#it's just that people lump the two together even though they are VERY DISTINCT | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

callsign-phoenix · 1 year

Text

I wrote this because I felt like it, I hope you like it.

It is a Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x gn!reader fic.

Thank you @footprintsinthesxnd for proofreading!

Warnings: angst, open relationship (Jake has a girlfriend)

The moment you had first met Jake Seresin you had fallen head over heels in love with him.

It had started slowly, the moment you had first shaken his hand, the flirty grin on his face filling your body with a sense of comfort you had rarely ever felt.

You were an engineer and as such responsible for his plane on deployment so you quickly became inseparable.

You both loved hanging out together and flirting with each other, it started out as friendly banter when he told you he had a girlfriend.

You were disappointed but decided that just being friends was better than to stop seeing him, from past friendships with people who had been in relationships you had learned how to suppress your feelings if you needed to.

Your friendship blossomed and the two of you were happy, jokingly flirting back and forth as two people who were both attractive did, with the shield of his relationship keeping a barrier between you that was an important distinction for you to not fall for him.

It went on for months until the two of you met up at the Hard Deck, finding a calmer corner like usual and sitting down to talk.

Jake was as flirty as usual, his hand grazing your back just a hint too long, like you were used to.

The moment you sat down, his flirty grin dropped for a few moments, his eyes searching your face before the landed on the glass of beer he was holding.

“You know, Sarah and I decided on opening up our relationship. I still very much love her and I want to be with her, but I just felt like sometimes I’d like to be intimate with other people too, as long as it’s not feelings involved,” he said casually, and a lump built up in your throat that took your breath away for a few seconds.

You didn’t quite know what to say because you didn’t know why he had told you, you were close but his relationship wasn’t something that concerned you., Yyou knew his girlfriend and she was perfectly nice, even if you had talked to her multiple times and couldn’t remember a single thing you had talked about.

“Yeah I brought that up to her and she took some time to think about it, she came to me with an answer a few days ago. I just wanted to tell you, in case you hear something about it,” he said nonchalantly, his eyes not leaving yours, even when you finally averted your gaze.

There was a feeling of uncertainty in your chest and you tried not to think too much about it or interpret too much into it, this was just your friend telling you about his life after all.

The next few times you met you were as unsure as when he had told you, and you felt his eyes on you more than you had before.

You didn’t quite know what you wanted to happen but you felt your heart racing more often and your eyes were glued on him more than ever before, taking in the way his lips pulled up in a smile any time you saw each other and the way his eyes softened when he looked at you.

To say it didn’t affect you would have been a lie, you enjoyed his interest and attention, the compliments and flirtations, even if you knew you weren’t allowed to enjoy it too much.

You met up more and more often and with time some barriers vanished, he started randomly touching you and occasionally staring at you, buying you beer and coffees and generally comforting you with just his presence.

You knew it wasn’t right but you simply felt safe with him, the general anxiety you felt around everyone else and even when you were on your own disappeared the moment he stepped into your field of vision.

It wasn’t fair to you and you weren’t honest with yourself, you tried to ignore the way your heartbeat quickened when he touched you or the way it longed for him whenever you looked at him.

You kept your distance even though you allowed yourself to look at him the way you felt, not hiding anything from him and hoping there would be a change, in whichever direction you didn’t know.

Jake came over to your place more often and you just spent the evenings eating, drinking and watching tv in the comfort of each other’s presence, joking around and flirting as well, just like you always did.

Jake was the one to compare your relationship to those of a soon to be couple with a lot of sexual chemistry on screen and he was the one to ask if you wanted to come cuddle and you simply complied.

You certainly weren’t innocent in the situation but you just lay in his arms, while he started to caress the skin of you arm and the back of your hand, intertwining your fingers a little and smelling your hair more than once.

He had to ask what had happened on screen repeatedly, telling you that you were too distracting, while you just soaked up every tiny detail you could before it would be over.

You knew in your heart that you and Jake wouldn’t end well but you just needed to enjoy the way he held you just a moment longer.

Jake sat like this with you until well into the night, holding you close and caressing you, telling you that you smelled good and that you were a distraction, all while you just cherished every single moment you could.

He was beautiful, caring and funny and you just had too many similarities for you to ignore them.

You were slowly falling in love with him and you couldn’t help it, you were selfish enough not to say anything because you needed to feel the way he held you or looked at you longer, you needed him and his affection, as much as you could get.

The next time you saw each other it was just strange, you were in public but still he came over to greet you, holding you just a second too long and looking at you with a small smile and soft eyes, holding your gaze just a bit too long and grazing your arm with his hand almost by accident.

He walked you home and the tension between you was palpable, neither of you wanting to say goodbye even though he had a birthday to attend with his girlfriend.

You hugged goodbye twice and the moment he was out of sight it left a hollow feeling in your chest, making you want to turn around and just run into his arms.

You resisted the urge and went home, trying not to think about it but ending up telling your friend all about the fact that you were falling in love.

When you saw him the next day Jake was more distant, that flirty grin lingering on his face for just a second but he didn’t hug you hello, which had a bitter feeling linger inside your chest.

He came inside your home and you watched a tv series, with him not once touching you, in harsh contrast to the days before.

You weren’t nervous but you were already a little sad, you could feel it coming, and after the episode finished Jake turned to look at you, his eyes searching for yours and holding your gaze, his as sad as yours.

“I talked to Sarah about the last time I was here. We decided that it was best to limit the people we get to see, none of them should be in our existing circle of friends,” he said and his eyes were trained on your face, while you nodded and looked away, the lump from your first ‘open relationship talk’ retuning to your throat.

“I mean what we had last time was dangerously close, and Sarah’s right, I’m spending too much time with you to risk it,” he went on, and your nod seeped away like the final bit of a rivulet coming from a stream of water.

Nevertheless, a whispered ‘you’re right’ left your lips.

There was a deafening silence between you before you spoke up again, neither of you being able to look each other in the eye.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered and he nodded, his eyes followed yours to the couch you were both sitting on, with a safe distance between you.

“I don’t either, but that’s okay,” he added, before the silence engulfed you again.

After a while you heard him chuckle and his eyes searched yours, a hopeful glint in them as he spoke up again.

“How’s it looking, the last cliffhanger has me hooked, would you want to watch another episode?” He asked, and you chuckled despite not feeling it.

You didn’t quite press play yet and Jake spoke up again, trying to sound cheerful even if you knew there was something weighing down the both of you.

“Hey, friends?” He asked you as if it were a business deal, and you decided to go for the option you hoped would be least painful for both of you.

Jo March’s quote ‘Of course, my boy, always’ from the 2019 movie adaptation of Little Women rang in your ears as you reached out to offer your hand to shake, a boyish grin playing around your lips.

“Friends,” you agreed despite feeling a sting in your chest that you tried to ignore, as well as the feeling of his firm, warm and strong hand that wrapped around yours as he returned your grin.

You continued watching the episode and only when he left did you let yourself cry, the way your arms wrapped around your body in search for comfort only reminding you of his, and the smell of his perfume etched into the couch cushions did nothing to give you peace of mind.

tagging: @starkleila @mayhem24-7forever @green-socks @letsfvckingdance @shadeds-library @a-reader-and-a-writer @yespolkadotkitty @whateverbagman @neptunes-curse @sweetheartlizzie07 @top-gun-rooster @iloveprettyboysblog @ateliefloresdaprimavera @imjess-themess @littlebadariell @angstyjellybean @marchingicenotes7 @midget713 @supernaturaldawning @gspenc @adorephina @gigisimsonmars @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @bespinnn @the-makingsofgreatness @malindacath @aerangi @kassieesworld @kwanimations @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @marvelandotherfandomimagines @luckyladycreator2 @mavericksicybabe @kendra-rose @desert-fern @mavrellover91 @allivingstone01 @rhettabbotts @withakindheartx @trikigirl271 @cherrycola27 @bonitanightmxres @ratcatcher2world @glowingtree @wingmanvenus @classyunknownlover @oliviah-25 @natasharomanoffisbaebby @kmsryles343

(please tell me if you want to be added to the taglist, or use this link)

#jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin imagine #jake seresin x you #hangman top gun #top gun hangman #jake seresin imagine

140 notes · View notes

sibyl-of-space · 7 days

Text

been thinking a lot about the "im joining the war on pretentiousness on the side of the pretentious" and how it is affirming my elitist need to be Specific And Pedantic about the term "Classical Music"

i used to think people who were pedantic about that were pretentious assholes, and that's probably true, but the more i have learned about 20th century western music history the more i think being specific about that shit matters. i don't expect everyone on planet Earth who wants to talk about dead guy music to know exactly which period every piece of music ever was written in, and i think the term is used to describe a category of music that is useful to discuss because it IS treated as a category, but i also think the category sucks.

when people use "classical music" to refer to basically the Generally Agreed Upon White People Canon Of Dead Guy Western European Composers, i want to emphasize that they include works that span about 4 actual centuries of lived human experience and shove them all together completely devoid of context.

There are two equally sucky reasons for why I hate it.

Composers who were writing music that was intended to be uncomfortable, fucked up, experimental, specifically a reaction to previous ""classical"" music categories.... just get lumped in with them because in hindsight it was "decided" that their music is also Qualified to be Elevated to the same Standard TM.

The circumstances in which some 20th century compositions were deemed Good Enough to be Elevated to ""classical"" are SO FUCKING POLITICAL.

On point 1:

Basically everything written in the early 20th century was a response to how sick everyone was of the Romantic era. Mahler and Debussy were parts of very different reaction movements (maximalism and symbolism respectively) but both of them intentionally broke Romantic-era rules because they were sick of them. The shit Debussy did to harmony was BONKERS by the standard of the turn of the century.

(He also totally appropriated scales and motifs from gamelan, which is both an interesting historical result of the World Fair and a newly globalizing world, and also still kind of shitty and worth acknowledging that orientalist exoticism was a huge part of his clout. I'm not about to start a debate on influence vs appropriation here, but regardless it's worth knowing about.)

It's honestly kind of a disservice to the radical innovation of some of these composers to lump them with the exact kind of music they were explicitly being a distinct reaction to. This isn't just for 20th century composers; it's true for just about every movement encapsulated in the ""classical"" umbrella. Romantic music broke the rules of the Classical era the same way Classical music broke the rules of the Baroque era. All of them have deep relationships to emerging technologies and the geopolitical circumstances in which they emerged, but I am a nerd for the early 20th century specifically so I know way more about that than the other ones, sorry. I WILL say that I am practiced in Baroque cello though, and at its heart BAROQUE MUSIC HAS MORE IN COMMON WITH JAZZ THAN ROMANTIC ERA MUSIC. I AM DEAD SERIOUS ABOUT THIS. The emphasis on improvisation, no conductors, listening and handing off solos, using figured bass/lead sheets, I could go on!

And while this is obviously focused on Western Europe, what exactly ""counts"" as Western Europe is ALSO insanely political - but that's its own post.

((i am resisting the urge to write 43892048 paragraphs about the Ballets Russes here.))

On point 2:

Do you know that one of Shostakovich's most-played symphonies even today is his fifth? "why do i care about that" because his early career was defined by writing supercool weird modernist shit and also drew from what the weird modernist composers in Western Europe were doing, and then when Stalin came into power, Shostakovich was basically met with "stop doing that disgusting degenerate shit or you are dead," and his fifth symphony was written out of fear for his fucking life to an "acceptable" standard of "innovative, but not TOO innovative. if it doesn't sound good your ass is dead. you need to write us Good Russian Music or else."

so his fifth symphony is Good Russian Music that was acceptable to those in power, unlike his degenerate weirdcool stuff from earlier.

and it is THAT symphony that is his lasting legacy to the world, divorced of context and just presented as "this sounds good, doesn't it? :)" almost a century later.

DO YOU SEE WHY IT MATTERS TO BE SPECIFIC ABOUT THIS STUFF?

"i dont like weird modern art/music that looks/sounds bad" thats cool! i respect that! but you should probably also know that in the 20th century a lot of nasty people used "music should sound good" to invent ahistorical bleached national identities and often killed people making music that DIDN'T sound good, so the right of musicians to make weird horseshit is really important. the end

(also any time some nazi douchebag tries to talk about music they are spouting wrong ahistorical horseshit 10000% of the time and you should bludgeon them with european music history textbooks.)

#this got incoherent #anyway #i am joining the war on pretentiousness on the side of the pretentious.#music history! sort of #listen i have also used the umbrella Classical Music term because sometimes you need to refer to that collection of music BUT WE SHOULD ALS #KNOW THAT THE UMBRELLA SUCKS ASS

6 notes · View notes

horizon-verizon · 8 months

Note

I am Palestinian and there is absolutely no characteristic of Palestinian culture in Dorne or the Martells. Their stans only use racial stereotypes about us & orientalist characterization to justify it and prove that the Dornish are “POC” in order to make them seem oppressed, and are pushing even more racism and orientalism towards MENA populations.

According to them, the Dornish are simultaneously Arab, Desi, Amazigh, Iranians, Turkish, and sometimes, Latinos. North African, West Asian, and South Asian countries are lump together as one monolithic “brown people” entity. 30+ countries with multiple, unique, and diverse cultures and religions, very distinct from each other. The Martells simultaneously celebrate Diwali and goes to Hajj. Why would the Dornish follow Hinduism or Islam ?? They largely follow the Faith of the Seven, the Westerosi Catholic Church.

For their edits, they use pictures of the Alcazar of Seville or the Alhambra, castles located in SPAIN, and fancast drop-dead gorgeous INDIANS actresses like Deepika Padukone, Freida Pinto, Aishwarya Rai as Elia (“a kitchen drab”....) or adult Rhaenys. Or Dev Patel as Young Griff. They keep using the screenshot of GRRM listing Palestine as one of his inspiration for Dorne to justify their headcanons, so why do they keep insisting on using Bollywood movies, Indian actors, Indian monuments, saris, etc ?? The only common points between the Alcazar of Seville/Alhambra and the Taj Mahal are the Islamic architecture and the engraving of Quranic verses.

Disclaimer: EDITED, Long, and Repetitive bc of attempt at clarity and Reminding Readers

Maybe coming from this post (I've gone back and edited it with corrections)?

I think it's because people really want to see PoC representation in their high fantasy literature, which is completely valid. However, yeah, the Dornish aren't Palestinian-coded nor Arab/SouthAsian/etc.-coded...I mean, they mainly worship the Seven, too, the Westerosi polytheistic version of Catholicism. So they can't necessarily be 1-1 like Palestine in terms of culture & ethnicity, even though the ME does have Judaism & Christian peoples. Again, Dorne--as far as was told & shown--mainly worship the Seven. (look to section "B", point #1)

The Point: A singular major, past, centuries-old event of intermarriage before the Targs arrived is not a continuous event. The Dornish are nor and have never been subjected to become a state under the Westerosi crown for there to even be a commencement of racialization as by the would-be conquerors of said situation.

The Rhoynar marrying pre-Rhoynar Dornish peoples happened in a few isolated incidents. Afterward, the people became what they now are and after many decades & centuries,

THEREFORE,

they do not have that "two people" identity anymore. They are just "Dornish".

Their ancestry is always brought up mainly because of their custom of noblewomen being equally as able and seen as worthy to rule as their men, esp the Martells. To compare them to Westerosi farther up.

Doylistically, on the one hand, people could claim that the Dornish could claim PoC-ness or be easily adapted into being played by PoC actors in the real modern sense by who they are descended from -> an Essosi people who had darker skin. Yet the Valyrians and Andals--who themselves come from Essos originally!--are "white" by the 1st being "proto-English with a Catholic religious analog and the 2nd being an ancient Rome-analog"?!

The Dornish are not Rhoynish either just because they are descended from the Rhoynar who--a very long time ago (centuries, before the conquest)--intermarried with Andal-descended lords and presumably smallfolk. Ethnically, they are something else entirely (maybe Andal-Rhoynar but that seems insufficient) their own thing from their unique history.

So, we have "Moor" descendants marrying "white" Christian Spaniards. So, like Spaniards and Italians, they seem the "lesser whites" which still makes N.Euro descent and N.Euro look at Italians, Spaniards, or those in Central EU as "lesser whites". Meaning that they have both Andal and Rhoynish roots with the Rhoynish equal primogeniture and opener-sexuality and little-to-no bastard stigma really defining its difference from those Westerosi further north. Dorne is a state with various skin-colored but seemingly non-racialized people (internally, not how the Andal-FM nor Daeron I characterize Dorne) and the Dornish people are a unique ethnic group.

And because race has always been about power and not culture. And the Dornish have always maintained their independence before Daeron II when they voluntarily--for the most part--finally became a vassal state under the feudal royal crown of Westeros.

Before I get into it, "olive" skin is supposed to mean:

moderate or lighter tan or brownish skin, and it is often described as having tan, brown, cream, greenish, yellowish, or golden undertones

Therefore, anyone of any race can have an "olive" tone to their skin:

I was one of those who watched the show before I read the book, and I thought the Martells were PoC and I did some research. Apparently, Oberyn looks like this to one semi-canon source:

🎨 Credit: Magali Villeneuve

And his description:

has the features of a salty Dornishman [more below in section C, but: "These Dornishmen are lithe and dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair, having been most strongly influenced by the Rhoynar"]. He is a tall, slender, graceful, and fit man, and has a lined and saturnine face with thin eyebrows, black "viper" eyes and a sharp nose. His hair is lustrous and black, with only a few silver streaks, and recedes from his brow in a widow's peak.

Arianne looks something like this in one source:

🎨: tiziano baracchi

Darker than "olive" Her description:

is buxom and beautiful, with olive skin, large dark eyes and long, thick black hair that falls in ringlets to the middle of her back. She has full lips, a husky voice, and round ripe breasts with huge dark nipples. Favoring her mother Mellario, Arianne is short, standing at five foot two.

Mellario was from the Essosi "Free City" city of Norvos but their skin color is not really described.

Oberyn's daughters all have different complexions and mothers of different origins, Westerosi and Essosi (all descriptions from the official wiki):

Obara -- "big-boned woman near to thirty, long-legged, with close-set eyes and with the same rat-brown hair of her mother which she sometimes ties in a knot. She strides quickly and angrily. Obara has callused hands and can have a mannish look." -- mother: unnamed Oldtown prostitute

Nymeria -- "slim and slender as a willow, with straight black hair worn in a long braid which pulls back from a widow's peak. She has dark eyes which are large and lustrous. Her full lips are wine red and curve in a silken smile, and she has high cheekbones. Areo Hotah describes Nym as having pale white skin in A Feast for Crows but mentions her olive skin in A Dance with Dragons." -- unnamed noble Volantene, specifically of the "Old Blood" - Volantis, another Free City in Essos

Tyene -- "is fair, with golden hair and deep blue eyes. Dimples bloom in her cheeks, and she has a gentle, sweet voice" -- mother: a septa from the Reach

Sarella -- "light brown skin" -- mother: the Summer Islander captain of The Feathered Kissed ship

Elia -- black hair/"her black braid flying behind her" (The Winds of Winter, Arianne I) -- mother: Ellaria Sand

Obella, Dorea, and Loreza -- no description as of Nov 5, 2023 -- mother: Ellaria Sand

Ellaria Sand is supposed to look like this:

🎨: amok

Her description:

Although not accounted as a beautiful woman, Ellaria is regarded as attractive and eye-catching, with an exotic, sensuous flair. She has black hair.

AND

"black-haired paramour" & "She is not truly beautiful, she [Sansa] thought, but something about her draws the eye." (A Storm of Swords; Sansa IV)

And Doran Martell (currently reigning as the Prince of Dorne) has no canonical physical description aside from "His body is soft and shapeless, and the gout has swollen and reddened the joints of his knees, toes, and hands." However, since he is Oberyn's brother we can assume that he most likely has similar "salty Dornish" coloring.

The anon of the first linked post all the way up above: "GRRM himself has said that the closest equivalent of Dorne to the real world is the Moorish influences of Spain, and mentions PALESTINE and Wales as being two other influences. Literally his own words. Even in Game of Thrones, they filmed the Water Garden scenes in the Alcazar of Seville, a beautiful Moorish castle in Spain. That castle was literally built by Muslims and incorporates verses from the Quran and countless traditional Arabic and Islamic architectural elements".

You: "there is absolutely no characteristic of Palestinian culture in Dorne or the Martells. Their stans only use racial stereotypes about us & orientalist characterization to justify it and prove that the Dornish are “POC” in order to make them seem oppressed, and are pushing even more racism and orientalism towards MENA populations" AND "North African, West Asian, and South Asian countries are lump together as one monolithic “brown people” entity." AND "They keep using the screenshot of GRRM listing Palestine as one of his inspiration for Dorne to justify their headcanons, so why do they keep insisting on using Bollywood movies, Indian actors, Indian monuments, saris, etc ?? The only common points between the Alcazar of Seville/Alhambra and the Taj Mahal are the Islamic architecture and the engraving of Quranic verses."

If we are talking about race vs ethnicity & the rise of racism from religious or ethnic differences and a desire for colonial domination...

Dornish people mainly live in their own principality or a kind of state controlled by a "prince" or "princess" that is actually unlike the Rhoynar cities because there were multiple "city-states" under several Rhoynar princes and princesses who, while sharing a language, also likely had different laws and sub-styles of the dress and think of themselves as culturally/ethnically different from each other.

Thus in terms of Dornish people being oppressed or experiencing racial oppression alone (bc with race comes the oppression you cannot separate these twon phenomena since race as a constuct was specifically created for several human right violations and power hierarchies), we cannot compare Dornish people nor the Dornish state to Palestinian refugees and Palestinians living under an apartheid. They are not the same, they are not living under the same conditions of racial or ethnic terror. And yes, a lot of Palestinian people out of this region of the Middle East draw a large part of their Palestinian identity from their memories and terms with the Nakba and the effects of said event that exist today and have been for more than 50 years. What I'd say is similar is that many Dornish may also draw some of their identity from their continued resistance to conquest...but the Dornish are not resisting ethnic cleansing, genocide, or racial extinction. The first Targaryen attempts at conquest were decidedly non-ethnic-cleansing so much as just your average kind of "conquest" that Andal, nonDornish Westerosi have performed against each other before the Daenys and her father ever settled at Dragonstone. Yes, Westerosi can be xenophobic towards Dornishmen but that includes the "stone", fair-skinned Dornishmen as we see from the continuous marcher vs Dornish conflicts over land & grudges/vendettas over past conflicts/deaths.

What are some traits of Palestinians or Palestinian culture that another anon was trying to say the Dornish currently have?

"Game of Thrones"--"filmed the Water Garden scenes in the Alcazar of Seville, a beautiful Moorish"

"the Quran and countless traditional Arabic and Islamic architectural elements"

"Moorish", as Medieval and early-mod period EUs used, referred to Muslim Arab-speakers. Aside from North Africans, Arabs, and Amazigh did include Muslim Europeans, because Islam itself was the defining basis for their difference from those Christian Europeans and the regions where people who adopted Islam or Islamic states dominated where those N.Africans, Arabs, and Amazigh lived. In a medieval context, DOUBLY SO.

Once again, Dorne does not worship any Rhoynish god & their official religion is decidedly of the Faith of the Seven (aside from those of the Greenblood, but these are not a large part, a dominant, nor very influential part of the Dornish population).

Nowhere did GRRM say that the Welsh inspiration only applied to the stony Dornish. Why do people think this? Perhaps because these are the ones closest to the Marches and thus fighting often with Reach/Stormland marchers, they'd be the most Welsh/Irish-like. The Welsh/Irish/Scottish inspiration, however, is the fight for separation from a conquering centralizing entity--societal/governmental separation from the rest of Westeros--& having a separate identity from that almost like Northmen seeing themselves as different culturally and ethnically from "southorn" Andal people and vice versa bc of their different customs regarding the allowed genders to rule that come from Rhoynar customs.

While there will be Rhoynish elements to fashion, architecture, metalworking, and inflection of the Common Tongue (accent)...it does not stop the Dornish from, again:

recognizing that their state language is the Common Tongue [the Red Princes & some of their descendants of the Martells tried to eradicate the use of the Rhoynish language from the Red Princes] even though many of the Dornish's accents are very influenced by the Rhoynar to the current day

worshipping the Seven and not Rhoynish gods

having some elements of Andal fashion and architecture along with Andal ones, even if the "stony" Dornish have more Andal influence in dress, etc. [think of Spain and its Arab or Islamic architecture...Spain is a European country]

having a class system similar to Andal-FM Westeros: aristocracy, or the "ruling class" vs everyone else [less about the culture here, more about hierarchy structure which is not the same as a culture]

No matter how far down south or into the desert we go. Of course, dress will change in different Dornish regions' climates but also by class and/or wealth.

And this is said screenshot of GRRM talking about the influences that made Dorne what it is ("So Spake Martin", 2000):

"flavor given the culture [previous Andal Dorne preNymeria] by the great Rhoynar influx"

"South of the wall a hot, dry country more like Spain or Palestine [not just Palestine, and this was referring to climate in the first place, not culture]"

"Moorish influence [not dominant power or overlord] in parts of Spain [not an African, Asian, etc. region, again, emphasis on it being like Spain with an "outsider" "influence"]"

"Dorne is Wales mixed with Spain and Palestine with some entirely imaginary influences mixed in" [emphasis on Dorne being claimed as an amalgamation with just one PoC real-world state with PoC populations]

People need to see GRRM's "mixing and matching", and no "non-for-one transplants" regarding PoC influences. Westeros, though obviously an England/Anglo-Saxon "transplant", is still not exactly historically like England in that Dorne is similar but not equal to Wales or Spain or Turkey/Palestine yet not itself equal to a Caliphate due to religion and language.

However, aside from the Dornish not really even being a part of a racialized state under a dominant power racialized as superior, this is what GRRM says about the Dornish and Martells (his blog, 2013):

This is about what GRRM said in terms of JUST physical appearance -> "As for the Dornishmen, well, though by and large I reject one to one analogies, I've always pictured the "salty Dornish" as being more Mediterranean than African in appearance; Greek, Spanish, Italian, Portugese, etc. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin. Pedro Pascal is Chilean. (Check out Amok's version of the Red Viper, that's how I saw him. Or Magali Villenueve's beautiful and sexy portrait of Princess Arianne)."

And this was one of the responses:

Most relevant piece bc it mirrors the anon's definitions of race: "If Alessandro de'Medici was the Duke of Florence, why not a brown man as the Prince of Dorne? Even now, with your description of Dorne as "Mediterranean," I immediately think of the vastness of the region, which saw so much North African and Middle Eastern influence."

This entire exchange on GRRM's website reveals that originally the Martells/most Dornish were inspired by EU Mediterranean people, like the Portuguese or Spaniards, Greeks and Italians.

While it's certainly possible bc of the proximity of geographical locations within the Mediterranean regions and the population makeup of various Italian states including "Moor" and darker-skinned folks, we don't know for absolutely certain if Alessandro de Medici truly had a slave-servant mother or otherwise an Arab/African mother--he was one man whom many in those upper circles wanted gone for their own rise to power.

Unfortunately, while there shouldn't be anything wrong with being of a woman with a different ethnicity or religion, claiming that he was from a "Moor" mother would be a way for other people to try to diminish his reputation and likeness-peerage with those in court as Alicent and the greens trying to claim Rhaenyra was unfaithful to Laenor and that her kids with him are actually bastards to ruin her reputation. It wouldn't be about the "truth" so much as swaying public opinion with certain details of appearance. A political strategy.

At the same time, who knows, perhaps they used the fact of him looking darker than a lot of EUs around them...but the EUs themselves have married N.Africans and also came in several "shades"...so yeah.

If we are only talking Watsoniansly/in-world/in-text vs modern ethnic (not racial) identities, your mother being a "Moor" or Muslim did not make you yourself a Muslim, Moor, or racially "Black" or Arab, and "biracial"/"mixed race"--as a racial term or category of Blackness or whiteness--wasn't a thing for these Italians.

One man/a few people in higher circles or in power doesn't make the entire family or state PoC when most of them appear pale, speak a specific Italian dialect, AND live under European customs forever after and before.

His presence did not recreate the entire Medici or anyone descended from them into Africans/Arabs ethnically nor racially. "Racially", he would have been seen as "more" "noble Italian Christian" than anything, even with some using his skin to liken him to the socially suspected, racialized "Moors". And just because there were absolutely NA. and M.E. influences in many non-EU and EU music, literature, architecture, etc., doesn't make every Mediterranean person PoC. (We find out that the idea of courtly love partially was influenced by an Islamic mystical conception of love itself as being "a delightful disease, as demanding of faithful service" [coming from Crusade contact]. It doesn't suddenly mean that "Italy" [one of the first regions to pass down such things through Petrarch] became/was/is a PoC region. Still doesn't make Italians PoC.)

RACE - Mediterranean/Italian/Spaniard/Portuguese/Southern Europeans have BOTH been racialized as "lesser" whites in early modern period European AND have the closest proximity to the "best" whiteness that always becomes THE definition of "white" under pre-WWII phrenology and eugenic scientific racism. "Best" becomes "true", never leaving its own hierarchy but always able to retreat back into its own "absolute naturality" to justify that created hierarchy. These two things came hand in hand and justified each other because both sought to "prove" that "biological and behavioral characteristics were fixed and unchangeable, and placed individuals, populations and nations inside of that hierarchy" through skull measurements...which itself comes from that medieval idea of one's "nobility" or lack thereof being indicative in appearance.

As I said above, even today, some white people of Protestant-N.European backgrounds sometimes look at Italians/Italian-descent people through their stereotypes of being "hotblooded", and hypersexual "white" people. This is most definitely an element of racialization. These "other" whites are those descended from the NorthWestern regions of Europe (England, France, Germany, and Scandinavia/Nordic people).

c. HOWEVER!!!!! [now we're talking TV adaptations]

The user in the pics above who wished for more PoC representation in the TV and book series through the Martells makes a good point that "Mediterranean" doesn't have to be limited to the European Med regions and peoples. Because N.African, ME, etc. peoples (those not racially classified as "white") are also directly connected to the Mediterranean Sea: Turkey, Egypt, Palestine, Libya, Algeria, etc...it's weird how race makes us consider these people not Mediterranean, but that's race for you, it denies culture and ethnicity for the sake of "white" supremacy

GRRM does conflate the general Mediterranean with EU Med, and that's because the racial category "Mediterranean" defines "Mediterranean" as "white people from Spain, Italy, etc"

While there weren't "black", "PoC", "brown" racial categorizations in any Arthurian legends nor the societies that these came from, there were racializations (as in descriptions and sense of the person that made them different by look by some "degree" even if not toally by "kind") of characters that were told to be of different/non-EU origins.

they were expressing the racial problems with GRRM's original intent for the Martells and some Dornish to be imagined as those who'd be categorized as PoC or brown in the modern world, telling us that there is room for PoC in-world leaders and nobles as there were in Arthurian legends and other medieval romances

They were right to point out the overall, serious difference in how most PoC-confirmed or imagined or similar people were more "supporting characters" to specific "white" characters and that there was a transmedia need for more diversity where the PoC-acted/played characters in adaptations since the original works AND adaptations are made for racialized audiences of the modern world.

Like with Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre--where Rochester's first, "mad" wife, Jamaica-born, Creole-heritage Bertha Mason, aka Bertha Antoinetta Rochester--we see a lot of debate over characters' racial identities between white and PoC readers in multiple EU pieces of literature. This is a thing descended from that academic conflict that is sociopolitically motivated.

The documented hot refusal from many white historians and "lay" white readers to even contemplate the possibilities of a PoC-featured-character (positively or not) under certain circumstances comes from the enduring acceptance and expectation that most mainstream media will have whiteness at the center and default of the story. That the media is created and will be created and should be created for white audiences. which is exactly what we should be breaking.

So, I believe that the reason we have people saying the Martells are PoCs is because they saw the definite potential of modern racialization from the precursors of true racial categories happening in ASoIaF that can become like those in real modern societies; they wanted to see themselves or their experiences in the fiction they engage with, just like that user above. Just like that commentator. So they use South East Asian clothes and other things to fan cast/re-cast/reimagine even after what GRRM has made bc before then they have already built that picture for years since they read the main series and before the show aired.

When English/NW Europeans and pre-1800s writers say things like "swarthy" or "tall, dark, and handsome", they were not usually saying this person was as dark as a Western African but they may sometimes use racial/color ideology to characterize a EU white person as "too passionate", "blustering", "angry", and "lacking enough proper restraint". GRRM is the same, as he tells us in the picture above from his blog!

And since we can't always detect a person's race or lineage just by looking at them, it also still means that they may have African or Middle Eastern ancestry. Then we got to ask ourselves when and where do some of our (mostly the U.S. I refer to, but other countries' racial categories are still very different) definitions of race need to overshadow the text/past racial categorizations and racializations? It's even stranger when you realize that even caring about something like this comes from a very specific history series of particular events of people performing racialization.

But even though the now-Dornish are a people who have been forever changed by pre-Rhoynar Dornish men's intermarriages with Rhoynar women, their kids (and not the nonDornish Westerosi) were the ones to determine what Dorne would look like.

Though they seem to match the definition of a "mixed race" and therefore are equal to persons racialized as "PoC" today, in many societies like the U.S. (one-drop and grandfather clause), that simply doesn't exist for Dorne because there was no nonDornish oppressive power that defined legal racial definitions that affected their infrastructure or made them second-class citizens for them to then develop their own ethnicity like Black people in the U.S, which is its own race-ethnicity developed from legal and economic atrocities and racialization.

Most of the oppression common-born Dornish face is from Dornish aristocracy! Class-based rather than race or religion-based.

Yeah, there's a possibility that some people felt a sort of having two different identities as the kids and even grandkids of Nymeria's women and the pre-Rhoynar Dornish men, but without that element of another group enforcing a new racialization to further divide the Dornish (as Daeron I foreshadows or clues us in?!) all there is that shared history and Martell overlordship, and the Martells are one of those with the most Rhoynish/not-Andal-FM influence. Of course, most of Dorne will follow suit. There are no laws in place to determine who is "PoC", "Coloured", or "white" or any ASoIaF-fantasy version. They have a past/centuries-old and successful intermarrying between (mainly male) Martells and Nymeria's (mostly female) people WHILE having the same language and religion as the rest of Westeros, as well as other customs.

With the way GRRM made them, they are both "white" and not "white" (according to NorthWestern Europeans of the 1800s onwards) because "whiteness" as an actual race is not a thing in Westeros. And for the sake of readers looking for people to claim to have PoCness, whiteness itself has undergone several definitions according to the immediate political needs of those holding the higher positions of power or influence in the state or groups within states seeking political privileges from being racialized by that dominant society's legal and social systems.

This means they can be as "dark" as GoT Oberyn and even have what some modern people see as Arabic physical features (which kinda makes little sense bc Arabs share a lot of features with some "Med" Europeans, especially Turkish ones and Palestinian Arabs themselves have a spectrum of color, face shape, etc.) but we also see how they can be quite diverse in the canon with paler "stony" (not a true ethnicity, this is a racial category that Dornsih people do not see to acknowledge and therefore is not an ethnicity) people and Oberyn's paler daughter Tyene.

Refrain: The Summer Islanders, though, ARE DEFINITELY the "Black" people of Westeros. As GRRM says in the pic I showed.

Again, "race" existed AND continues to exist to differentiate the "inferior" people from the "superior" "white" race of paler-skinned, loose/flat-haired, North-Western-then-South European peoples whose ancestors they could trace or identify with most were Christians. Whether in Brazil, all EU countries, the U.S., etc. Yes, European people/countires can be and continue to be extremely discriminatory and racist, esp against Africans and Romans. Individually and legally.

In the modern world, race is categorized differently across today's world, as evidenced by what "black" means in Brazil vs the U.S.; the South African Coloured group vs "black" vs "white" vs "Indian" (apartheid race categories, and "Coloured" still is relevant and a sort of racial category in S.Africa today); "mestizos" vs "peninsulares" vs "mulattos" of various colonizations-slavery era-to-today S.American, Mesoamerican, Caribbean countries. All because "race" is a socially constructed category, made by culturally-ethnically external persons of power over another group. Ethnicity, however, is and has always been a factually independent phenomenon.

"PoCs" as a term in itself a racial term that means "anyone who is not pale skinned AND of long, consistently 'uninterrupted'/'impure'/ European descent". It is not an ethnic term or a name for an ethnic group.

Ethnicities are social groupings purely based on shared cultural heritage, descent (from specific other ethnicities), culture, religion, and/or language.

In this way, there are 3 main ethnicities in the whole of "Westeros", which are those of FM, Andal, and Rhoynish descent and we could even argue that there may be more unknown smaller groups. And none of these are racial groups! Two of the three also share the exact same religion and language and most customs barring sexuality and primogeniture (except those of the Greenblood, who still speak Rhoynish): those of Andal and those of Rhoynish descent. First Men-descent peoples of the North worship the old gods of pre-human Westeros.

Intermarriages between certain ethnic groups were not systematically and socially outlawed or discouraged to maintain the visible and legal distinctions between racialized groups in either Dorne nor not-Dorne. No ethnic or religious groups are banned from taking certain jobs or entering guilds; no particular groups were banned from living in certain areas or even traveling and using certain items and ways of travel. (We're talking about the humans, not the TWStSotE or the giants, bc we are doing ethnic groups, not totally different species.)

How do groups get racialized and prepped for legalized racialization? Governments--monarchies and aristocracies, here--attempting to better organize their control over populations and consolidate power after past and very recent conflicts with "foreigner-conquerors" like the Muslim conquest of Hispania by the Umayyad Caliphate, to whom the anon before referred (Limpieza de sangre).

Why are they "foreign", besides coming from a literally other region and culture? Medieval people's primary identity marker besides class was religion, and Muslims were considered actual enemies of Christian societies in Europe. People saw religion as the means by which people were "inherently" different:

Especially in a period like the Middle Ages, when religion meant membership of a community much more than adherence to a set of principles or beliefs, there was a sense in which one was born a Christian, a Muslim, or a Jew, just as one was born English or Persian. ("Medieval and Modern Concepts of Race and Ethnicity"--Robert Bartlett)

This is also why in medieval literature, Jewish people were referred to as "black" and "dark-skinned" pseudo-metaphorically, as Christians had the "true" faith and therefore were spiritually "bright" or closer to God's "light". And humoral theory, with Jewish people being conceived of as a people with a more melancholic constitution (black bile = melancholy -> night, evil, malice, envy):

The Isagogue, an Arabic introduction to Galenic medicine translated into Latin in the eleventh century, similarly explains that dark skin identifies black bile as the body's ruling humor. (8) The linking of black or dark skin with melancholy continues in European texts of the twelfth and thirteenth century. Short poems delineating humoral types circulate widely in the period; the "Melancholicus" is described as "envious and sad, greedy and close-fisted / not without deceit, fearful, and of mud color [lutei]. ("The Jewish body in black and white in medieval and early modern England"--M. Lindsay Kaplan)

Thus Jewish people were named "black" for their nonChristian-ness and thereby untrustworthy or "grasping" natures.

Then there is the separate history of the idea that "nobility" (as in "bravery", "virtue", and overall "good and attractive 'quality'") could be seen outwardly and obviously through physical features that curiously never actually get a consistent list or picture until the 1200s-1300s (it's always been at least grey eyes and/or blonde hair). We have to remember that the ancient Greeks and Romans were used as the medieval Europeans' inspirations for medicine, morality, philosophy, beauty standards, etc., and they themselves did not give highly detailed portraits of what makes a person "beautiful" or even in just describing women in other than vague, noncomparable terms or singular traits: Athena had "grey-eyes" and that's it...Aphrodite's hair was "long", Briseais was "tall", Chiseas was "not tall", and Hera had "nice arms". Their main concern was what men looked like and if their bodies looked "strong".

It wasn't until poets and bards of the 1200-1300s began to make lists of more features that made women attractive that we get more detailed portraits of "good-looking" people and men vs women attractiveness. (For women, the "best" became to have small and high breasts, grey eyes, blonde hair, pale skin, white teeth, a mouth like a rosebud in size and shape, wider hips, a plump butt, and finally a round and pudgy belly. Basically a "pear-shaped" body). And this turned into the literary device of the "blazon", which the medieval poets (Petrarch popularized it) and later early-modern period poets, dramatists, and other writers, as PoetryFoundation says:

A literary blazon (or blason) catalogues the physical attributes of a subject, usually female. The device was made popular by Petrarch and used extensively by Elizabethan poets.

describing and making the body as a list of individual parts instead of its own whole thing, so that parts of the body can be compared to other things and thus give a certain characterization to the subject that way. The subject themselves becomes less themselves and more the perspective and "dream" of the writer/audience.

And "racial and racist stereotypes—even ostensibly positive ones (such as “Asians are good at math”)—by definition, conflate and confuse biology and culture" ("Were Medieval People Racist?").

Combined -> the setup(s) for early modern-to-current racializations.

We do see some of this sort of attempt or precursor of solid racial categorization from the nonDornish towards Dornish people regardless of class: "salty", "sandy", "stony", and less known, those people who still speak Rhoynish and live by the Greenblood:

The "salty" vs "sandy" vs "stony" things are all exonymic proto-racial categorizations (like the term "Moor") that still don't present different real racial consequences among those Dornish.

Exonymic? Meaning that they are not categorizations made by the native people--noble or not.

It's not like Daeron I would have out-of-the-blue been able to create these categories without there already existing a socialized link between Rhoynish culture and "negative", not-patriarchal-enough nobility. Rhoynish influence/culture directly defines these categories. (But he didn't impose nor did an entire other group of people impose infrastructural change to Dornish society for the sake of their own created racial supremacy...ever.)

There are/were several battles and skirmishes between Stormlanders, Dornish, people of the Dornish Marches, and Reachmen Dornish. AWoIaF relates, "hot-bloodedness and sexual licentiousness, and are still viewed with some mistrust and rivalry by the people of the neighboring Dornish Marches and the Reach". Dorne's equal primogeniture (i.e., far less intense and critical misogyny) and freer sexuality are those things that are made more definitive of the Dornish's political difference and separation from the non-Dornish aristocrats at least at the time of Daeron II's court and marriage [zaldrizer-sovesi] AND "race" as a concept does not track equal to what we consider "race" and those racial experiences PoCs have in modern societies despite these definitions WHILE still indicating ethnic discrimination.

It's funny, because rather than the Jewish "melancholia" described above, the Dornish, by their nonDornish association, would be considered a "sanguine-choleric" people for their "hotbloodeness" and "sexual licentiousness" that really comes from:

a long history of skirmishes with other Andal peoples, then the first 3 Targs and still surviving as their own state, then those eternal ones for revenge and small pieces of resources between houses along the borders of Dorne to the north...leading to the fierce Dornish independent identity

comparatively freer sexualities and fewer sexual restrictions on gender roles (men and women, as men having sex with other men is very taboo and emasculating in the ND, "100%" Andal-FM culture)

and not treating women leaders as an anathema (equal primogeniture)

Yes, there is no racial Dornish diaspora like there is a Jewish or Black diaspora ("the dispersion or spread of a people from their original homeland" usually due to wars, violence, displacement, etc.). With Dorne and Dornish people being politically and culturally independent--both in idea and practically since before Daeron II's marriage to Myriah Martell--there were definitely Dornish people moving in and out of nonDornish Westeros and some would inevitably live in ND Westeros, these people are migrants-dual-subjects of a state that is still in all the ways it matters, independent. unlike Black people in the U.S. or Coloureds in S. Africa, whose governments historically and currently gave/enforced these categories developed from European-to-settler/colonist racialization. And unlike anti-Semitic/Islamophobic laws & anti-blackness and other real-world measures, there is no evidence of any oppressive laws or daily discrimination against Dornish communities (I'll say the Sylvenna Sand of Dance fame is an indication of Westerosi patriarchy looking at Dornish less-intense patriarchy as a lesser-"dangerous" identity maker).

Their "racial?" identities also do (yet, if it will go exactly like real life) not have the oppressive or racial context that enables people to argue that Rhaegar left Elia, didn't love her, or valued her and her position as his wife because he felt racially superior to her--esp with how we have no literary (symbols, metaphors, parallels in-text) nor direct evidence of Rhaegar seeing Elia through a racial bias as his father does with Rhaenys their daughter when she was presented (which is what this entire thing came from, as Elia/Martells stans claimed and what drives that argument in this post/reblog HERE).

It is that the Dornish will be considered the lesser "race" if there ever came a time when they were ever truly conquered and imperialized by ND peoples from Westeros. For now, it is far more accurate to say that there is ethnic bias against the Dornish or the Martells that could slide into racism.

GRRM created a world and fantasy series that is trying to simulate a medieval racialization of people WHILE also inevitably showing the roots of modern civilization, which are two different forms of racialization that are nevertheless connected. In other words, GRRM hasn't successfully made 1-1 analogs concerning race.

But does "origin"="being"? How and why?

Therefore, we do see a race or race existing in Westerosi ideologies, but it is BOTH not as prominent as how they regard how women should be treated AND comparatively more fluid to modern-day race and even changeable.

Refrain: The Summer Islanders, though, ARE DEFINITELY the "Black" people of Westeros. As GRRM says in the pic I showed. I have to repeat this because I can see people trying to take advantage of it.

In All...

A people of the first few "mixed" Rhoynar and "100%" Andal Dornish children from intermarriages that are no longer just "mixed" individuals. To claim that they are anything else is to begin the process of racialization, as such a phenomenon (intermarriages between previously separated ethnic groups to become a new distinct one) actually happens more often than not, and to make it unique to just the Dornish is to Other it for racial categorization, as NonDornish aristocrats probably would do. Fans refer to the state of "Westeros" as a "nation", it was not a nation but a territory of several states and smaller fiefs owned by nobles who collected taxes from local peasantry and probably gave a portion of that to the King/Monarch, keeping the "King's peace" (feudalism). The reason why there is a divide between "NonDornish" and Dornish people is the measure of how much Andal vs. Rhoynish culture makes the infrastructures and political practices in the respective regions, and there just so happens to be much more Andal-influenced regions and more people than Rhoynish-influenced without Andal culture becoming either true or "official" overlords over Dornish people in any unique or oppressive way different from how the Monarch is the "overlord" over a Stark, Karstark, Tarly, Hightower, Lannister, etc.

I think anon from that ask is saying that GRRM intended for the (arbitrary number) 80% of Dorne (therefore "Dorne") to be PoC and thereby make it a PoC state/people through choosing to mix several ME, SE, and N. African cultures's properties into a new fictional "Rhoynar" people. To them, this mix-match defines the Dornish as PoC because they see the Dornish people as being a "mixed-race" group of individuals like biracial children of modern interracial couples, and they continue to be biracial exactly as conceived until the current time of ASoIaF.

However, the modern "mixed-race" depends on the already existing races created by the world one lives in and only can be active and politically real races within a society with such definitions and dynamics of race built into its legal & education systems.

Still, though PoCs are historically and currently oppressed groups (aside from EU Jews, who were/are white and were continually oppressed) in places where European imperialism and colonialism reshaped previous societies, it's not correct nor wise to say that all or most PoCs draw their very being/humanity from discriminatory violence alone instead of the racialization oppressive groups performed because identity itself is not as simple or absolute and enduring as race and oppressive regimes try/tried to make. Or their ethnicity, like Black Americans. It's just that:

racial identity is political identity, not inherent or made "true" by those oppressive forces, that is exactly what those oppressors want (proving "might" = "right")

Elia would never have experienced anything equal to even what a richer PoC person does in the U.S. in terms of race

the Dornish are not PoCs!

Refrain: The Summer Islanders, though, ARE DEFINITELY the "Black" people of Westeros. As GRRM says in the pic I showed.

#asoiaf asks to me #asoiaf race #dorne #asoiaf ethnicities #elia martell #the martells #self correction

10 notes · View notes

best-non-english-word-torunament · 1 year

Note

I just wanted to point out that Bavarian is not only spoken in Austria but also, as the name suggests, in Bavaria (one of the German federal states) and other nearby regions like South Tyrol in Italy. There aren't even 14,5Mio people living in Austria so the "14,5Mio people speaking Bavarian in Austria part" is a factually wrong and that's not even counting all the people who live in Austria and don't speak this language, since for people whose first language isn't a variant of German they mostly speak Austrian Standard German there, which is very closely related to the Standard German spoken in Germany and mutually intelligible. The classification of Bavarian as it's own separate language is also highly contentious, most would consider it a dialect, I would think for political reasons, although I do grant you that it can be very hard to near impossible for Standard High Germans to understand sometimes. I hope I'm not coming across as too harsh, I'm just fascinated and passionate about the German languages XD love the bracket, keep up the good work <3

Hi! You're not coming across as too harsh and some of these corrections are very valid.

When looking it up again, I did get the number wrong. I used ethnologue, one of the two big catalogs of language, and I did use the numbers wrong. This is the quote since it's paywalled: "Population: 8,310,000 in Austria (European Commission 2012). Total users in all countries: 14,569,000". I don't know why I wrote it like that, Bavarian was the first language I wrote about so maybe confusion? Oachkatzlschwoaf was submitted as Bavarian/Austrian dialects of German, so that might have affected my perception too.

As for area, I will update for that too. It's a little bit misleading that languages are classed as originating in one country on ethnologue and significant populations in other countries being shown further down on the page. Anyways, it lists the number of speakers in Germany as 6 million as well as 250 000 in Italy and 9 000 in Czechia. Which areas a language is spoken in is also listed further up, but unless I know the names of provinces in other countries it's not always evident.

I also want to comment on the separate language thing. The classification I'm using for what is and isn't a language is Glottolog, which is good at classification and language family. It doesn't show more information though, just sources like grammars and papers on the language. I also know that Glottlog tends to split languages into smaller groups rather than lump together. It mostly uses the criterion of mutual intelligibility but also some sociopolitical reasoning, so while I use language in the linguistic sense, it might not be the same as what speakers would classify as a dialect or language.

On Ethnologue, Standard German speakers in Austria is listed as "182,000 in Austria (2017 Eurostat), based on nationality", so my guess is that the Austrian dialect is part of what they mean by Bavarian, and it can be incomprehensible to Germans or not, but they consider it similar enough to be the same thing. Everything about German is a continuum, so I'm not surprised that the borders you have to draw might be drawn based on country. I don't know exactly why they did the distinctions they did, but I'll keep it as a language spoken by 8,3 million in Austria (and add things about the other places).

Thank you!

#questions and answers #bavarian

4 notes · View notes

lewislyons · 2 years

Text

Get Knowledgable On Property Home mortgages Using These Suggestions

When folks think of home loans, they often times envision pushy loan providers and high rates of interest. When you know a good deal about the procedure of getting a home loan, you'll discover that these negative opinions keep your mind completely. https://glp-osm2014.org To learn all you are able, read the content material listed below which has been authored by specialists to provide you with the best advice accessible. Never quit talking with your lender, even though your finances has brought a change for your even worse. You will find too many people that surrender and do nothing when they're marine making use of their financial loan. The smart course of action is get in touch with the financial institution to renegotiate the conditions. You will discover which choices might be for you by phoning your house loan owner. Get pre-accepted for any mortgage loan prior to purchasing a new house. There is nothing a whole lot worse than locating the best house, only to find out that you just can't get accepted for a mortgage loan. By obtaining pre-accredited, you realize precisely what you can pay for. Moreover, your offer are often more alluring to a retailer. Deal with your financial institution in becoming pre-accepted. Pre-approval helps give you an understanding of methods significantly house you can truly manage. It'll keep you from putting things off checking out residences which are just away from your array. It'll also guard you spending too much money and adding your self in the situation where by home foreclosure could possibly be within your upcoming. Should your financial loan is refused, don't quit. Just consider with an additional lender. Lenders all search for various things. Because of this, it is sometimes beneficial to implement with several loan companies for the very best results. Possess the needed papers ready. There are a few files that you'll be likely to get once you come in to get a home mortgage. You'll have to provide lender records, taxes reviews, W-2 claims, as well as at the very least two shell out stubs. Having these in the completely ready will help make your meetings go much faster. Get yourself a pre-endorsement note for your personal mortgage loan. A pre-authorized home loan typically helps make the complete process transfer together more effortlessly. It may also help simply because you know how much you can afford to commit. Your pre-acceptance notice may also range from the interest you will be paying out so you will find a good plan what your payment per month is going to be before making a deal. Get mortgage estimates from at least 3 distinct home loan loan companies and three different banking institutions. By looking around, you can find a cheaper interest, shell out fewer things and spend less on shutting costs. It's typically preferable to get a fixed rate of interest. With factor costs, you may possibly not know from four weeks to calendar month what your house payment will likely be. Pay attention to loan companies. There are numerous firms happy to provide you money to finance your property. They are not all the same. Look at the standing of the financial institution and attempt to speak to individuals who have their financial loans through them. Standing take time and effort to conceal, and you will want to learn how your prospective financial institution manages organization. In no way obtain a new financial loan or make use of credit cards although waiting around for your house home loan to be authorized. This straightforward mistake has the potential of maintaining you against having your mortgage loan authorized. Make sacrifices, if required, to prevent charging everything to your charge cards. Also, make sure every settlement is gotten ahead of the thanks day. Think about having an escrow bank account linked with the loan. By together with your residence fees and homeowners insurance to your personal loan, it is possible to stay away from sizeable lump sum payment monthly payments annual. Which include these components of your house loan will slightly enhance the monthly instalment nonetheless, most people can afford this a lot more than creating a yearly income tax and insurance plan payment. Research prices for the very best mortgage loan terminology. Loan companies independently set up expression restrictions on their financial loans. By looking around, you can get a reduced monthly interest or reduced downpayment requirements. When shopping about, don't ignore home loan broker agents who have the capability to assist numerous creditors to locate you the best level. Since you've made it on the bottom part, there is only one issue remaining to complete. Utilize this discovering you have completed right now by looking for an outstanding house loan. It will be an easy procedure, as you now know a whole lot, so get started out as soon as possible.

#mortgage #mortgage rates

1 note · View note

swordgayist · 3 years

Text

cultural appropriation in ATLA (hinduism edition)

i’m sure there’s already a ton of posts about this, but whatever, i’m still making one idc.

ATLA’s cultural appropriation, everyone knows about it, the white people don’t speak about it, and the asian and indigenous people get ignored. we know the cycle. but i wanted to come here and highlight some of the most prominent examples of ATLA abusing hinduism, as i am kinda sorta hindu (i was raised in a hindu household, i go to chinmaya mission, that kinda shit). i might forget some things so keep that in mind.

this is gonna be divided into 3 main sections, since there are different ways that they disrespect hinduism that i don’t wanna lump together.

and i’d say i know a lot about hinduism but that doesn’t make me an expert, obviously, so if other hindus have anything to add and/or correct then please do !! and if anyone else wants to share how their cultures were appropriated then please do that as well !!

so let’s get started shall we?

appropriating hinduism

1) the avatar

we’ll start with the most obvious example: the avatar itself

i know that there are parts of the avatar mythos that are taken from other cultures as well but the idea of the avatar itself is primarily from hinduism.

basically in hinduism, the term dashavatara refers to the 10 reincarnations of lord vishnu (the god of preservation), with avatar(a) meaning form or incarnation in sanskrit, and das(a) meaning ten. it was said that whenever the world was out of balance, lord vishnu would come down to earth in a certain form to restore balance. Each reincarnation is considered a different life with a different story. the avatars of lord vishnu are often considered the saviors of the world.

so basically, the central idea of the show and the actual name of the show is largely based on hinduism.

2) chakras

many different indian religions have a concept of chakras (chakra meaning wheel or circle in sanskrit), but hinduism is the one that primarily preaches the system of seven chakras, the version used in ATLA.

chakras connect the physical body to the ‘subtle’ body (referring more to the spirit and the psyche) by connecting parts of the body to aspects of the mind. the idea is that through different forms of steady meditation you can manipulate the different chakras and allow the pure flow of energy through the body.

the whole idea of chakras on ATLA is that aang has to unblock them all to let the cosmic energy flow through him so that he can go into the avatar state at will. so yeah, pretty much that whole idea was taken from hinduism.

3) terminologies

these are just a few terms that were taken from hinduism. i’m pretty sure there are more that i can’t think of right now but yeah.

“agni” kai

i’ll be honest i don’t know where the ‘kai’ part is from, i don’t think it’s from hinduism but if it is well fuck me i guess. ‘agni’ in hinduism is the god of fire, so the creators used it in ‘agni kai’, the name for a firebending duel.

“bumi”

this is in reference to the hindu word for ‘earth’, which is bhoomi. this is also in reference to our goddess of earth, bhoomi devi. also this doesn’t really bother me but i wonder if the creators knew that bhoomi is a name typically used for women (as are most hindi names ending in ‘i’/‘ee’).

in general, concepts like having multiple complex gods (the spirits) who are capable of good and evil and the reincarnation cycle are prominent in a lot of asian cultures, including (and arguably primarily) hinduism.

mocking hinduism

now we get into the mockery of hinduism in ATLA, because it is very much there.

1) whoever the fuck that baboon guy in the spirit world was

now what the fuck was this.

i mean i wouldn’t say this is the most egregious example of them making fun of brown people but lord why did this even need to be there? this random guy from the spirit world has an indian accent ? and is fervently chanting ‘om’ for some reason, and it’s clearly meant to be seen as comical. also portraying brown people as monkeys....... really.

2) combustion man/sparky sparky boom man

when rewatching ATLA in 2019 i actually had no idea that this was a thing, because the last time i had watched it was as a kid and i didn’t finish it.

so lord was i in for a surprise when i saw...

now... now what.

if you didn’t know, combustion man’s ‘third eye’ is designed to replicate the hindu god of destruction, lord shiva. right down to the vibhuti on his forehead (referring to the three line markings around the third eye).

in hinduism, lord shiva’s third eye is used to reduce people to ashes, though as far as i can recall, not very frequently. the primary significance of the third eye is that it represents the ability of higher spiritual thought and higher consciousness.

the ATLA writers take the ACTUAL significance of the third eye, throw it out the window, and then take its destructive abilities to make a super duper cool and dangerous new firebending technique.

and if that wasn’t bad enough, the actual person who uses this technique, and is meant to emulate a GOD who is PRAISED, is a scary, burly, half metal man who is a villain and an assassin. not to mention the design of his facial hair replicates that super duper scary “terrorist” depiction of brown people, particularly of muslims, that white people are so thoroughly terrified of for no reason.

this is a parody of a god, and they portrayed him as this terrifying, maniacal fucking assassin who, along with p’li, the combustion bender from LOK, is constantly referred to as a “third-eyed freak”. i’ve made this analogy before and i’ll do it again, this is like making jesus into a hitman.

now onto my favorite example...

3) guru pathik

ah, this motherfucker.

i don’t really have any problems with him as a character, i mean hell, must’ve taken a fuck ton of patience to handle aang’s “why would choose cosmic energy over katara” bullshit.

but we all know it, we see it plain as day, don’t even try to deny it.

“guru” literally just means teacher or guide, so i don’t really know why pathik needed to be referred to as “guru” so distinctively from aang’s other teachers and guides, but that’s just extremely trivial compared to all the other issues with this character.

first of all what is this character design? what is he even wearing? if they’re trying to replicate the clothes of swamis and priests and stuff this is already wrong, realized people don’t dress like this. and why the fuck does he have an indian accent? and why was this indian accent done by a non indian (brian george)?

once again, the poor but extremely heavy indian accent is clearly meant to be mocking, if it wasn’t, they wouldn’t’ve gone out of their way to get a non indian person to DO an indian accent, and instead they would’ve just gotten an actual indian person to play the role.

and oh yeah, the onion and banana juice. because hindus just eat weird shit right.

whether it’s actually weird or not, the show certainly portrays it as weird. and as far as i know no hindu actually fucking drinks onion and banana juice.

ironic because brown people can absolutely destroy white people in cooking. but i digress.

i know what you’re all waiting for. because the guru apparently didn’t have enough fun with guru pathik, so they just had to come back to him in book 3:

where do i begin.

so this is obviously john o’bryan’s super funny and hilarious depiction of pathik as a hindu god.

usually when a god has multiple arms it’s to carry an array of things, from flowers to weapons to instruments, and one hand is typically free to bless devotees (ie. goddess durga and lord vishnu respectively):

but of course white people see this as weird and so they make fun of it, hence guru pathik having multiple arms just flailing about aimlessly (save for the two that are being used to carry the aforementioned onion and banana juice).

then there’s the whole light behind pathik’s head which is usually depicted in drawings of hindu gods to show that they are celestial.

also what the fuck is he holding? is that supposed to be a veena? because this is what a veena looks like:

and i assume the reason this was added was to mock the design of goddess saraswathi, who carries a veena:

but that right there in the picture of pathik looks more like a tambura than a veena.

and it also just kinda looks like a banjo?

but i guess the animators just searched up “long indian instrument” and slapped it on there. actually no, that’s giving them too much credit, they probably didn’t search it up at all.

and then the actual scene is pathik singing crazily about chakras tasting good or something while playing the non-veena and it’s all supposed to be some funky crazy hallucination that aang is having due to sleep deprivation. just some crazy dream, just as crazy as talking appa and momo sparring with swords or tree-ozai coming to life.

our gurus and swamis and sadhus and generally realized people are very respected in hinduism, they’re people we look up to and honor very much. and our GODS are beings that we literally worship. and the writers just take both and make caricatures out of them for other white people to laugh at.

4) other shit

before we move to the next portion i just wanna mention there are also smaller backhanded jabs that i can’t really remember now, but one example was when zuko was all “we’ll be sure to remember that, guru goody goody”. or when a character would meditate and say “om” only when the meditation is supposed to be portrayed as comical or pointless. or in bitter work when sokka was rambling on about karma. small things like that. but moving on.

south asian representation, or lack thereof

now i finally get to the “losing” hinduism part. by this i mean the lack of actual representation there is of south asians (the region where hinduism is primarily practiced) despite the fact that hinduism plays such a big role in the show’s world design.

i think it’s safe to say that broadly the main cast consists of aang, katara, sokka, zuko, toph, azula, iroh, mai, ty lee, and suki.

a grand total of none of these characters are south asian. the writers don’t even attempt to add any south asian main characters.

there are characters with dark skin, like haru and jet, but a) they’re not confirmed to be south asian and don’t have any south asian features or south asian names, b) they’re side characters, so they don’t count as representation, and c) even if they were south asian and main characters, jet wouldn’t even count because he’s portrayed as a terrorist.

the ONLY truly south asian character we get is fucking guru pathik. so yeah. not representation.

i don’t get how the creators of this show rip off of hinduism (among many other south asian cultures they rip off of), mock indians, and then don’t even have the decency to HAVE a main character who is south asian.

i’ve never gotten a chance to compile all this, and this definitely isn’t all the creators have done, but i hope this was somewhat informative.

#atla #cultural appropriation #hinduism #guru pathik #combustion man #chakras #avatar

1K notes · View notes

butterflydm · 2 years

Text

So I’m a little over halfway through my reread of EotW...

(but the spoilers go through the majority of the series, though I don’t talk about the ending or anything in a memory of light)

I’m in the middle of the Perrin & Egwene Whitecloak chapters and... yeah, rereading this, I’m actually really understanding why Laila’s death was added into the show. It basically takes these two things that happen back to back -- Perrin thinking he may have to kill Egwene to save her from a worse death & Perrin killing two Whitecloaks in a grieving battlerage, and merges them together into one big trauma lump instead (and moves it way to the beginning of the show, which means Perrin actually has a reason to be distinct from Mat as a character early on).

In general, I think they (correctly) assumed that the audience would not have really cared if Perrin had killed two Whitecloaks while fighting against them. The general reaction that I saw to what happened in the show was sadness that Valda wasn’t actually killed and was only hurt instead. Given that the Whitecloaks have been made into a bigger threat in the show than in the books, I think they felt like the audience would have just been annoyed at Perrin carrying those deaths for so long, as opposed to his wife’s death, which obviously would and should affect him deeply in ways that people wouldn’t really question. It was about creating a visceral reaction and sympathy for Perrin and an understanding of why he struggles with the idea of violence, since we don’t have an inner monologue.

Especially with no Elyas (in S1), so no one to explain what was happening with Perrin. And I think holding off on a wolfbrother mentor for the first season is a good choice in general because in the books he really just... shows up and tells Perrin things that we haven’t seen any evidence of actually happening to him yet. It’s just basically “lol you’re a Wolfbrother and I know bc the wolves say so”. But no Elyas means that Perrin getting lost inside Hopper’s attack and not able to tell the difference between himself and Hopper would be even more difficult to explain than otherwise. And it’s already very difficult. So I think it was all about thinking of a way to create a kill in the heat of battle, but in a way that is understandable without an inner monologue and that making it feel like Perrin’s reaction to that isn’t an overreaction in the eyes of the audience.

tdlr: re-reading Perrin’s storyline reminded me of why Perrin’s storyline is hard to do in a visual format.

Also, the Rand and Mat stuff is really getting to me in this re-read. It’s interesting because back when I first read the early books in the series, subtext (whether intentional or unintentional) wasn’t a thing yet for my brain bc I was, you know. Young. But I do remember that, even though Mat tries to run away from his friendship with Rand so much more than Perrin does, young!me absolutely thought of Mat as Rand’s ‘best friend’ and Perrin was just kinda their third friend (lol sorry Perrin), and I’m guessing at least part of that was because of the emotional impact of The Road Trip.

I’d also forgotten that Mat does worry that he’s the one that the Dark One is after because of the Old Tongue stuff. I saw a theory floating around that Mat was originally supposed to get the revival of Manetheren plotline instead of Perrin and tbh I kinda get that vibe too on this re-read. He’s the boy who is, by far, the most connected to the ‘old blood’ and ‘blood of Aemon’ stuff in this first book. Min seeing the red eagle in her viewing? Yeah, I think Mat was supposed to go home and raise the red eagle in the Two Rivers.

I suspect that the reason that it would get taken away from him and given to Perrin would be because... even with that plotline added, Perrin’s plot is the thinnest of all three boys. Perrin has so little to do, in comparison to Mat and Rand. I mean, he spends like eight books (or something) in a weird not-quite-love triangle where he is MARRIED and NOT INTERESTED IN THE SLIGHTEST in the woman who is chasing him and... hey... I just realized there’s a probably unintentional Lanfear-Lews Therin parallel going on there... huh, weird. Anyway, that’s literally the only thing he gets for a while. And then he just gets the ‘wife kidnapped’ plot for way too long after that. It just feels like he spins his wheels and kills time in between the few big plot moments that he gets, in comparison to Rand and Mat, who are pretty much always Doing Something Plot-Relevant when they’re ‘on-screen’.

#wot book spoilers #wot spoilers #wot #wheel of time #wot reread

55 notes · View notes

animatedarchives · 4 years

Text

‘H’ FOR HAJIME

— 𝐈𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐄

author’s note: hi everyone! i read this post from @peach-pops and couldn’t help but write it out into a fic :”) please brace yourself for angst because this was one hell of a ride :”)))) enjoy!!!

genre: pure angst

warning: car accident, death, mourning a loss

word count: 1.5k

He sped around the corner, eyes immediately drawn to the flashing lights of the ambulance blocking his view of the accident. He stopped the car and ran to the scene, not even bothering to kill the ignition.

Iwaizumi had gotten a call 10 minutes ago saying that his best friend had gotten into a car accident, and before the caller could say another word, he’d hung up and rushed to the location of the crash.

Iwaizumi pushed past the crowd, muttering curt apologies as he made his way to the front. As he emerged from the sea of people, his breath hitched and his heart pounded as he assessed the scene before him.

It was awful, like something out of a horror movie.

Glass shards glinted dangerously across the floor. Oikawa’s car was now completely disfigured; the hood was banged in, the sides were too and the windows and windshield were just empty spaces where glass used to be. Iwaizumi craned his neck to get a glimpse of the driver’s seat, but was unable to see past the inflated airbags.

Distressed and anxious, he grabbed the arm of the nearest officer.

“Oikawa Tooru. The driver. Is he okay?” his voice came a little harsher than expected due to the tension in his body. He didn’t even know how tight his grip was until the officer tried to pry his arm away.

“Please stay calm sir. We are trying to recover the bodies from the car right now,” he stated.

“Bodies?” Iwaizumi repeated. Plural?

“Yes. Two were found in the car and one is presumably dead.”

The thought of seeing his best friend limp and lifeless made his stomach churn and his heart clench. He looked back at the beaten-up car and saw them carrying out a body. Iwaizumi’s heart almost stopped beating. The body may have been bloodied and bruised, but he would recognise those soft, brown locks anywhere.

“Tooru!” he cried, lurching forward and running past the protesting officer.

“Tooru!” he shouted again, wishing, wanting, praying that his best friend was still breathing.

“Sir, please back away,” the paramedics said, lifting his limp body onto the stretcher and rolling him towards the ambulance. Iwaizumi followed, never once leaving Oikawa’s side.

“Dammit Shittykawa, wake up!” he yelled, eyes trained on him to look for any signs of life.

Suddenly, Oikawa began to stir and his eyes fluttered open. Iwaizumi breathed a sigh of relief, and Oikawa turned to the man who was making so much noise.

“Iwa… chan…” his voice was hoarse. “I’m… sorry…” he said through laboured breathing, his eyelids slowly drooping back down.

“Oi, you better stay awake Shittykawa. Don’t go back to sleep!” Iwaizumi’s voice was earnest. Desperate.

The ends of Oikawa’s lips curled up at the sound of the nickname. His eyebrows then furrowed as he let out a string of coughs.

“Sir, please step back. We have to load him into the ambulance,” the paramedics told Iwaizumi. He nodded curtly and turned his gaze back to his best friend. At least he was alive. Breathing.

But then… who…

“Hajime…”

Iwaizumi’s chest tightened at the sound of Oikawa using his first name. His real name.

Oh no.

“Y/N… I’m sorry… Please forgive me…” was all Iwaizumi heard before the paramedics hauled him into the ambulance and out of his sight.

Y/N? What does Y/N have to do with this?

As if to give a cruel answer to his question, he heard some commotion coming from the direction of the crashed car.

No.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion; the paramedics running over to the scene, the shouting of the officers saying something about “no pulse” and the dragging of a limp body out from the wreckage.

No no no.

Something glittered under the light of the ambulance and his face contorted in horror as he caught a glimpse of the thin silver chain, a memory from the past surfacing right before his eyes.

“‘H’ for Hajime?” you smiled, looking at the pendant of the necklace he helped to put around your neck.

He chuckled. “Of course, Y/N. That way, I know you’ll be mine forever.” He kissed your lips.

“Happy anniversary, babe.”

His head was spinning, his breaths were ragged and his heart was pounding in his ears. His mind was foggy and he didn’t even realise he had called out your name. All eyes were on him as he pushed past the crowd, shoving everyone aside as he made his way to you.

They were lying.

You weren’t dead.

You couldn’t be.

He came closer, and he saw that the ‘H’ was not attached to the necklace. Maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe it was some other unfortunate person, just not you. He tried to convince himself, reassure himself that everything was going to be okay. But as he moved past the paramedics and the victim came into full view, any sign of hope was consumed by darkness. Because there you lay, face caked in blood and a dull, faraway look in your eyes.

He sunk to his knees and choked out a sob, gathering your body into his arms — pale, limp and lifeless. The world crashed around him as he let out an earth-shattering cry, screaming your name over and over in hopes that you would hear him and wake up. Tears were streaming down his face and he was rocking your bodies back and forth on his knees, paying no attention to the gravel digging into his tough skin.

He was unconsciously shaking his head, as if to deny the reality of the situation. This was just a dream. A horrible nightmare that he would wake up from to find you sleeping peacefully by his side, a smile on your face as you snuggled up next to him.

But he knew. He knew this wasn’t a dream.

Because he was already awake.

He cried and cradled you in his arms, burying your face into his chest because it was something you did that always gave him comfort. Even with all the smoke, he could still catch the distinct scent of your perfume as he hugged your body close to his. The familiar smell caused a lump to form in his throat as he remembered how you would spray it in the mornings as you got ready for the day together. How you would blush when you looked at him through the mirror, only to see that he was already staring at you. How your hand would go up to your necklace, your fingers fiddling with the pendant because it was a habit you developed when you were shy, embarrassed or scared.

Were you scared when the car got hit? Were you holding the necklace he gave you as the car crashed? Were you thinking of him in your last moments?

He grasped your small hands in his, the usual warmth of your skin now replaced with an unfamiliar coldness. He unfurled your fingers so he could hold your hand one last time when something dropped from your palm, right into his lap. He picked it up but had no time to look at it before the officers started grabbing his arms and pulling him away from you.

“No! Stop! Leave us alone!” he yelled at them, trying to push them away as they brought over the white sheet.

“Please just let me hold her! Please! Please…” he sobbed. He was practically begging now, trying to hold on to your physical form even though it was just an empty shell, and you were no longer there. But the officer’s grip on him was as harsh as the reality around him, and as much as he tried to resist, his body gave in to exhaustion and they dragged him away.

His eyes were glazed over as he watched the officers cover your body with the white sheet. He felt hollow and empty as the weight of everything settled over his grieving heart. All the promises you had made about getting married and starting a family together slowly slipped away, like a dream he just couldn’t reach.

He watched them load you up into the vehicle, his expression blank. He wanted to scream and to cry, but he was too tired and felt like he had no more tears left to shed. The ambulance started up and sped down the street, leaving Iwaizumi standing there, aching in silence. As they brought you further away from him, it felt like the string of life that tied you two together had finally been cut.

You were really gone.

And you were never coming back.

Iwaizumi balled his fist and felt something pressing against his palm. Remembering the thing that you’d dropped into his lap, he brought his hand up to look at what it was. What you were holding when you breathed your last breath. As he slowly unclenched his fist, his heart leapt into his throat and he felt a wave of emotion crash down on him again.

There in the palm of his rough hand, was the very thing that was missing from your necklace.

“‘H’ for Hajime?” you smiled.

Iwaizumi clenched his fist around the pendant again, fingernails digging into his palms as your words echoed in his mind, now all but a distant memory. His body tensed and he choked out another sob, now realising that he was the last thing on your mind before you were taken from this world for good.

#iwaizumi imagine #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi angst #iwaizumi oneshot #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi scenarios #iwaizumi headcanons #hq iwaizumi #iwaoi #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader imagines #haikyuu iwaizumi #haikyuu iwaoi #iwaizumi haikyuu #tw: death #tw: car accident

598 notes · View notes

robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

Note

My prompt is just more trans au. Various people reacting to baobei. Just i love trans au so much thank u for this gift.

Baobai Pt 1 - on tumblr, on ao3

“Oh, hey, you have a kid,” Wei Wuxian said, out of lack of any other conversational topics that weren’t ‘so are you here to kill us all?’. Kids were usually a good, neural topic, especially when they were that small. “Look at her, she’s so tiny! Her parents know you brought her out here?”

“She’s da-ge’s,” Lan Xichen said with a smile and a nod towards Nie Mingjue, who as tall and terrifying as always. He was glowering at the half-grown radish fields as if he was personally offended by them.

“Congratulations, Chifeng-zun,” Wei Wuxian said to him, hoping to stave off any impending violence. The baby was young enough that the mom was probably still in isolation recovering, and maybe hadn’t consented to said baby being brought to the Burial Mounds of all places - certainly Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have agreed to cart a small infant all the way from Qinghe, and he’d thought mothers preferred to remain near their children in the few months after birth - but Wei Wuxian was not really in a position to object.

Certainly not after the quick work Nie Mingjue’s saber made of all of his defensive arrays. That man was scary.

“Thank you,” Nie Mingjue said, and it was awkward for a moment until he added, “Pain in the ass to acquire.”

That made everything better: Wei Wuxian knew how to deal with snark. “Oh yeah? Carried her yourself, did you?”

“Ten fucking months,” Nie Mingjue said, and Wei Wuxian laughed and shot Lan Xichen a wink, figuring that his stupid joke about having given birth to A-Yuan had made the rounds. Funny, he wouldn’t have pegged Lan Wangji to be the sort of person to pass on jokes…

At that point, Nie MIngjue twisted his head around to look at Wen Ning and Wen Qing, who were hovering nearby, trying to hide A-Yuan behind their legs, and said, “She’s your cousin three times removed, if I have my family tree down right, so stop being queasy and let the kid come see her.”

“Fuck,” Wen Qing said, and abruptly sat down. “I’m sorry.”

Wei Wuxian had the distinct feeling he was missing something, especially when Wen Ning’s expression shifted from equally puzzled to outright horrified.

“It’s not exactly your fault, you’re not soldiers,” Nie Mingjue said, and glared at the radish field again. “But in all seriousness: let the kid see her.”

Wen Qing waved a vague hand at A-Yuan, who correctly interpreted it as permission and zoomed over to the baby as fast as his little legs could carry him. He was in that another-kid-how-cool phase that all kids had, and babies were a particular fascination.

“You’re cousins?” Wei Wuxian asked Nie Mingjue, feeling a bit weird about. Three times removed wasn’t close, but still…of all people...“With the Wen sect? You?”

Nie Huaisang made a strangled noise that from anyone else Wei Wuxian would have said sounded a bit like he was going to imminently stab someone.

Nie Mingjue just gave Wei Wuxian a look like he was an idiot.

“No,” he said very slowly. “I’m not.”

Wei Wuxian continued not to get it, right up until he glanced at Wen Ning who mouthed a name at him and – wait, but no, that’s impossible – but he’d have to be – wait, he was from Qinghe –

Wei Wuxian suddenly noticed that he had sat down on the ground as well at some point.

“Pain in the ass,” he said blankly. “Right.”

Nie Huaisang was glaring at him like he really was going to pull out his never-used saber to start chopping Wei Wuxian into bits, and honestly that might be a preferable option to the sheer awkwardness of having just put two and two together like that in front of so many people. Maybe he could use demonic cultivation to open the ground up beneath him? It’d never been done before, but then again, that was most things he did…

“Why are people so weird about babies?” Nie Mingjue complained, picking up the baby in one arm and a giggling and blissfully ignorant A-Yuan in the other, swinging them both around a bit. “They’re like – lumps of little people. We were all babies once. It’s not that weird.”

“You heard him,” Jin Guangyao said to Wei Wuxian with a smile that looked like it had daggers in it. “It’s not weird at all. Right?”

“Right!” Wei Wuxian said hastily.

Apparently scary people flocked together. Though, did that mean there something he was missing about Lan Xichen..?

Lan Xichen smiled at Jin Guangyao, who smiled back. That was really the only good thing about these discussion conferences, he thought – they were long and draining and he had to meet a lot of people he didn’t want to see (Sect Leader Yao ranked highly), but he got to spend a great deal of time with his sworn brothers, which he didn’t often manage. And, really, that made everything worth it.

“How are things going?” he asked in an undertone, scanning Jin Guangyao with his eyes. Madame Jin did not have the reputation for being a kind woman, especially not about her husband’s affairs, and he couldn’t help but worry.

“Manageable,” Jin Guangyao assured him, though it wasn’t really that comforting. “It helps that this conference isn’t at Jinlin Tower – less to arrange, less work to fall on my shoulders. It’s positively easy by comparison. When did you arrive? We’ve been here for a shichen already, setting up.”

“Just now. They’re still moving our things into our rooms –”

“Er-ge! San-ge!” Nie Huaisang’s voice rang out, sharp and clear and murderous; they both turned to look at him at once to try to determine if it was the sort of murderous that meant someone had bought out a painting he’d liked before he got there or if it someone had actually offended him. He had a fixed smile on his face, which boded no one any good. “I was just looking for you. I want to chat.”

“What happened?” Lan Xichen asked, looking around – they were more or less alone, and a quick hand-seal made it so that they wouldn’t be easily overheard. “Did someone do something to Baobei…?”

He couldn’t believe they still hadn’t named her, the poor thing.

(Jin Guangyao had briefly been lobbying for them to name her A-Shi, but then Nie Mingjue told him that if he wanted to have a girl named Nie Shi he ought to man up and sire her himself, and ever since then Jin Guangyao had been proposing different names entirely. Possibly he was concerned Nie Mingjue would take back the offer if he used up the name.)

“Surely not,” Jin Guangyao said. “In the middle of the Lotus Pier…?”

“Not Baobei,” Nie Huaisang said. “But your father just figured out who carried her, and he just – he put his hands – he said he had the right to check on account of da-ge having misled them –”

Lan Xichen observed, a little distantly, that he’d previously thought that the phrase ‘seeing red’ was an exaggeration, rather than a perfectly accurate description.

“Did da-ge rip him to pieces?” Jin Guangyao asked, sounding as if he was very much in favor of that result.

“He did not,” Nie Huaisang said. “You know how he is during these conferences; he’s far too reserved. Slapped his hands away but didn’t do anything else about it.”

“Surely that would put an end to it…?” Lan Xichen suggested, mildly hopeful, but the expression on Jin Guangyao and Nie Huaisang’s face did not fill him with much expectation.

“He’ll try something,” Jin Guangyao said flatly. His voice tremored briefly, full of rage even he couldn’t hide, and he gripped his hands together tightly. “He will try something.”

“Sect Leader Jiang will help us keep them separate for the conference,” Nie Huaisang said. “He still hasn’t figured out the details of Baobei’s parentage, I think he’s convinced himself that men just bear children – in some way that man is as dumb as a rock, same as when we were teenagers, I don’t know how anyone is that gullible – but he’s offended on da-ge’s behalf anyway. But when the conference is over for the evening…”

“It would be unfilial of me to plan my own father’s assassination,” Jin Guangyao said, and his eyes slide towards Lan Xichen, questioning. “But if you wanted to have a theoretical discussion regarding the security system at Jinlin Tower, and the weaknesses thereof…”

“Yes,” Lan Xichen said, putting aside all concerns regarding the morality of assassinations, and found that he didn’t regret the decision one bit. He’d barely tolerated that lecher when he had no choice, when he was Jin Guangyao’s father and a powerful sect leader. But putting his hands on da-ge – thinking of doing more – “Let’s have that...theoretical discussion.”

“I knew I could count on you two,” Nie Huaisang said with satisfaction. “So here’s what I was thinking –”

One of the worst days of Nie Huaisang’s life started quite normally – waking up when his brother lifted him bodily out of bed and slung him over his shoulder.

“Da-ge!” he yelped. “Da-ge, no – it’s too early –”

“If you stayed up late, that’s your own problem,” his brother said with the sort of purposeful cheerful sadism that only a person who actually enjoyed waking up with the sun to go train could employ. “I told you yesterday that we were going to be training this morning.”

“But da-ge –”

“You missed the last three days. You’re not missing today.”

But it’s so fucking early, Nie Huaisang thought despairingly, drooping into dead weight over his brother’s shoulder – not that that helped, of course. His brother was too damn strong.

“Are you sure you’re not taking out your feelings about getting fat on me?” he asked, poking at his brother’s somewhat-rounder-than-usual waist. “That peacetime bulge of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller, you know…”

In all honestly, Nie Huaisang was delighted by the small swell of his brother’s usually flat stomach. His brother wasn’t vain – his body was a tool shaped for purpose – and the idea that his brother had finally let go enough, whether by eating more or resting more, to actually gain some weight…

“Whatever you say, pork bun,” his brother said, and Nie Huaisang yelped and hit him because he was not a pork bun! No matter how pale or chubby he might become!

It was a hot day, which of course made going through the steps of training even more miserable than usual. His brother was patient as always, showing him the steps and then making him repeat them a few times before starting up his own morning training routine; after a while, they both got into a nice rhythm, swings and chops.

Training wasn’t that bad, especially when it meant he could spend more time with his always-busy brother. He still didn’t like it, and obviously he had a reputation to uphold, and yes, it was obnoxious to get up early...but it could be worst.

And then, just as Nie Huaisang was turning to tell his brother a joke he’d heard the day before, he saw his brother abruptly turn pale and fall over.

He even dropped Baxia.

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang screamed, a thousand ancient fears rearing their heads at once, and he rushed over at top speed. “Someone get a doctor! Quick!”

Not a qi deviation, not a qi deviation, don’t be a qi deviation, he prayed, dropping to his knees next to his brother, who was already waking up – eyes clear, not red, and looking more confused than anything else. He’s too young, I’m not ready, I can’t lose him, not him, not yet, please –

On Nie Huaisang’s instructions, some of the nearby retainers helped Nie Mingjue back inside, even though he was insisting that he was fine.

“You collapsed,” Nie Huaisang snapped at him. “In morning training. You are going to see a doctor, and that’s final.”

Nie Mingjue held up his hands in surrender, looking amused at Nie Huaisang’s uncharacteristic fierceness. His amusement faded into sympathy when he realized why Nie Huaisang was so tense – their father’s death had hit them both hard – and he pulled Nie Huaisang into his arms for a hug.

“It’s not that,” he said confidently. “Not yet. The doctor will tell you.”

The doctor’s face did something funny, though, when he listened to Nie Mingjue’s pulse. Not the oh-no-it-really-is-a-minor-qi-deviation sort of funny or even a nah-total-fluke-you’re-overreacting sort of funny, more of a what-the-fuck sort of funny.

“What is it?” Nie Huaisang demanded. He knew enough medicine – the entire Nie sect knew enough medicine – to understand most basic diagnoses, as well as what they might mean for future health. “What type of pulse?”

The doctor hesitated.

“Well?” Nie Mingjue said. “Spit it out.”

“…a joy pulse,” the doctor said. “About five months, I’d guess.”

For a moment Nie Huaisang didn’t understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what a joy pulse was – he did have female friends, some of whom were now mothers – nor that he didn’t know that his brother was capable of carrying, he’d known that forever.

It was just that his brother was an antisocial misanthrope. He didn’t have any lovers, as far as Nie Huaisang knew, which meant he shouldn’t have a joy pulse.

Besides, five months ago they were still at war! His brother took his duties far too seriously to waste time on a battlefield dallying with someone, anyone, and especially not if there was a major battle around that time. Five months ago there must have been one – which one was it?

Five months…the main force of the army had gone up from Xingtai to Shijiazhuang six months ago, and then there would have been – Yangquan.

Yangquan.

When his brother had been duped by false information into leading an attack on what should have been a mostly abandoned outpost, but which turned out to be in the middle of being reinforced by Wen Ruohan personally – when his brother had been captured – tortured – and even -

“Shit,” his brother said, presumably realizing at that exact moment that Nie Huaisang was capable of math and also dates and possibly even logic. “Doctor, you can go, thank you.”

Nie Huaisang didn’t even hear the doctor leave.

“Huaisang…didi…” His brother was trying to pull him into a hug, but Nie Huaisang didn’t want one, struggling unsuccessfully to get away. He didn’t want to be any closer to – to that – to the creature sitting his brother’s stomach, weighing him down; to what he’d thought was a sign of peace and good times and what was actually nothing more than yet another scar left by the war.

He’d actually been happy about it, and the thought twisted his stomach.

“Can you get rid of it?” he asked, voice strangled. “You can, right? It’s still early…”

“Five months is pretty close to quickening,” his brother said, wincing. “After quickening, the medicines don’t work as well. It might not be that easy.”

“Do you know how dangerous childbirth is?!” Nie Huaisang demanded. His mouth was moving on automatic; he wasn’t even thinking about what he was saying. He wasn’t thinking of anything, anything at all, because if he was thinking he’d have to think – he’d have to – his brother – “What if it kills you? You can’t let them kill you! Not after everything we did to avenge A-die!”

“I’m not going to die,” Nie Mingjue said, holding him tightly, his chin on Nie Huaisang’s head the way they always where when they hugged. “I’m a very good cultivator, Huaisang. My golden core will keep me healthy, even if I start bleeding…it won’t be like your mother. I promise.”

Nie Huaisang started shaking. “Da-ge,” he whimpered, pressing his face into his brother’s shoulder. “Da-ge, tell me…”

“Anything,” his brother promised, and he’d regret that promise in another moment, Nie Huaisang knew, the question would only cause him pain, but he needed to know. The second they were out of this situation his brother would clam up, pretend that nothing had happened and that it was all fine, so if he had questions – and he did – then he needed to answer them now.

“Was it – who was it? Was it him?”

His brother stilled.

“You said you’d tell me,” Nie Huaisang reminded him.

“…I don’t know,” his brother said. “I don’t – it could be. But it might be – someone else.”

There had been more than one, then. Nie Huaisang swallowed back bile, wanting to be sick. His father’s murderer had forced himself on his brother, and he’d let others do the same, and now they had to deal with the fallout.

“I want to kill them,” he whispered. “I want – I want them dead – all of them –”

“If it’s anything, I’ve made a pretty good head start on that already?” his brother offered, and of course his brother was trying to find some levity in a terrible situation. “We broke them, Huaisang. Even if some individuals remain, there’s no Wen sect left. If I do end up keeping it, the child won’t have a paternal family to lay a claim – they’ll be surnamed Nie. Another Nie, like you and me. You’ll be their uncle; you have to forgive them, it wasn’t their fault...you have to spoil them rotten.”

His brother’s thumb wiped away some of Nie Huaisang’s tears.

“You’ll be a good uncle, didi,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Nie Huaisang’s brow. “If the child is surnamed Nie, that’s all that matters.”

“People will know,” Nie Huaisang pointed out. “About you, about…I’m not the only one who can do math. We won’t…it can’t be kept quiet, can it? People will know. About you, about - what happened.”

“Let people know,” his brother, brave as ever, said with an indifferent shrug. “What do I care? In the end, it’s just another way to show that even when they threw everything they had against me, I still won.”

“What a charming child you have,” the young man from the mountain – Xiao Xingchen, he said his name was, and he was already famous despite having only been around for a few months – said, smiling down at her. “She’s beautiful.”

Nie Mingjue was not currently feeling especially kindly disposed towards human reproduction at the moment, being currently heavy with his second – the world needed more Nies, he wanted more Nies, children to keep Nie Huaisang company if that qi deviation he was promised ever actually turned up, and he had a very good list of cultivators with various pros and cons willing to help him introduce some more diversity into the Nie bloodline to try to minimize the chance of future qi deviations for his descendants, but at the same time he hated waddling around like a stuffed hippo with a bunch of people insisting that he not even think of physical exertion – but he nodded his thanks regardless.

At least for once someone wasn’t going to comment about the child’s parentage, he reflected wryly. There was only so much purposeful playing dumb a man could do, and the first year or so of his little baobei’s life – by the time they’d finally gotten around to trying to name her, the nickname had stick so firmly that they’d succumbed to reality and made her given name A-Bao, though of course, it being Qinghe, no one actually called her that – had really strained his tolerance in that specific regard.

It was the quickest way to avoid awkwardness, to pass along the information while avoiding conversations he didn’t want to have, but still…

Nobody brought up on a celestial mountain would know about Wen Ruohan, though. He was pretty sure of that.

“And I see you’re expecting another? Sometime soon..?”

“I am,” Nie Mingjue said. “Soon enough.”

Not soon enough. He wanted to go back to training – why did he keep getting high blood pressure no matter how much medicine he took?

“I see,” Xiao Xingchen said. “You’ll have to let me give you a gift of some sort. Do you have a favorite form of cloth?”

Nie MIngjue blinked at him. “Cloth?”

That was a strange gift. Did Xiao Xingchen think that his sect was so poor that he couldn’t cloth a child?

Xiao Xingchen – who was really quite young – blushed red, the color going all the way to his ears.

“I’m sorry for my presumption,” he said, then hesitated, before saying, very delicately, “Have you finished preparing the nest for the egg, then?”

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #wei wuxian #wen qing #wen ning #jin guangyao #lan xichen #xiao xingchen #my fic #my fics #baby dage #thevasthonk

342 notes · View notes

percival-c-mcleach · 3 years

Text

Haunted Not By Ghosts- a McLeach fic.

The atmosphere was as heavy and thick as smog, stuck in time. The house, the barn and the ramshackle sheds were worn down from years of neglect, the barn having been particularly hard hit by time, half of its body rotted and given way to mushrooms.

The house's exterior had once been blue, now stripped almost completely to its wood and brick, with speckles of paint the only indication of what it might had been. The windows were cracked, rusted with dust. Weeds had forced themselves up between the boards of the porch, nearly obscuring the wood. Hidden among the vegetation was a dog bowl, a bright firetruck red that had now faded to a dull pink in the blistering sun, the faintest of childish block writing had faded too much to be read.

Taking a shaky breath, McLeach surveyed his childhood home. For forty years, it had laid abandoned, but it felt just as forboding now as it did back then, if not worse. Anxiety roiled in the man's stomach as he forced himself up the sunken steps, feeling the wood groan beneath him.

Joanna followed her master's footsteps almost exactly, not trusting the structural integrity of the building. She watched as McLeach hesitated with the doorknob, as if it would suddenly come to life and bite him. He gave a gentle twist of the knob- no luck.

"Aw hell.." McLeach huffed, twisting the knob harder. He jiggled the door, but the ancient wood refused to give. He crouched to examine the old doggie door-one he used as his personal entrance to the house-but he was now too old and too round for such an endeavor. Joanna looked between him and the door, noticing his pointed look. She shook her head hurriedly-no way would she be able to fit through there, and she was not looking to get splinters in her sides. Letting loose a curse, McLeach kicked the door-and it popped open nearly effortlessly. Quickly shaking off his surprise, he shouldered the heavy oak the rest of the way open, coughing as a wave of musty air washed over them both.

Once natural sunlight fell over the place, McLeach felt his breath catch in his throat- sans a thick coating of dust, the hallway looked almost exactly as he remembered it being. It was as if the other three McLeaches hadn't left the house; most of the decor still hung in place, with the addition of cobwebs. The coat rack still held his father's old bag, four pairs of slippers lined up beneath the side table, waiting for owners who would never return.

The house felt haunted. Not in the way most people came to think of haunted houses, brimming with ghosts; haunted in the sense that you could feel everything that had happened in this place. The anxiety only grew stronger, the further the pair ventured in. The carpet had faded from direct sunlight, but the patches in the shade of the furniture still remained its dark green color. Dust rose in clouds as man and lizard ventured carefully down the hall, with Joanna trying her best to hold in her coughing.

The family portrait was still there, hanging above a boarded-up fireplace. McLeach didn't blame anyone for leaving it, it wasn't something you'd want to have in your house. The sepia-colored photograph was dust-covered, but the man could still feel the cold, hard glare of his father through it. He raised his hand to wipe away the dust. The first to emerge was his mother. Thin-faced and tired, with her dark hair pulled up in an untidy bun. In one arm she cradled the newly-born Casey in his thick wool blanket, the other dangled down, gently squeezing the hand of a seven-year-old Percival. He had been small back then, missing two of his front teeth and a head full of hair like his mother's, dark and messy. Rubbing away the rest of the dust, Mr. McLeach soon followed. Towering over his wife and children, not even the shadow from the brim of his hat could have hid the starkness of his unnaturally light eyes. His large hand had a rough grip on Percival's shoulder then, the man grimaced at the memory. He couldn't bring himself to look longer at his father than was necessary. Even in photographs, he seemed to be glaring directly at his eldest.

Feeling claws on his leg, McLeach glanced down to see Joanna attempting to raise herself higher, she wanted a view too. He scooped her up as one would a toddler, though with some difficulty given her hefty weight. "Ay, you know who that is?" McLeach smiled, pointing to his mother. Joanna tilted her head quizzically- the human woman looked very distinctively familiar, even though she knew they had never met. "That's your namesake," McLeach continued, "My mama, Joanna. I promised that I'd name my firstborn daughter after her...and well, you count, I guess." Joanna wasn't able to understand just how important that was, but she felt it was very, very important. She waggled her tail happily, inching her snout closer to the frame. She clearly recognized the young Percival, and let out a rasp that sounded much like a wheezing laugh. "Go ahead, you looked weird when you were a kid too." McLeach rolled his eyes. His arms had started to ache, and he set her back down. He continued down the hall, and froze for a brief moment when he came to the wall opposite the sitting room's entrance. Beneath a framed picture of Casey with his model airplane, a round hole was at shoulder-height, the impact having shredded and burnt the faded yellow wallpaper. "..Damn idiot didn't bother to get it fixed after I left, eh?" He scoffed, "You see this, Joanna? You can tell I didn't get my marksmanship from Pops. He couldn't hit the broad-side of a barn." A slightly alarmed chirrup arose from Joanna's throat as she realized what that hole was, but McLeach didn't seem bothered by it. He breezed past the bullet-hole and past the sitting room, after taking a quick glance inside and finding that the armchair and couch were overrun with a brackish mold.

The kitchen was small, and had once been cozy. The kitchen window had broken, and one of his mother's prized climbing rosebushes had wormed its way in, leaving a layer of generations of rotting petals over the linoleum. Nevertheless, the rosebush itself was thriving, its creamy white petals shining in the golden sunlight. Reaching out to touch, McLeach couldn't help but to pluck one of the roses off, holding it in his palm. He had forgotten how silky-soft the petals felt, and how sweet it smelled; he closed his eyes and inhaled, feeling a sharp pang in his middle. A sharp pang of an emotion he couldn't quite describe. It was happiness and sadness rolled into one, and it left an ache. The smell reminded him of sitting outside with his mother, tending to the rosebushes together; if a blossom had just fallen, his mother would pluck apart the petals and keep them in a jar, preserved in the icebox until she got around to making soap and hand-cream. McLeach opened his eyes. The strange emotion only grew. He dropped the rose onto the floor, to join the rest of the fallen flowers.

Joanna had gotten braver, and went ahead of the poacher. She still felt intimidated by the house; she seen that her owner was as well. It was odd, to see him so on edge in a place that was so familiar to him. Maybe if she showed she was brave, he'd feel better. Crawling up a set of stairs, she gazed down the dim hallway. Four doors, only one of them was left ajar. Curiosity got the better of her, and the goanna went to take a peek.

The bedroom looked as if its occupant had left in a hurry. She could still see old toys and picture books on the shelves, a small, rickety wooden bed with moth-eaten blankets neatly made, with a shapeless lump that at one point had been a teddy bear sitting atop the covers. The walls were wallpapered, though it was difficult to tell what color they had been, for it was now all a dull grey. The posters on the walls were faded yellow, with vague shapes of rubberhose cartoon characters etched onto them.

Hearing McLeach wheeze his way to the top of the stairs, Joanna looked over her shoulder, and sat outside the door until McLeach could join her. He leant in the doorway of his old bedroom, soaking in the scene. After what seemed like minutes, he finally walked into the room, slow and quiet.

The thing of interest for McLeach were the picture albums on one of his shelves. The ones left exposed to the sun were faded-but maybe these were saved. He grabbed on and flipped it open, feeling a large lump rise in his throat when he seen that they were untouched. Smelled a little mildewy, but were still visible. He choked down the lump, flipping through each page slowly, wanting to savor every picture. His baby brother in his bassinet, wearing a goofy-looking baby bonnet. Flip. Their old dog, Blueberry, sleeping on the rug in the sitting room, a chewbone lolling out of his mouth. Flip. A photo of his parents on their wedding day, both looking much younger and happier than he had ever remembered them seeing; Mr. McLeach had looked kinder then, gazing at his bride with all the love and adoration that a husband was supposed to have for his life partner. Flip. His childhood friend, Ruby, sitting with the nine-year-old Percy on the river's rocks, holding baby ducklings. Flip. Flip. Flip.

These were happy memories; why did his heart ache so much looking at them? He shouldn't feel like this, looking back on what were the happier years of his life. Flip. Flip.

Percival's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach.

Of course there had to be pictures of Mr. Wells in here; back then, the McLeaches considered him as good as family. A tall, scrawny, unassuming man with shoulder-length brown hair, who had kindly and selflessly looked after Joanna and the boys while Mr. McLeach was away in the army- a second father figure, the reliant one, one who wouldn't yell and scream at the smallest of slights. After spending the summer with Mr. Wells as a boy, Percival wished he had stayed home. At least his father didn't play mind games with him, and when he hurt him, it was out of rage, and not premeditated. Not passed off as accidents that were all Percival's own fault. Not passed off as something he deserved, for something he couldn't even recall doing. The picture seemed so innocent. Just a kindly man with the boy he called his honorary son, on the back of a old mule at the fair. Percival knew better; he knew that under his child self's sweater was a nasty deep bruise, a bruise that hurt for weeks. Mr. Wells had claimed it had been an accident, that he hadn't meant to swing the shovel so hard into him. It was Percival's fault, for sneaking up on him like that.

'You'll be hurting for a while, Percy..' He could still hear that soft voice, too soft to note any real remorse, 'You frightened me something awful...I guess we learned our lesson on sneaking up on people, didn't we?'

We. As if it was a lesson they both learnt. As if it wasn't just one of the many thinly-veiled excuses used to hurt him. As if he didn't do worse, as if he did not permanently scar him physically and mentally. As if he didn't one day stop giving his excuses, once Percival had gotten too old to fall for them. As if it was the both of them having a knife held to the soft skin of their throat. As if it were the both of them who had to endure a full day and night in the skinning shed, surrounded by the dead, staring eyes of hogs. As if it were the both of them who had to endure nightmares, long after the torment had stopped.

It had always been 'We'. Never a 'I'm sorry.' It was always 'You.'

He had been brave only once. Brave enough to go to his father for help. How foolish of Percival to believe that his father would have stood up for his son. He never did such a thing before. The entire ordeal had been Percival's fault-his fault for being too stubborn, too much of a brat. If he had behaved better, Wells wouldn't have resorted to harsher punishments-it had been his fault he was treated so poorly.

For once, Percival stood up for himself.

Mrs. McLeach had tried to deescalate the fight. Mr. McLeach found himself with a broken nose, as Percival helped Joanna off the floor and out of the room. He only heard the safety click off before he had dove down the hall, sprinting from the door and into the night. "DON'T YOU EVER COME HOME!" For forty years he stayed away.

The strangled scream had terrified Joanna spitless. The goanna had been nosing around underneath McLeach's old bed, when her master emitted a sound so animalistic, that for a moment she feared that a big-cat had been hiding somewhere in the room. She immediately balled herself against the corner as the photo album was flung into the desk hard enough to shatter the frail wooden handle. The lump was back in McLeach's throat again, tighter and more painful than before, forcing tears to swell and blur his vision. His breathing came in ragged gasps, trying to keep the deep pain in his middle from winning. He crouched where he had stood, clenching his hands so tight that he felt as though they may break. He shouldn't be getting upset over this. He shouldn't be getting this upset over a goddamn picture.

It had been forty years. Why does it still hurt so bad? Why does it still feel so fresh?

The sudden warm weight crawling onto his lap tore him back into the present. Joanna scrambled as far up on him as she could. Percival hugged her as tight as he could, until his heart rate slowed back to normal, until he could breathe without choking. "Thanks." His voice was barely more than a croak. He took his bandana to dry his eyes with, "I'm sorry..I just.." he couldn't explain what had happened. Joanna understood though. She gently headbutted his shoulder, before slithering off of him and towards the photo album, picking it up in her jaws. McLeach took it from her, holding it in his lap. He'd tear out the pictures he wanted to keep, and leave the rest to rot in this forsaken house. The sun had just started to set as they made their way back to the truck, parked in the barren field next to the rotting barn. McLeach didn't even bother to give the house one last look before they drove off. Maybe now hadn't been the right time to come back. Maybe there never would be a 'right time.' Eventually, something had to be done about the place. Maybe he'd torch that haunted house to the ground. A house haunted, not by ghosts.

#Disney #disney villains #percival mcleach #the rescuers down under #fanfic

21 notes · View notes

aropinions · 3 years

Text

So What Is Exclusionism, Anyway?

As I've looked through inclusionist circles, I've come to a startling realization that most of them have an extremely skewed understanding of what exclusionism is (along with its various offshoots, subtypes, and related beliefs). They equate it to hatred of whatever group is being excluded, and they don't think people part of the excluded group could ever support exclusionism.

So, I've decided to write a long post to clear up some of those misconceptions. This post is mainly targeted to inclusionists and people wondering where they stand on the inclus/exclus sides of various types of discourse, but if you're exclusionist already, please feel free to reblog or boost it. <3 Thanks in advance for reading!

I'll start by introducing myself. Hi, I'm Ivy, or at least that's what I go by on here. I am a heterosexual, aromantic female. I am neurodivergent (ADHD, so forgive me if I ramble or write in a scatterbrained way) and have several other mental illnesses that I don't wish to talk about online. I do not have gender dysphoria, but I do not "feel feminine," and my personality has been described as rather masculine. In fact, many people in the inclusionist trans community have tried to convince me that I'm nonbinary because I don't feel a strong connection to a female gender, and I'll talk about that more later in this post.

I'm going to put all my relevant discourse opinions on the table right now. (In the next paragraph, I'm going to explain what all these labels actually mean and why they don't automatically make someone a horrible person.) Contrary to popular belief, I am not a trans-exclusionary radical feminist (TERF), an aphobe, a transphobe, or a bigot. I am ace-exclusionist, aro-exclusionist, trans-exclusionist, transmedicalist, pro-LGB, and gender-critical.

Now here's the fun part. Bear with me -- we're about to debunk the myths about these opinions, explain each term's real definition, and talk about some of the reasoning behind the beliefs.

Exclusionism, as a blanket term, is the belief that gatekeeping is necessary to make any group or community meaningful and safe. Various types of exclusionists fight against the lumping together of various marginalized identities or groups, because they believe that letting different types of people into spaces meant for more specific groups will detract from the safety and functionality of those spaces. They do not hate the groups they are excluding, and they typically want to exclude both ways. For example, ace exclusionists don't want allosexual LGBT let into ace spaces any more than they want asexuals let into LGBT spaces. Many exclusionists in LGBT discourse support the exclusion of groups that they themselves are part of, because in addition to the idea that it's harmful to the main LGBT community to lump them into it, they also think their group deserves its own recognition as a separate thing from the LGBT community. Exclusionism is not hatred.

Time to get into more specific terms. Let's start pretty simple, with truscum and transmeds. Someone who is truscum believes that people must have dysphoria to be trans. Someone who is transmedicalist believes that gender dysphoria is a mental disorder, and that transness is a medical condition synonymous with gender dysphoria. All transmeds are truscum, but not all truscum are transmeds. Most truscums and transmeds are against MOGAI, neopronouns, gender microlabels (e.g. genderflux or demiboy), and xenogenders. Most truscums believe in nonbinary people. There are some transmeds who don't believe nonbinary dysphoria is real, but they're not the majority.

The direct opposite of truscum and transmed is "tucute," which denotes a belief that dysphoria is not required to be transgender and gender identity is completely unrelated to biological sex or medical disorders/conditions. Tucutes also generally support MOGAI, xenogenders, neurogenders, microlabels, and neopronouns.

Next, we have bio-essentialism. Bio-essentialism is the belief that oppression is based on biological sex, not gender identity, and that identifying as a different gender than your birth sex doesn't automatically mean you are oppressed. This doesn't necessarily mean bio-essentialists believe that gender doesn't exist or that you can't identify as whatever you want, just that your social oppression is based off your biological sex. Not all bio-essentialists are truscum or transmeds, but most are. Bio-essentialists prominently use the terms "male" and "female" to describe biological sex rather than gender identity, and non-radical ones will use "man" and "woman" as blanket terms that include transmen and transwomen while maintaining "male" and "female" as words for biological sex only.

Then, we have the big bad term, TERF. I've seen a lot of people misuse the TERF label, so I'm going to try to clarify its actual meaning. The acronym stands for "trans-exclusionary radical feminist." It's important to break that down into two main parts -- TE and RF -- because trans-exclusionists are often called TERFs when most of them don't fit the "RF" part of the acronym at all.

Trans-exclusionism (TE) means that you believe transgender issues/discourse/activism should be separated from LGB issues/discourse/activism because they are fundamentally different. L, G and B all have one thing in common: being attracted to people of the same sex as you. T is about someone's gender, not their sexual orientation, so trans-exclusionists believe that the LGB and the T should not be lumped into the same community. It doesn't mean they think trans people deserve less respect or are not real. Most trans-exclusionists are also truscum or transmedicalist, but not all are. Many trans-exclusionists who are also feminists are gender-critical, but not all are. Pro-LGB is a synonym of trans-exclusionist, but in my experience, people who describe themselves as "pro-LGB" are more likely to also be gender-critical than those who identify themselves as "trans-exclusionist."

Radical feminism (RF) is a subset of feminism that -- in addition to general feminist beliefs -- is anti-porn, anti-kink, against the makeup industry, and very often openly misandrist. Radical feminists are not always trans-exclusionist, and trans-exclusionists are not always radical feminists (in fact, most aren't). Most radfems are anti-capitalist, and all are against pink capitalism and rainbow capitalism (the commercialization of feminist ideas, gay rights, etc.) Most radfems are truscum or transmedicalist, but not all are.

All TERFs are also gender-critical. "Gender-critical" people are bio-essentialist, but they go a step further to say that gender identity is a meaningless term, and that biological sex is the sole basis of oppression. However, one can be gender-critical and still support trans people if one is a transmedicalist. GC transmeds believe that trans people are still oppressed in society according to their biological sex, not their gender identity, but that social/physical transitioning is acceptable as a treatment for the mental disorder known as gender dysphoria.

Neither trans-exclusionism nor radical feminism is inherently transphobic or hateful toward transgender people. To differentiate a regular trans-exclusionist from a TERF, ask yourself if the person fits the radfem beliefs outlined above. If not, they aren't a TERF.

Now that all of that is covered, we can talk about the last couple types of exclusionism I want to touch on -- asexual exclusionism and aromantic exclusionism. These almost always come together as a package called aro/ace-exclusionism or aspec-exclusionism, but it is technically possible to be ace-exclusionist and not aro-exclusionist (or vice versa), though I've never personally met someone with such beliefs. Aspec-exclusionists believe that aspec people should not be included in the LGBT community because the lack of sexual or romantic attraction is a completely separate struggle and involves separate experiences than having attractions that exist, but are not heterosexual. Some more extreme aro/ace exclusionists strongly gatekeep aromanticism and asexuality. These ones don't believe in microlabels on the "aro spectrum" or "ace spectrum" such as demisexual or grayromantic. They maintain the belief that if someone has sexual attraction (regardless of whether they actually pursue people sexually) then they are not asexual, and if someone feels romantic attraction at all (even if they don't pursue romantic relationships) they are not aromantic.

Aro/ace-exclusionists, regardless of their beliefs on aromantic and asexual spectrums or microlabels, are not inherently aphobic. They only want aromanticism and asexuality to be separated from the rest of the LGB or LGBT community, and treated as their own distinct identities.

I hope this post was informative, and if anyone has feedback on anything I should edit, they should let me know in replies. Regardless of your beliefs, if you actually read this whole post or even just scrolled to the bottom, I'd like to offer a sincere thanks for bearing with me thus far. If you are an inclusionist or otherwise disagree with the things in the post, but you read it anyway, I have a lot of respect for your willingness to hear opinions other than yours rather than blindly blocking out everything you disagree with.

No matter who you are, I hope you have a great day. <3

38 notes · View notes

chaseatinydream · 4 years

Text

pirate king (19) || atz

You watch from the mast as Nassau comes into sight.

The past few days have been spent gearing up for the plan. To disguise the ship, you and the crew have all slaved away on your journey to Seonghwa’s hometown, taking down the distinct blue square sails of the ship and rigging the masts with patchy, torn sails grey from age.

Over the last few days, you and Wooyoung have gotten much closer from working together in the sails all the time. The head gunner had taken one look at your face after your incident with Yeosang and offered to sit with you in the crow’s nest until you felt better. Although you had been boiling over with fury, ready to push him away, he simply told you that he wouldn’t ask any questions.

He wasn’t smiling when he said that, so you agreed.

Yeosang never came to apologize, the coward.

The two of you had merely sat quietly in the crow’s nest, watching the sun set and the stars come out at night. Half the time you had expected Wooyoung’s mouth to open his mouth with some dumb question, but he had just remained silent the entire time, not even looking at you in the least. The two of you simply watched sky and sea become one, both melding into a single canvas of inky black, the stars both above and reflected beneath you. And you had thought long and hard about what you’d said to Yeosang.

I hate you.

You’d used the worst word you could have possibly have. You weren’t just angry with him. You didn’t just immensely dislike him. You had completely lost your damn mind.

Yeosang, one of the quietest and purest people to ever walk the earth and sail the sea. The silent, kind and all knowing navigator who you spotted talking to the birds in the harbor of Tortuga because he was so fascinated by them. The man who’d only ever shown you kindness and given you comfort. The one who never hesitated to help you no matter what your requests were and answered your questions about anything and everything. You’d told him that you hated him.

“I think I screwed something up.” You’d told Wooyoung, head resting against his shoulder. One thing you’d learned about Wooyoung was that he loved physical contact, craved it even, as long as you didn’t surprise him with it. His arm came around your shoulders, pulling you close to stay warm in the crisp night air.

“You just noticed?” The tone of his comment was anything but snark, and he didn’t say a word more. You’d fallen asleep against his shoulder, as if hoping his warmth could fend off the guilt and frozen anger in you.

The next morning when you had woken up, he was still there in the same position, one arm around you, watching the sunrise.

For the duration of the trip to Nassau, you hadn’t spoken to Yeosang once. Even though the two of you had bumped into each other rather frequently, Yeosang had just lowered his head and brushed past you like you weren’t there, and you had done the same.

You were still too angry to talk rationally to him.

I hate you.

You were still too confused to ask him why he would do this to you.

I hate you.

You were still too ashamed to face him for what you had said.

In an attempt to escape him, you’d simply juggled between staying in the rigging or cooking in the kitchens. San had asked you repeatedly about why your face had been so down during your lessons together, but you honestly didn’t know how to answer him.

So you simply hadn’t.

“Chin Hae?”

You turn absentmindedly on the yardarm to face Wooyoung as he makes his way to you, swinging between ropes as he settles next to your side. The two of you have finished your task in taking down the orange and black ATEEZ flag and carefully ripping holes in the sails, so you have nothing to do for now.

“Will everything really be okay?” You ask him quietly. You don’t like where this plan is going at all.

Wooyoung merely shrugs with a matter-of-fact smile as he glances at the dark shape that is Nassau begins to grow in size. “I trust captain. And even if it doesn’t turn out okay, I stick with the crew. They’ll never abandon us.”

You nod. Even if you’re not really very positive about where this plan is going, you’ll stay with the ship and its crew.

The plan, in fact, is to infiltrate Nassau as a merchant ship running from pirates. The cannons have been stowed in a special hidden space right beneath the main deck, and the weapons kept away in a compartment in the main hold.

But there’s a sinking feeling in your chest.

“Chin Hae! Wooyoung-ah!” Mingi calls from the main deck and you look down to see the quartermaster standing there. He looks equally as tense as you are, mouth pressed into a line. “Captain wants to see you to go over the plan one last time.”

You nod. Both you and Wooyoung leap from the rigging, sliding down easily with leather gloves on your hands and landing as lightly as a cat. If Yunho had the opportunity to see you instead of practicing his role in the plan, he’d definitely be proud of you.

The two of you move to the cabin, silently trailing the quartermaster quietly. There’s a tense silence over the deck as the crew merely watch the town of Nassau come closer and closer in sight. Everybody knows what the consequences are if the authorities see through your ploy.

The Treasure will be burnt to ashes.

The crew will be hung.

And yet none of them are backing down.

Your footsteps barely make sound on the wooden floorboards as you step into the captain’s cabin after Wooyoung. The door swings shut behind you and the two of you greet Yunho quietly, who’s seated on the bed silently rehearsing his lines.

Hongjoong turns from coaching Yunho and turns to the two of you. The first thing you notice is the dark circles beneath your captain’s eyes, as if he hasn’t slept in days, which is probably true. He’s carrying all your lives on his shoulders with this plan, and should it go wrong every single one of you will be strung up like dried fish in the marketplace.

You swallow uncomfortably at the thought and stand a little straighter in front of the captain’s desk.

The plan is scribbled down everywhere, on sheets of paper littered around the desk. Some you recognise as your captain’s calligraphy, some as Mingi’s scribbles, and the rest as Yeosang’s neat notes.

You force your eyes away from them.

“When we get to Nassau, it’ll be around evening.” Hongjoong jerks a thumb at Yunho, who’s rereading his script with the most haunted, terrified look you’ve seen. It’d make you worry, but you’ve already seen the careful construction that goes on behind this facade and know it’s nothing more than an act. “There’ll be an official coming to check the ship, so don’t be shocked when it happens.”

As Hongjoong and Mingi have discussed, the only literate people on this ship are Hongjoong, Mingi, Seonghwa, San, Yunho, Yeosang and you. Hongjoong is much too striking with his eye patch, so he can’t be the one the ship presents as captain when the ship enters the port of Nassau. Mingi’s out because of his deep blue hair.

San is needed on board as a healer, Seonghwa’s face is probably still on an arrest warrant in Nassau, and Yeosang simply doesn’t have a presence commanding enough to be a captain. You, too, have no idea how port authorities work, so the only one left to the role is Yunho.

It is strange to see your captain not in his usual red jacket, his signature look has been swapped out for a more unassuming white shirt and trousers. But no matter what he dresses in, he still exudes authority with every action and you hang on to every word he says.

“Yeosang and Seonghwa have done a map of where the official lives. It’s a small estate surrounded by a few houses in which the townspeople live. Do you remember his name?”

“Lucio Bartholomew.” Wooyoung echoes from memory. Hongjoong nods confirmation.

“You’ll need to infiltrate the estate from the back wall under the cover of night. Find out how many guards there are, where his office is and come right back.”

The head gunner inclines his head in understanding.

Then the captain turns to you, his eyes softening.

“Are you prepared?”

You nod. There’s a fear pulling at you from the inside, and you’re terrified as well.

Because you’re going on this mission too.

That’s why you’ve been spending so much time on the masts and rigging, learning how to move along ropes, to scale them as quickly and silently as possible. As the only other literate person on board who doesn’t have any outstanding physical traits for the town watch to recognize you by, your role in this mission is to read the plaques and clues around you to find Lucio Bartholomew’s room.

You’re also the only one light enough for Wooyoung to work with when using the grappling hook, thus you have been selected by the captain for this infiltration mission.

These five whole days in the rigging, you’ve memorized Wooyoung’s odd little cues and mannerisms, learning how to communicate with him silently without sound, familiarizing yourself with the way he moves. The two of you will need to move in absolute tandem, be of the same mind, before you can succeed on this mission.

The pressure is immense.

“This reminds me of those ninja I heard about before from Japan.” Wooyoung tries to smile, but it comes out more forced than reassuring. Hongjoong stands and inclines his head to the two of you.

“Thank you for doing this, Wooyoung, Chin Hae.” He says so seriously that you feel a lump growing in your throat. Everyone knows how risky this mission is, how dire the consequences will be if you fail. You won’t only be captured, but also jeopardize Seonghwa’s chances of ever getting to confront the official who’d killed his family.

“We’ll be fine.” You manage to lie through your teeth, trying to sound a lot more confident than you feel. Hongjoong’s eye shifts over to the head gunner next to you.

“Take care of Chin Hae, Wooyoung.”

Your captain’s care warms you for a short moment despite your mounting terror at what may be your a terrible fate. Wooyoung meets his captain’s gaze evenly.

“I will, Hongjoong-hyung.” No syllable is empty or void of intent. His words are a promise, a vow and an oath. “I’ll make sure he comes back alive.”

The captain holds the two of you by the shoulders, seemingly overwhelmed with emotion for a moment. “I wish you all the luck the world can offer. If my blessing could be of any use, I hope it will be on the two of you as well.”

The three of you fall silent for a moment, suddenly too aware of the fact that this may be the last time are seeing each other. Then Wooyoung looks up, sniffing the air once. You know what that means.

You’ve reached port.

Not a second later, the bell of the ship rings. You hear Mingi’s voice from the main deck, and Yunho stiffens uncomfortably, looking like a lamb that has just been sent to the slaughterhouse.

“We’ve arrived at Nassau!”

“Good luck, Yunho-hyung.” You say as brightly as you can, which isn’t much. Yunho smiles nervously, throwing the script into a drawer built into the captain’s desk as he fidgets uncomfortably, adjusting the collar of his silk shirt befitting the captain of a merchant ship.

“I’ll try my best.” With that, the four of you step out onto the main deck.

Wooyoung’s hand slips into yours as the two of you make your way to the bow. “Are you nervous?” He whispers out of the side of his mouth. You feel the cold sweat of his palm, the way his fingers seem to be locked in place, and you know that he is anything but calm on the inside. You decide to be honest.

“So much I want to dive straight into the sea and swim back to Tortuga.” You murmur back. Now that is no lie.

The Treasure has begun to enter the port, pulling up against a dock. Men working at the harbor catch the mooring lines your crew tosses over the side, pulling you against the wharf. Mingi gives the order for the anchor to be dropped.

The gangplank is lowered and the harbor official steps aboard, followed by a squadron of twenty soldiers, all armed with bayonets and flintlock rifles. His skin is pale, almost white as porcelain, and his hair is a shade of striking platinum blonde, his uniform neat and tidy. The way his fingers dance on the hilt of his cutlass tells you he’s a man who’s seen many a battle, and that the gold patches at his shoulders are not merely for decoration. A bead of cold sweat trickles down your temple as you take your place between Jongho and Wooyoung.

Jongho gives you a reassuring smile, but you can see that his eyes are dark with anxiety.

“Who’s the captain of this ship?” The official demands coolly, eyes scanning the number of seamen before him. Yunho steps forward, Mingi and Yeosang flanking him.

“I am. My name is Donghae.” He bows to the official, one hand over his heart in a sign of respect and honour. “I’m the captain of the Heron, this is my quartermaster Jiho and my bosun Sungjin.”

“I didn’t ask for their names. My name is Yoongi, head of port inspection and lieutenant of the Royal Navy.” The official replies curtly. His eyes remind you of a hawk’s, scanning the deck for anything out of place like a bird of prey. This man will be a difficult one to fool. “What is your business at Port Nassau?”

“My crew and I were threatened by pirates.” Yunho answers, inclining his head as if ashamed. “I could only let them take what cargo I had on board.”

The official raises a sharp, well defined eyebrow as he takes in the sight of the crew. “A rather merciful pirate ship if it let you go unscathed.”

“We did not put up any fight, good sir.” Yunho explains, sounding tired and defeated, as if he’s really spent the day before surrendering to a pirate ship. “They threatened us with cannonfire, but we hoisted the white flag before they could fire on us.”

“Is that so?” The lieutenant’s eyes rake every one of the crew. When his ice cold eyes meet yours, you feel a shiver travelling down your spine. “They didn’t fire on you?”

“No, sir.” Yunho confirms, nodding his head. The official’s eyes darken minutely.

“Then what is your purpose here?”

“To restock on provisions and freshwater, as well as mend the sails on board the ship.” Yunho says as honestly as he can. It’s technically not a lie, but it’s definitely not the whole truth either.

The lieutenant’s face remains unreadable as he turns away to face his men.

“Jungkook!” A young officer salutes and moves over to his lieutenant.

“Sir?”

“Register the Heron in dock seven. The rest of you, move back to your stations.”

You very nearly sag in relief, but you manage to keep yourself upright from sheer will alone.

“Yes sir!” The soldiers chorus, turning back and marching down the gangplank, boots thundering on the gangplank.

Yoongi gives Yunho a piercing stare. “Move your ship to dock seven. There is to be no one leaving the ship from between the evening bell and the morning bell for the safety of this town and its citizens. I hope you have a pleasant stay.”

He turns to leave, then pauses.

You see the lieutenant glance back at you for a moment, raising his nose to sniff the air. Then he whirls around and leaves.

Once the deck clears of the officials, you slump against Jongho, who pats you on the back comfortingly. You hadn’t even realised how terrified you had been until the ordeal was over, leaving you feeling boneless and weak.

The entire crew breathes a sigh of relief.

Yunho manages to shoot his captain a feeble grin, but he looks like he’s just been run over by a horse and then the cart the horse was drawing. “Phase one down.”

That night, you’re changing into a dark attire in your room with San’s eyes respectfully averted. You’re numb, what you’re about to do doesn’t feel quite real to you except for the terror slowly creeping up your legs. You fasten the clasp at the neck, before throwing a motley brown cloak around you to hide the bulge of the grappling rope tied at your waist.

“I’m done.” You breathe to San, and your master turns to you, passing you the silver hairpin in his hand. You tuck it in your belt, before looking at the healer. His face is completely unreadable, and for once, you find it difficult to interpret the look in his eyes.

Remember to smile.

You try to pull your lips upwards, desperate to ease the worry from his shoulders. “How do I look, master?”

Suddenly, San lunges forward, throwing his arms around you in a massive, rib crushing hug that seems impossible for a man so lithe. You can’t see his face because it’s buried in your shoulder, but you can feel the way his arms are trembling even as he tries to steady himself.

“Promise me you’ll come back to me safe and in one piece, alright?” His voice is just a little hoarse, cracking from raw emotion and vulnerability. You’ve never taken the time to fully appreciate how close you’ve gotten to San, what the green haired healer means to you. Your benefactor, your partner in crime, your master, your family. He is almost like flesh and blood to you at this point, your relationship as a master and apprentice nearly unbreakable.

But you don’t have the time to tell him what he has come to mean to you, so instead you return the hug as tightly as possible.

“I can’t promise that.” You’ve never lied to your master before, and you don’t intend to start making it a habit now. “But I will do my best to come back to you alive.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, before someone knocks on the door gently. “Hey.” Jongho’s head peeks in through the doorway and the two of you slowly untangle from the hug. “It’s time to go.”

You give him the best smile you can muster and move over to the maknae, whose head is downcast. But something seems to weighing heavily on his shoulders, and you frown.

“What is it, Jongho-hyung?”

“If only-” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, trying again. “If only I could read… I could have gone in your place. I don’t… I don’t want you to be in danger.”

You feel a gentle warmth stirring in you in spite of your fear.

“Thank you, Jongho-hyung.” You press him into a quick hug. The young battlemaster stiffens slightly upon the contact, but then squeezes you back tightly before releasing you. “But I’ll be fine.”

He clearly doesn’t believe you, but nods anyway. “Stay safe.”

It’s with their well wishes that you make your way up the main deck.

Wooyoung’s waiting for you at the stern of the ship with the Captain, Mingi and Yeosang. He’s dressed similarly to you, all in black with a brown cloak thrown over his shoulders. Mingi gives you a black scarf to tie around your neck.

“Don’t get recognized.” He warns you, but you see the concern etched in his face. You take the strip of black cloth gratefully. Then you see Yeosang at the side, looking a little hesitant, still afraid to speak to you. Your heart squeezes painfully with anguish.

“Chin Hae-” He begins to say, but you turn to Wooyoung before he can finish his sentence. The navigator falls silent behind you.

You force yourself to concentrate at the task at hand. Wooyoung’s already thrown a rope over the starboard, the side of the ship facing away from the port and the prying eyes of the watch. You sling your leg over the side and look down into the inky dark sea, and for some reason, you don’t feel scared anymore.

This is just like the rigging lines. Just like you’re on the main mast again, playing around with Wooyoung and Yunho.

Maybe the adrenaline is finally kicking in. Or you’re just too scared to feel it anymore.

“We’ll be going now.” You tell them seriously. Hongjoong’s eye fixes on yours.

“All the best, the two of you.” Then he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “Come back to me alive. That’s an order.”

A small, fond smile twitches on your lips and the two of you echo together. “Yes, captain.”

Then the two of you slide down the rope into the sea, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #jongho #wooyoung #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; fanfiction #w; pirate king

156 notes · View notes

foilfreak · 3 years

Note

I really love how you write Moreau. I was wondering if you had any tips for writing his character?

Aaaaaah thank you so much I really appreciate the wonderful ask!!!!! Oh gosh, I don’t know if Im in any position to be offering my own writing advice to people necessarily, but Ill do my best! Im a little confused as to whether you mean how I write Moreau as a character in general, or just in dialogue, so I guess Ill do a little bit of both.

When it comes to Moreau as a character, he can more or less be broken down into a few key characteristics that make up the bulk, if not all, of his personality, and when I do my writing, I find it really helpful to have these key terms on hand, or at the very least in mind, when im writing characters because its a lot easier for me to describe and manipulate a character and their actions when I have a concrete idea of how they are likely to respond and react to certain things based on their respective personality traits, the key characteristics i mentioned earlier, rather than vague, abstract ideas that give me an end goal but no reliable or consistent way to get there, if that makes sense. For example, we know that Moreau is a very self-loathing and pitiful character, so i make sure to add lots of scenes where Moreau is taking pity on himself and his situation, actively insulting or berating himself whenever he does something wrong too, and even wishing for death at one point, because at his core, and due to mother Miranda’s horrible influence on him, moreau hates himself and believes that he is a worthless monster who deserves to die a slow and horrible death and then rot for eternity in hell, so it would make no sense for him to be a socially strong and confident individual or even particularly chipper, when we’ve been shown countless times that he couldnt be more opposite to that. Now, that being said however, humans are not one dimensional, and although we know that Moreau is capable of being very naive, overly-devoted, self-loathing, and pitiful, that’s not all that there is to him, not even close. If youre leaning into the tragic aspects of Moreau’s character when writing him, then you definitely want to go heavy on the self-hating parts of his personality, but the point of my fic isn’t to lean into the tragic aspects of his character, its to say “I see Capcom implying that Moreau is hideous, disgusting, and undeserving of love or kindness from anyone, and to that I say FUCK OFF, YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” (Lol). In all seriousness though, If you’re aiming for something a little similar to what Im going for, which is to explore the sides of Salvatore outside of just the self-loathing and pitying, that are still there, deep down, but maybe only come out around certain people, or need a bit more coaxing before resurfacing after being dormant for so long following the cadou mutations, then you’ll want to add key words like “intelligent”, “witty”, or even “crafty” to your bank of key words that make up your overall understanding of Moreau’s character... if that makes sense (i hope it does cuz idk how else to explain this).

In terms of writing Moreau’s dialogue, there’s two ways I could phrase this answer: the simple way and the complicated way. Im gonna try and do the simple way and hope it actually turns out simple enough for people to understand what tf im talking about. Anyways, due to Moreau’s mutations, his brain has been heavily impacted, resulted in a great many mental and physical process having been potentially fucked up in the process, including but not limited to: speech difficulties, memory issues, motor issues, visual impairments, cognitive processing, etc, etc, the list of things that could be wrong with Moreau is literally endless when you know as much about the brain, and more importantly all the ways it can go wrong, as I do (and I don’t even know all of them). But long story short, ive more or less chosen a few of these issues and decided to highlight them, implicitly, when writing him. In terms of his dialogue, Moreau likely suffers from some sort of speech and/or language disorder (the distinction between these two concepts is incredibly important in my field of study and the fact that i will be lumping in them together as one thing for the sake of a simpler explanation pains me and my bachelors degree greatly, but I wont bore you with that drivel today), meaning that his ability to both produce and comprehend language is probably pretty fucked up and you can see that reflected in the way I write how he talks: lots of stuttering - on letters, as well as syllables, words, and even entire phrases in some cases, rephrasing sentences halfway through saying them so that the end result is more clear or accurate, as well as lots and lots and lots and lots of pauses, so many pauses for this man because he’s a bit of a slow talker and he needs a lot of time to compose his thoughts and turn them into concise sentences compared to most people. These are all just my own personal details that I like to add to my writing because my actual field of study is speech, langauge, and hearing sciences, so I know a lot about the brain and how damage to it can impact ur speech, language, and communication, however if you’re not interested in going all out like a crazy person, then my best advice would be to, at the very least, add little touches of stuttering or pausing here and there. Maybe instead of every line of dialogue, you lonely put it every other line, enough that its present and recognizable as moreau talking, but not enough that its “too much”.

Idk if any of this made sense but I did my absolute best to try and answer your question to the best of my ability, even if it turned into more of a lecture and explanation than just a simple list of tips 😅. Hopefully you got something out of this, even if it was just a quick view into the hurricane that is my brain at all hours of the day. Thank you so much for the amazing ask, it was so much fun to answer and I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day!!!

26 notes · View notes

oxhaven · 3 years

Text

Kawaakari : Last Light On The River

➹ description - sequel to kawaakari | samurai!yongguk comes back to your lonely town but it seems he has his mind on other things. You’re distraught on what to do and how to feel but it still remains, who will you serve?

➹ pairing - samurai!yongguk x reader as oc(yeji)

➹ rated - M for mature | 18+ | NSFW

➹ genre - NSFW | smut | angst | edo period japan | samurai!au

➹ word count - 5k

You could see the mirage of sweltering heat lining the orange dirt path. People lined up in front of their stores and even customers and passerby's stayed towards the side to keep the path open for the royal carriages coming forward in the distance. Their loud gossip turned into hushed whispers as the carriages came closer, seeing samurai in full armor leading the extravagant royal display that was pulled by finely dressed servants.

You scoffed to yourself, folding your arms over your kimono as you watched the applause and cheers begin for the presence of the king in your humble town. He had returned from meeting with some diplomats on the other part of the district, and purposely rode through town to flaunt his power over the people. You were proven to be correct, the gold rimmed door swinging open with the sight of a black covered leg kicking out before the sun gave light to the recognizable grace of the King himself.

Bodies crowded together just to get a glimpse of the King make his way down the dirt path in the gold court carriage that two servant men pulled from the front. His fine gold and black robes hung from his pale body loosely, leading up to the small flawless face except for the single scar over his eye. His joyous laugh roared over the cheers of people pushing amongst themselves to wave at the King. You recognized the red tint in his cheeks and half closed eyes, his body staggering in the entrance of the carriage as his hand grabbed hold of his falling crown, the hanging beads crashing against each other.

Ah, he’s already drunk. And in a good mood.

You had served the King with feminie company a few unfortunate times during past summers where he called upon your sisters. Head mistress never passed up the opportunity to offer the King her services, making you and the rest of your sisters dress your best and head to the castle to dine with the Emperor. It was uncomfortable and stomach churning, the deadly rumors about the King refusing to leave your head. King Yoongi was known as a tyrant, torturer, and sick bastard who took pleasure in every form of pain. You were proven right with the suffocating tension when you all settled into the dining room, the men keeping their hands off the ladies until King Yoongi flicked his wrist; permission granted to enjoy the feast and wine. The mood only lightened when your sisters got enough wine in him, a more comfortable expression on his face that was able to make you loosen up as well.

You remembered the many parties you attended like that for the King, making sure to keep a safe distance away from him as he served his men that he granted to join his events. You managed to avoid the many summonses this summer to serve the King, passing the responsibility onto your sisters as you settled for laundry duty. Serving the King meant more money; ten chickens, five pigs and a goat you could send back home for your sickly mother but you couldn’t handle that much murderous tension in a room, it was too much on your heart. You took on basic work back at the oiran with the other men that frequented the shop but you mainly helped out with errands such as these. Trying to gather fruit in the market that now was bombarded with attention to the King rolling through. You sighed out in annoyance though you kept a safe distance hidden away in the crowd, taking in the sight of the foolish King about to fall out of his carriage. You noticed the many samurai surrounding him, raising an eyebrow to their armor cladded bodies and stone faces as they led the way towards the castle. They definitely garnered attention to themselves, making you wonder what entailed during the meeting with the noble diplomats.

You watched the carriage continue to move forward, the many townspeople following the gold display in hopes that he would drop some gold coins for them. You shook your head, wondering if you should pack some extra unpaid fruit in your bag since no one was planning to do their jobs today. You moved to head back to the stalls but quickly stopped in your tracks with eyes going wide.

There were still more men coming, but you recognized this attire on instant. They didn’t wear bulky armor like the samurai in front, but you knew these guys were the real deal with their black robes and glimpses of the familiar crest on their bodies. The group of them followed behind with a significant distance between the carriage, greeting the people as they came by.

Your eyes scanned the group of men, searching out the person that you begged your mind to remember. Remember the appearance, the distinct features, call back on the love you once shared.

It was as if time had slowed, the glimpse of the black hair being pushed back with a tan hand, long fingers getting lost in the black locks before they moved to the back of his neck to massage the tense muscles. You recognized his thick eyebrows, above those dark eyes you could get lost in if you stared for too long. You recognized the nose, pink full lips and the peek of the assorted tattoos along his body right underneath his neck being hidden by his black robe. You recognized it all, drinking him in as quickly as possible before you dared to utter his name.

Yongguk.

Your mouth didn’t even fall all the way open before you were roughly pushed aside, screaming women mingling in the group to convince the samurai to take a chance on them. If it wasn’t for your eyes frantically searching for Yongguk again you would have knocked this heavy basket of fruits on each of their hands and started a brawl.

You managed to find him again in the larger crowd, only for your face to fall with the sight of the many women between his arms. A tiny hope of him acting a bit humble, pushing them aside and focusing on his own task at hand. Instead he welcomed the attention, heated bodies against his own as his mouth moved saying something to rile the girls up in a fit of giggles.

You didn’t notice the way your body quivered or the tears stinging your eyes making them grow red. The basket of fruit that you carried suddenly grew too heavy on your arm, intense wave of emotions filling your chest as you watched his head tilt downward, red painted lips beside his ear as a girl whispered something you assumed to be words of desire, a slight smirk on his face before his eyes darted up to catch yours.

A breath hitched in your throat as you rapidly blinked, feeling hot streams of liquid burning a path down your cheeks. You staggered back as you swallowed a building lump in your throat, unable to read the look in his eyes as he continued to look at you. You finally found your footing to quickly turn around in the direction back to the oiran.

“Yeji-ah, you can’t stay like this forever.”

You muffled your sobs into the satin pillow you buried your face in, your body shaking with the cries you let out as you laid on the fluffy futon underneath you. Your friend sighed in the mirror, carefully drawing a winged line over her eyelid as she painted her face with the make-up on the table.

“Crying all night isn’t going to do you any good.” she tutted, not sparing your form a glance as she continued her work in the mirror.

The night air that came in through the open windows was cool on your hot skin from a very long soak in the bath that you spent crying in there too. You still had more sobs in you to get out, believing that this broken heart was never to be healed.

“I will cry for many more then.” you drawled, moving your smushed face to the side and finally breathing in some fresh air.

“You can’t do that~, you have work to do.”

You raised up your heavy body on your arms, pushing yourself up into a sitting position with legs crossing over. You wiped your nose with the back of your hand and pulled the snot back in with a sniff, hearing your friend make a small noise of disgust.

“I waited and waited for him to return back to me. I worked so hard even though I missed him so much.” You whined with another sniff, your numb heart being hit with another wave of sadness mingled with jealousy as the memory of the woman whispering in his ear flashed in your head again. “He��s a sleazy bastard. I should have listened to him the first time he said not to pursue him. I hope the gods give him what he deserves and-”

A hard smack against the table made you keep quiet, peeking up at your co-worker who was finally looking at you with a kind smile and freshly painted face. “This is not the Yeji I know.”

You made a noise of surprise when she hopped out of the chair and toppled over you, wrapping her arms around your form in a tight hug making you groan. Her hands clasped your face, mushing your cheeks together as she made you turn your attention on her.

“I’m not going to sit here and say I told you so because I already did but you can’t keep ruining this beautiful face with tears for a man.” You blinked at her, your smushed face making pout as your eyebrows knitted close together. Her mouth turned into a brilliant smile, playful eyes sparking with mischief.

“I heard the yamazaki is dining in a bar near the castle, and it’s going to be a very fun party.”

Your head began to shake with denial but her tight clasp kept you still as she continued, “How about we go stir it up a bit more, and I’ll give you a makeover that’ll make every man drop to their knees before you get through the door.”

You blinked at her, your voice coming out muffled, “But Yongguk will be there.”

“That’s precisely why you’re going my love.”

“I don’t want to see women on his arm.”

“And he probably doesn’t want to see his men drooling all over you. But that’s what’s going to happen. And you will take back your pride and ego and show him the power of a courtesan that can kill men and women with her appeal.”

There was a long pause between the two of you, her words settling in before her eyes smiled at you and she smacked a kiss on your lips. She released her hold on you and moved to return back to her seat, giving you the option to let her help you or not. You didn’t really like the idea of going out to a party, much less know that Yongguk was going to be there giving other women attention. Your emotions were unstable; the idea of having to let go of a lost love you’ve waited so long for that you changed your whole demeanor to that of a young girl being married off to a fine prince. Thus, this fine prince ended up being a sordid asshole who had no morals. Though, you couldn’t hold back the excitement in your heart, a little piece of yourself coming back. The look on his face when he saw you in all your glory and unfazed attitude proving two could play this game. And you wanted the last laugh.

That’s what it means to work in Oiran.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins, mixed in with the couple cups of wine you downed to get you going. You took extra care in getting ready as fast as you could before the night wasn’t young anymore. You dressed in the finest gowns you could borrow, a kiss to your forehead from the headmistress as she prompted you to bring back customers since you weren’t making any money. Her nose wrinkled in disappointment but she let you and your sister go, holding hands as your laughter filled the night along with whistles of approval from men passing by. There were more people frequenting the district up near the castle, probably due to the King throwing another extravagant party to himself. But you made sure not to go too close, recognizing the famous bar you and your friend were headed towards that was lit up with joyous noise.

You squeezed the hand in yours a little tighter, your friend sparing you a glance as you held your head a bit higher, moving along the path towards the entrance of the bar. You heard the catcalls and whistles, men already falling to their knees to capture your attention like withered flowers. A naughty smile played on your lips, the fire lit lights from the windows shining on your face as you stepped in, your presence being made known by the men who were fascinated with your beauty. Donned in silk red and white robes, shoulders and neck exposed the cool summer air as your hair was pinned up in a messy bun with fringes of your hair coming down to tickle your exposed skin.

You glanced around, already gaining company as paid drinks were offered to you before you could even find a seat. Your friend and you loved to play a game of hard-to-get, only showing each other attention as men tried to get in between. Your eyes scanned the bar in search of the bastard you had your mind on all this time, biting down on your glossed bottom lip as your brown eyes searched through the yamazaki men.

Indeed you found him in the hazy smoked corner of the bar, giggling women at his feet and pouring him drink after drink, even feeding him a chicken teriyaki. He seemed to have noticed you first, dark eyes boring into yours as a red tint washed over your body. You cleared your throat and looked back at your drink in hand, throwing your head back as you let the burning liquid course down your throat.

A few more men sat at the table with you and your co-worker, compliments and words of desire already spewing from their mouths as you turned your work switch on. As a maiden who pleases men this was the same exact scenario, but instead of money you were earning Yongguk’s attention.

“What’s your name, pretty girl?”

This one had caught your eye, among the others that your co-worker was keeping entertained he had his dark eyes on you. You scanned him over, being surprisingly reminded of Yongguk as you took his features in. Tan skin, thick eyebrows, short black hair and an adorable smile that made his eyes smaller. He was much more giggly, his body leaning towards yours as you rested a hand against his chest to steady him. “Yeji.”

He chuckled foolishly, “Nice to meet you, pretty girl. Name’s Himchan.”

You chuckled to yourself, laughing at his drunken actions as you watched him take a bottle of liquor out of the hand of his companion beside him, not even sparing him a glance at his flustered face. He poured the liquid into your cup, up to the very rim before he did the same with his own.

You could feel heat against the nape of your neck as you took your cup into your hands again, carefully bringing the rim to your plush lips and drinking down the alcohol. Your face scrunched over as the strong alcohol filled your senses, making your body shiver. Himchan watched your actions closely, all the while letting his hand creep up your leg. The rough hand trailing up your thigh exposed more of your skin, his face leaning in as his tongue wet his pink lips ready to press against-

You watched his face fly onto the table, his hand torn away from your body as you held back a sudden scream. Himchan was out cold before he could even put up a fight, his body slumped against the table. Your head spun to the side, seeing Yongguk stand tall over you with a hand rubbing over the knuckles of his fist.

Both of your attention was turned to the loud roar of one of his men, seeing the rest of the bar had taken notice of what went down. The large man staggered before dragging a bottle of one of the wooden tables, swinging it back over his shoulder before throwing it towards Yongguk. He dodged expertly, the wasted booze splattering over the wall as the rest of the bar went into an uproar. Yongguk had spurred on a drunken brawl, the yamazaki men beginning to fight amongst themselves.

Fists were flying in each other’s faces as women screamed and moved to get away. You stumbled back, pushing away the heavy bodies that threatened to collide into you as you searched out for your friend. Your search was short-lived, a familiar rough hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you out.

A rush of fresh air hit your heated face as you welcomed the outside, gathering your loose robes with your other free hand. You stared at the back of the man pulling you away from the bar, an ocean of mixed emotions washing over your body as you searched for your voice.

“Guk!”

He didn’t even spare you a glance, continuing to drag you along to wherever he was going.

“Stop!” you let out again with a shaky voice, attempting to pull your arm back but his grip proved stronger.

“My fucking arm, stop!!”

You collided into his body abruptly, his familiar scent filling your senses as you instinctively grabbed his body. You didn’t have time to gather your bearings, your head being tilted back with a possessive hand in the back of your hair and pulling it down. Soft lips met your own and it took every muscle to tighten over for you not to melt. His lips were firm but needy, kissing you just like you imagined you would when the two of you were granted to meet again.

You heard a growl rip from his throat the same time his other free hand clutched around the fabric on your chest. Your heart skipped at the thought of him ripping your garments off of you when you were still outside, but he controlled himself as he released it and let his hand trail up your heart skin to wrap gently around your neck.

He pulled away from your lips much to your disappointment, the hand on your neck keeping you in place as your eyes fluttered open.

“Gukkie..”

He looked just as completely entranced as you probably looked to him, holding each other’s stares as your breaths mingled together in the short distance. He dragged his hand down from your neck, stepping back with his hand now in yours before leading you off again to a nearby ryokan. The both of you hurried in, ignoring the judging eyes of the innkeeper who recognized the face of the yamazaki. Yongguk led you down to a room, guiding you in and shutting the door behind the two of you.

You brought him into your arms, leaning up to kiss him like you did before with more desire as you fought with robes on your body. He pushed you down, falling onto the floor and silently thanking that there was already a soft futon set up underneath you. He didn’t stray too far from your body, kissing you hungrily before dragging his lips down your neck.

You had played this out in your head a trillion times, thinking of all the different ways this could go. But now here you were, unable to do anything with your hands as they scratched and pulled on his body trying to anchor yourself with the pleasure and emotions your body was experiencing.

He managed to suck a few red patches over your neck and chest, already putting claim on you as his lips trailed down further. Your silk robes were no match for his steady hands putting shame to the hard time you were having earlier. You couldn’t decide if his kisses were hot against your skin or if your body was so hot that his kisses were cooling you down. Either way he had reached down to a region that needed him the most, your thighs spreading on instinct for him.

A finger dipped into your pool, swirling about before he pulled it up to the light revealing a sheen of wetness on his digit. His dark eyes caught yours in a heated gaze, making sure you watched him take his middle finger into his mouth, sucking it clean. You moaned wantonly at the sight, quickly biting it back with a whine in fear of your loudness.

He watched his head dive in, feeling his tongue against your slick folds as he licked up hungrily. You covered your mouth in silent scream, feeling his tongue quickly work into rhythm that circled around your folds and lapped up to flick your clit.

You pressed your hand against your mouth tighter, the noise in your throat finding its way out as your lips mouthed curses into your palm. Your free hand found it way into his hair, but he quickly pulled your grasp into his own hand and held on securely. His tongue dipped into your hole, pushing it in as far as it would go making your walls sputter in desire for more length, more girth, and more heat. Your legs were a quivering mess as he lapped you up, altering with his tongue going inside you in a mocking gesture of what was soon to come.

You had needed this. Badly.

Your robes were beginning to stick to your body though you were quite exposed to the air that began to fill with sex. You almost couldn’t take it when his mouth wrapped around your rosebud, sucking into his mouth and letting his tongue swirl around making you scream into your hand. You began to buck into his mouth, wanting even more of the pleasure you didn’t know what to do with.

He swirled his tongue over your pussy a few more times, a squelching noise filling the room shamefully as you whined to mask over the sound. Disappointment washed over you when he moved away, only to clench your walls at the sight of him sitting on the back of his heels, loosening the tie around his yukata.

Your eyes darted down as his robe opened up gracing you with the sight of his tan skin, toned body that was donning fresh new battle scars since the last you’ve seen of him. Nothing caught your eyes more than the hard meat standing at attention. You didn’t notice your legs were quivering in anticipation until his hands were underneath your thighs, pushing them back to fold over your torso. The concept of time had escaped from you not knowing if Yongguk was moving too fast or too slow as your eyes strained to watch him the pitch of darkness. You realized you didn’t need to when you could feel it, feel the head of his cock at your entrance coating itself in your wetness all the more making that same shameful sound.

He was pushing himself in before you knew it, making a lustful noise tear from your throat as you stared up at him with eyes losing focus. You heard hiss out a curse, something about the tightness as he permitted his dick to go in deeper.

Claim you.

He held the back of your knees firmly, letting them shake in his hold as he guided his cock to go inside of you. He was so large, too thick for you to take in all at once. He knew this, which is why he pulled back to push in more slowly earning another fucked out whine from your throat. The two of you continued on like that until he was satisfied with what length you could take, pulling his hips back and experimentally snapping back in. Your body took the move well, coating his dick in a sheen of wetness as he built up a steady, slow rhythm. Even though your body was taking it well the pleasure was too much for you to handle. It had been so long since the last time for you never dared to have sex with another man if it wasn’t Yongguk. No amount of fantasizing and masturbating prepared you for this as you held onto his wrists so you wouldn’t lose yourself to the pleasure.

Yongguk watched his dick slip inside you, picking up speed as you took more of his length. Your wells sputtered over his girth, the tightness coaxing him to spill himself so early in the act. He chased the temptation away, snapping his hips into your own until his trance broke with your noise breaking into a high pitch. He whispered a soft apology, before returning to a bearable pace and letting his eyes scan over your body. You were a mess that was all his, in a shameful position that opened up just for him. You couldn’t hold himself back from picking up speed again, wanting to hear more of the noises spilling from your mouth. You were calling upon the gods, not bothering to hold back your wanton sounds as you spurred Yongguk on. You ignored the soreness in your legs as he pushed them back further, letting his body hover over you as he slammed his cock into your squelching pussy. Your eyes rolled back as you begged for it, making sure to tighten your walls over him everytime he came down.

He cursed aloud before falling back onto his knees, halting his movements as he gained a tighter grip on the back of your knees. His dick slipped in and out of you, a slower pace than before though you weren’t complaining. The oncoming feeling of heat building in your lower stomach made you whine, as you reached out uselessly for Yongguk.

He stared down at your pleading expression, messy hair sticking to the sides of your face, lustful eyes begging out, “Make it last...please, make it last.”

You whispered the words over and over, listening to the growl that tore from his throat as he disciplined himself to keep a steady pace as he felt your walls squeeze over his cock. Your orgasm washed over in waves, a gurtled moan of his name as your eyes rolled back and curses spewed from your shameful mouth. You choked on a whine when he picked up speed, your sore legs falling to his sides as he released them and his hands fell between you. You listened to his mingled grunts and moans as he fucked you like he wanted. You wrapped your heavy arms around him, letting your mouth trail kisses along his neck and whispered dirty nothings into the air just for him to hear. He cursed loudly, quickly pulling out and emptying himself on the lower part of your stomach. You felt the hot spurts of liquid on your skin, the act of it almost turning you on again.

He fell over you again, welcoming his body in open arms as a tired smile played on your face. The both of you were spent and sleep was calling to you but the excitement of being with Yongguk after so long kept you up. You traced pictures into his back, your mind racing with the things you wanted to say to him.

You felt the weight on your body raise off of you, a look of surprise donning your features as you watched him gather his robe to cover him again and move away from your body. You quickly sat up, pulling your own silk to cover your body as you silently watched his back turn to you.

“So we have sex and that’s it? No I’ve missed you or this is where I’ve been this whole time?”

He was silent to your shaky questions, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “You’ll be safe here tonight. Go home in the morning.”

You scoffed in disbelief, a familiar twinge in your heart as you blurted, “You’re a sleazy bastard. You take all the women you want and throw them away after one night. If I didn’t show up tonight it would probably be another woman in here with you wouldn’t there?”

“Stop it.” his deep voice gently commanded, his back still turned to you as anger welled up inside.

“I’ve waited all this time for you and the first thing you do when you get back is play with some prostitutes and ignore me? When were you going to make time for me!?” Your voice was much louder, enough to wake up other possible guests in the inn. Your mouth pressed closed when he turned around with a harsh stare until you realized what was being held in them. Your jaw trembled as you felt your eyes burn, hoping to get the rest of it out in a clear voice.

“Did you forget about everything between us?”

You stared each other down for a long while, refusing to break eye contact in fear that if you did it meant he no longer carried those feelings for you. You blinked when he moved towards you, a hand on the back of your neck pulling you to the lips that placed a soft kiss on your head.

“Keep your feelings close to your heart. Don’t let anyone else see what’s inside.”

You gasped when you felt the tight tension on your neck make a snap, your consciousness quickly going out and sleep welcoming you home.

78 notes · View notes