink, frilly things and men do not need to like monochrome, masculine things. Trans people are also huge advocates for finding yourself and living your life in the way that is most authentic to you, without focusing on whether your body is ‘male’ or ‘female’ and fighting against stigmas surrounding that obsession.

“We’re living through the most misogynistic period I’ve experienced. Back in the 80s, I imagined that my future daughters, should I have any, would have it far better than I ever did, but between the backlash against feminism and a porn-saturated online culture, I believe things have got significantly worse for girls. Never have I seen women denigrated and dehumanised to the extent they are now. From the leader of the free world’s long history of sexual assault accusations and his proud boast of ‘grabbing them by the pussy’, to the incel (‘involuntarily celibate’) movement that rages against women who won’t give them sex, to the trans activists who declare that TERFs need punching and re-educating, men across the political spectrum seem to agree: women are asking for trouble. Everywhere, women are being told to shut up and sit down, or else.”

I find it hilarious that JK Rowling believes that 2020 is more riddled with misogyny than the 80s, and even the 90s. There is only backlash against feminism that isn’t intersectional and purposefully excludes groups of people for reasons rooted in ignorance and bigotry, like TERFs. Her personal belief that things are worse for girls are not reflected in society as a whole for a multitude of reasons. Although I’ll give that Donald Trump being president is a failure of the American people and highlights the bigotry of Americans, it is completely unrelated to trans people, and I’m not sure why it is relevant. I’d even argue the existence of incels is due to the fact that women are no longer forced into relationships and marriages the way they used to, no longer have to find a husband because they can work and live without leaning a man for financial stability, and can say no to sex with less repercussions (except a very small minority of men throwing tantrums about it). Comparing trans people fighting against TERFs and wanting to re-educate them to incels, Donald Trump, and misogynistic men is just a blatant attempt to derail the conversation. JK Rowling refuses to see that she is not being told to shut up because she’s a woman, she’s being told to shut up because there’s a transphobe. (On a lighter note, this reminds me of the post of a comic where homophobes were told to hit a beehive like its a pinata, and Christians got upset for being targetted, without Christianity ever being mentioned....seems relatable here)

“I’ve read all the arguments about femaleness not residing in the sexed body, and the assertions that biological women don’t have common experiences, and I find them, too, deeply misogynistic and regressive. It’s also clear that one of the objectives of denying the importance of sex is to erode what some seem to see as the cruelly segregationist idea of women having their own biological realities or – just as threatening – unifying realities that make them a cohesive political class. The hundreds of emails I’ve received in the last few days prove this erosion concerns many others just as much. It isn’t enough for women to be trans allies. Women must accept and admit that there is no material difference between trans women and themselves.”

I think all trans people will admit that people with vaginas have shared experiences because, well, they have the same body part, the same way all people with arms can relate to having arms. What we are arguing though, is that womanhood is not tied to having a vagina, or the struggles that come with having one, even though those experiences may be shared by many women. Many women may also share the experience of playing with barbies or being part of a soccer league as a child, neither of which have to do with being ‘biological women’. Pushing the absurd accusations of segregation and some weird political plan, trans people don’t pretend that we’re the same as cis people. There are material differences between trans women and cis women, and between trans men and cis men. There are also material differences among cis women and cis men. Our argument is that these material differences are not a valid excuse to exclude us from being women and men.

“But, as many women have said before me, ‘woman’ is not a costume. ‘Woman’ is not an idea in a man’s head. ‘Woman’ is not a pink brain, a liking for Jimmy Choos or any of the other sexist ideas now somehow touted as progressive. Moreover, the ‘inclusive’ language that calls female people ‘menstruators’ and ‘people with vulvas’ strikes many women as dehumanising and demeaning. I understand why trans activists consider this language to be appropriate and kind, but for those of us who’ve had degrading slurs spat at us by violent men, it’s not neutral, it’s hostile and alienating.”

Trans people are not claiming that being a woman is a costume, or an idea in anyone’s head, or a pink brain or any gender stereotype. Men do not know what it is like to be a woman. I have absolutely no idea what it feels like to be a woman, because even when presenting as one, I did not feel womanhood or any kinship with other women, because I knew that on a deep level I was not a woman. But on to less personal experiences. Inclusive language shouldn’t have quotation marks around it. Those you call female people (which I call afab, or assigned female at birth) do not all identify as women, and do not all like the label female. Therefore, using inclusive language such as ‘people who menstruate’ and ‘people with vulvas’ includes all the women who have vulvas and menstruate (because not all cis women do), and also includes the people who do not identify as women or associate the word female with themselves, despite menstruating or having a vulva. This is not an attack on women, this is not the same as misogynists using these facts to degrade women. It is simply language being used in a more encompassing way that in no way harms cis women, no matter how much JK Rowling or any other transphobe tries to play victim.

“Which brings me to the fifth reason I’m deeply concerned about the consequences of the current trans activism.

I’ve been in the public eye now for over twenty years and have never talked publicly about being a domestic abuse and sexual assault survivor. This isn’t because I’m ashamed those things happened to me, but because they’re traumatic to revisit and remember. I also feel protective of my daughter from my first marriage. I didn’t want to claim sole ownership of a story that belongs to her, too. However, a short while ago, I asked her how she’d feel if I were publicly honest about that part of my life, and she encouraged me to go ahead.

I’m mentioning these things now not in an attempt to garner sympathy, but out of solidarity with the huge numbers of women who have histories like mine, who’ve been slurred as bigots for having concerns around single-sex spaces.”

It goes without saying but obviously I am sad to learn that JK Rowling is a survivor of domestic abuse and sexual assault. It pains me to know she went through something so traumatic and that her daughter also either witnessed or experienced similar horrors. I do however have a problem with weaponizing these experiences as a reason to continue being a transphobe.

“I managed to escape my first violent marriage with some difficulty, but I’m now married to a truly good and principled man, safe and secure in ways I never in a million years expected to be. However, the scars left by violence and sexual assault don’t disappear, no matter how loved you are, and no matter how much money you’ve made. My perennial jumpiness is a family joke – and even I know it’s funny – but I pray my daughters never have the same reasons I do for hating sudden loud noises, or finding people behind me when I haven’t heard them approaching.

If you could come inside my head and understand what I feel when I read about a trans woman dying at the hands of a violent man, you’d find solidarity and kinship. I have a visceral sense of the terror in which those trans women will have spent their last seconds on earth, because I too have known moments of blind fear when I realised that the only thing keeping me alive was the shaky self-restraint of my attacker.”

Again, I am deeply saddened knowing that JK Rowling had experiences that caused lifelong struggles for her at the hands of someone she gave her trust to and had to endure throughout her first marriage. It is interesting that she feels she is able to sympathize with trans women who suffer similar abuses, despite her blatant disregard for trans people’s struggles on display throughout this essay.

“Late on Saturday evening, scrolling through children’s pictures before I went to bed, I forgot the first rule of Twitter – never, ever expect a nuanced conversation – and reacted to what I felt was degrading language about women. I spoke up about the importance of sex and have been paying the price ever since. I was transphobic, I was a cunt, a bitch, a TERF, I deserved cancelling, punching and death. You are Voldemort said one person, clearly feeling this was the only language I’d understand.

It would be so much easier to tweet the approved hashtags – because of course trans rights are human rights and of course trans lives matter – scoop up the woke cookies and bask in a virtue-signalling afterglow. There’s joy, relief and safety in conformity. As Simone de Beauvoir also wrote, “… without a doubt it is more comfortable to endure blind bondage than to work for one’s liberation; the dead, too, are better suited to the earth than the living.””

This is misinformation. On Saturday evening, JK Rowling took issue with inclusive language being used in an informational and medical piece about coronavirus, which is in the best interest of getting the information out to the necessary people. I would stop reading an article that said it was concerning the health of women or females, because I do not consider myself a member of either category. I have, however, menstruated in the past, and continue to have a vulva, and if an article used that language, I would continue reading, because it would concern me. She then went on to strangely imply that trans people were removing the right of gay people and lesbians to be attracted to the same sex, which has never been true, and I don’t have time to get into the same-sex vs same-gender attraction debate, nor is it relevant to her original tweet. It’s ironic that Simone de Beauvoir’s quote relates more strongly to trans people and activists fighting for liberation instead of continuing to be bound by a transphobic society.

“Huge numbers of women are justifiably terrified by the trans activists; I know this because so many have got in touch with me to tell their stories. They’re afraid of doxxing, of losing their jobs or their livelihoods, and of violence.

But endlessly unpleasant as its constant targeting of me has been, I refuse to bow down to a movement that I believe is doing demonstrable harm in seeking to erode ‘woman’ as a political and biological class and offering cover to predators like few before it. I stand alongside the brave women and men, gay, straight and trans, who’re standing up for freedom of speech and thought, and for the rights and safety of some of the most vulnerable in our society: young gay kids, fragile teenagers, and women who’re reliant on and wish to retain their single sex spaces. Polls show those women are in the vast majority, and exclude only those privileged or lucky enough never to have come up against male violence or sexual assault, and who’ve never troubled to educate themselves on how prevalent it is.”

The only people who have any reason to feel any negative way about what a trans activist might say to or about them is a transphobe, so I can only assume the people JK Rowling is talking about are transphobes. The following sentence is just more fear mongering about ‘woman’ being redefined to include trans women, as if that somehow invalidates cis women or puts them in any more danger than they were in before. Predators are predators regardless of the existence of trans people existing. Trans people are not, nor do we have the power to, infringe on any right to free speech or thought, but transphobes will continue to face consequences for their speech, in way of trans people and activists exercising our own freedom of speech. The assumptions made about people who are okay with trans people in single sex spaces are baseless and completely unfounded, only biased assumptions that serve JK Rowling’s personal agenda. Even if these polls are true (she offered no sources), just because public majority agree with something does not mean it is right. History has multiple examples of this.

“The one thing that gives me hope is that the women who can protest and organise, are doing so, and they have some truly decent men and trans people alongside them. Political parties seeking to appease the loudest voices in this debate are ignoring women’s concerns at their peril. In the UK, women are reaching out to each other across party lines, concerned about the erosion of their hard-won rights and widespread intimidation. None of the gender critical women I’ve talked to hates trans people; on the contrary. Many of them became interested in this issue in the first place out of concern for trans youth, and they’re hugely sympathetic towards trans adults who simply want to live their lives, but who’re facing a backlash for a brand of activism they don’t endorse. The supreme irony is that the attempt to silence women with the word ‘TERF’ may have pushed more young women towards radical feminism than the movement’s seen in decades.”

Again, more fear mongering, because women’s rights are not being repealed or altered by granting similar rights to trans men and trans women. I find it entertaining that JK Rowling ironically fails to see that trans people are not the loudest voice, when she has clearly been the loudest voice internationally and has gained huge amounts of attention from her words, much more than any trans person has about this subject. Gender critical people feigning concern for trans youth aren’t excusing the harm their ideology does to trans youth (one example is the idea that trans youth must wait until 18 or even 25 to transition to be sure, and not ruin their fertility or body). Then comes the idea that the ‘good trans people’ who agree with JK Rowling and gender critical feminists and TERFs are getting a bad name from the trans people who just want to be allowed to change for the gym and pee in the right changeroom or bathroom. If more cis women are becoming transphobic, it has much more to do with loud voices like JK Rowling than it does with trans people, again, just fighting for equal rights and protections under the law.

“The last thing I want to say is this. I haven’t written this essay in the hope that anybody will get out a violin for me, not even a teeny-weeny one. I’m extraordinarily fortunate; I’m a survivor, certainly not a victim. I’ve only mentioned my past because, like every other human being on this planet, I have a complex backstory, which shapes my fears, my interests and my opinions. I never forget that inner complexity when I’m creating a fictional character and I certainly never forget it when it comes to trans people.

All I’m asking – all I want – is for similar empathy, similar understanding, to be extended to the many millions of women whose sole crime is wanting their concerns to be heard without receiving threats and abuse.”

I find it deeply troubling that JK Rowling chose this moment to come out as a survivor. It is extremely manipulative, claiming not to want sympathy, when she knows all decent people will feel hurt for her going through such experiences, and weaponizing it for her transphobic agenda. JK Rowling cannot expect empathy and understanding from any trans people or activists until she stops actively advocating and spreading ideology that directly works against the fight for equal rights and protections for trans people, that in no way infringes on the rights and protections for women. Until she stops trying to twist everything about trans rights into her own victimization, she will be stuck in the classification of transphobe, and TERF is she continues to align her views with radical feminism.

#jk rowling #transphobia #terf #important #long post #not hp

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