#like sometimes people commit transgressions

[whetstonefires]

You know I'm realizing one reason you keep seeing mdzs modern AUs where the Jiang parents are alive mainly so they can dramatically fail and betray Wei Wuxian by cutting him off financially--defaulting on his college tuition or formally disowning him etc--isn't just that people want to translate the Burial Mounds II arc into modern terms while keeping Jiang Cheng clean of it.

(Despite the fact that the internal logic of Jiang Cheng's character is largely built around him being a person who would abandon someone he intensely cared about under these specific circumstances.)

It's because it's hard to set up a modern analogue for the way that Jiang Cheng is responsible for Wei Wuxian, as his Sect Leader.

We live in a highly individualistic society. People are trying to write Wei Wuxian Tragically Wronged, and because there's a normative expectation that people in the position of parents will provide you with resources, and certainly won't withdraw them without warning, but no such assumption that people in the position of siblings necessarily owe each other support, making this work in modern setting with Jiang Cheng in his canon role would require a lot of extra work, just to get a less readily resonant result.

But I keep thinking about it. Because something that's getting lost here is, not just the nuances of character and relationship, but like...it's sort of key to the story that cutting Wei Wuxian off was, in fact, Completely Socially Appropriate.

The level on which it was a betrayal is subtle, and deeply cutting. And intensely tied up in the very different opinions each of Jiang Cheng's parents had about what obligations existed in their family wrt Wei Wuxian, and what these meant.

The level on which it was the obvious, normal course of action is blatant. That is to a huge extent why it happens: because Jiang Cheng's instinct to conform is a survival instinct, reinforced by trauma, and Wei Wuxian's choices meant he had no coherently compelling reason not to obey it, and enormous peer pressure to do so.

The fact is that Jiang Cheng was making a reasonable choice, the actual thing 'anyone would do in that situation,' unlike Wei Wuxian and Jin Guangyao's respective wildly warped ideas about what that is.

Wei Wuxian wasn't betrayed by Jiang Sect like your foster parents cutting you off because you're disobedient. Wei Wuxian was betrayed by Jiang Sect like your brother refusing to drop fifty grand to bail you out of jail.

Of course Wei Wuxian tells him not to. And of course the fact that Jiang Cheng already chose in the moment not to pay a cent because Fuck You Wei Ying still stands there glaring, a precedent that can never be taken back.

And then later he's betrayed by Jiang Cheng like your brother cooperating with a police investigation into a manslaughter you really did commit, that's being handled like domestic terrorism. And then like your brother calling the cops on you. And then like your brother helping the cops find where you're hiding.

I'm personally fascinated by the way Jiang Cheng's lifelong resentment for the way Jiang Fengmian reliably bailed Wei Wuxian out of everything informed those decisions to do the normal thing, the way he's reacting against his dead father as well as against Wei Wuxian and the actual situation.

But even without that daddy issues angle, the fact that the person who made that choice was Jiang Cheng, and that it was simultaneously the reasonable appropriate normal upstanding citizen rational thing to do and so shitty Wei Wuxian would be entitled never to forgive it is sort of. The Point.

Of the scenario, and also to a considerable degree of the entire finely tuned narrative construct that is Jiang Cheng.

[age-of-moonknight]

“The Moon Warrior,” Marvel 85th Anniversary Special (Vol. 1/2024), #1.

Writer and artist: Yuji Kaku; Special thanks to Ken Kunito

[missaengg]

Who Are You?

Pairing: Rafayel x f!reader Tags: nsfw, mdni, smut, some fluff and humor if you squint, kitchen sex, nipple play, p in v sex, creampie, pouty Rafayel Word Count: 2526 “Who are you?” Oh god, not this game again. Rafayel was pouting because of some unknown transgression you had committed against him, and he demanded restitution for your offense. A sinfully, delightful repayment. One you were only happy to oblige. ao3 link here.

“Who are you?”

Oh god, not this game again. You glanced at Rafayel, clocking his over exaggerated pout. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was staring you down like you were an absolute god damn stranger in his kitchen. You could feel your blood pressure rising. As much as you loved this man in front of you, it was no secret he could also very much be a child. A fact Thomas would only be too happy to confirm.

“How did you get into my house?”

A frustrating, annoying child.

“Rafayel, will you please—“ 

“I don’t listen to people I don’t know.”

You groaned. “Will you please stop acting like a five year old and—“

“Lalala, I can’t hear you.” Rafayel plugged his ears with his fingers and sang obnoxiously at the top of his lungs.

You let out a slow, agitated sigh. The last time he played this game, it had taken an hour of coaxing and a bribery of kisses to get him to stop, all because you had forgotten to send him a ‘good morning’ text that day.

“Oh my god, what have I done now?”

Rafayel stopped. He stared at you with those gorgeous blue and pink eyes of his as if you were an absolute dunce for not knowing the transgression you committed against him. “You really don’t know?”

“No!”

Rafayel’s eyes deeply bore into yours, and after a long pause, he asked, “Who are you again?”

Ugh. This… This bitch! A deep, aggravated growl exploded from your throat. Sometimes… sometimes you really wanted to slap him silly. He was driving you absolutely fucking insane! Why couldn’t he just tell you what was upsetting him?

“Rafayel, I swear to god I’m going to kill you if you don’t tell me what I’ve done to upset you.”

“How the fuck do you not know?” Rafayel petulantly asked. “It’s so obvious.”

“Clearly it’s not because I don’t know!” You fought off the urge to shout a string of expletives. If you could read his mind, you would in a heartbeat, but unfortunately, because you were only human, you needed him to tell you in words why he was so upset.

Rafayel crossed his arms again, his pout deepening on his face to the point you wondered just how much farther his bottom lip could jut out. He scowled at you from across the kitchen island. A stalemate, one where the first to break would lose.

You played his game back, crossing your arms, raising an eyebrow. Your steely eyes drilled into his, daring him to continue.

The clock on the wall ticked away.

Tick… 

Tick… 

Tick…

You raised an eyebrow at the man standing in front of you as if to ask, ‘Well, you going to tell me or not?’

Tick…

Rafayel’s eye twitched.

Tick…

He scrunched his nose into that childish expression you adored — most of the time.

Tick.

“You didn’t come see me last night!”

There it was. Victory. You suppressed the urge to smirk in celebration.

“I see,” you drawled.

Rafayel’s pout grew deeper, his bottom lip indeed jutting out even further than you thought possible.  A furious blush spread across his cheeks and up his ears, a consequence of breaking his composure. “I demand restitution for your offense.”

You slunk towards him, keeping your brows furrowed in mock concern. “What did you have in mind?”

Rafayel opened his mouth and closed it, his pouty lips puckering as he deliberated on what would be the most appropriate form of repayment.  Approaching him, you placed your palms on his chest, slowly sliding them up until they were locked around his neck.

“What can I do to make it better?” you purred into his ear, now a dark beet red from how flush your body was with his. “Hm?”

Rafayel faltered, especially as you nibbled on his earlobe. You could feel him tense each time your teeth lightly pulled on the soft flesh of his ear, his resolve chipping with each caress of your tongue.

“Fuck, cutie.” Rafayel’s ragged breaths tickled your neck. His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, his fingernails digging into the skin underneath.

“Is this restitution enough for you?” You tongued Rafayel’s neck where you could feel his heart beating rapidly, grazing your teeth right above his artery. 

“No,” he forcefully groaned, a shudder running through him when you suddenly nipped him. Rafayel ground his hip against you, his arousal demanding stimulation.

“No? How about if I do this?” You trailed your hands down his back to his ass grabbing both cheeks and jerking his hips into you.

“No…”

You slowly undulated your pelvis against his painfully hard erection eliciting choked groans from the stupefied man. Grinning wickedly, you sensually pressed your lips to his, biting his bottom lip and then caressing it with your tongue, all while your hips moved against his arousal. Rafayel shivered, his breath catching in his throat, delicious little breathy moans spilling from his lips.

“Is this enough for you?”

A guttural choked groan escaped Rafayel when you slipped your hand into his pants, stroking his twitching member. A dark heat smoldered in his hazy eyes. He looked alluringly erotic.

“Stop— stop teasin’ me,” Rafayel husked, burying his head in the crook of your neck. His hands roamed up and down your back, fingernails burrowing in your flesh with every squeeze you gave his shaft. “Hah…”

The hot puffs of air from his breaths wisping on your neck sent tingles tickling down your spine. Your own arousal began to pool, a needy throbbing growing between your legs. Closing your eyes, you subconsciously rubbed your pelvis against his trying to find some relief from the swelling tension.

“I’m not teasing,” you fired back, “I’m making up for my… my transgression.”

Rafayel whined when you removed your hand from inside his pants, but quickly realized you stopped to unbutton them instead. ”Want more… more than this.” 

He wasted no time kicking off both his pants and his underwear discarding them haphazardly off to the side. Your eyes darkened at the sight of him standing at attention, swollen to the point of bursting. You licked your lips. His tip glistened with his obvious desire.

Rafayel roughly spun you around against the island, bunching your skirt up around your waist and yanking down your damp underwear.

“Rafayel,” you squeaked in surprise. “We cook here.”

Rafayel ran his length through your folds, coating himself with your slick. “Don’t care. S’my repayment,” he mumbled, lining himself up with your entrance. In one swift go, he plunged in, sinking in until he was fully buried.

You let out a sharp gasp, a flash of white overtaking your vision. You were practically dripping, but it didn’t matter how ready you were for him, he somehow always managed to stretch you out to the point you felt as if you’d split in two.

Rafayel gripped the sides of your hips, hissing at how readily you sucked him in. “Fuck, cutie, you feel so… so good,” he choked, his greedy hands kneading your breasts, fingers pinching with no regard as to whether he caused you any pain.

Each hard pinch sent a spark shooting through you, the pain only adding to the pleasure blooming within your lower abdomen. You snapped your head back, gasping at a particularly rough pinch.

Rafayel lowered his mouth to your neck, sucking hard, no doubt leaving a dark bruise. His mark.

“Raf, not where people can see,” you weakly objected.

He thrust into you slowly, taking his time to pull out and sink in his entire length. “But then” –he swirled his tongue against the darkening bruise– “how’re people” –he moved up higher on your neck– “going to know” –he sucked down hard again– “y’were a naughty girl?”

He bit down and pinched your nipple simultaneously, and you keened, the combination of pain and pleasure Rafayel provided you too much. You trembled in his hands, so hard you had to brace yourself against the counter if only to prevent your shaking legs from crumpling beneath you.

“How else am I going to hear you” –he snapped his hips– “make that lewd sound?”

You moaned. Rafayel entered you so deeply, you swore you could feel the tip of his cock in your throat.

“Besides, s’my repayment, right? Can do… can do whatever I want.” Rafayel rolled against you in a slow, steady pace, and his bulbous tip dragged sinfully along your walls, teasing that sensitive patch of gummy flesh that left you writhing in his hands.

“Raf, harder,” you whined, pushing your hips back, desperate to hear the slap of your skin hitting his. 

“Fuck,” Rafayel rasped under his breath.

He pulled out, and before you could even begin to process how empty you felt without his presence inside you, he whirled you around and grabbed you by the waist, hoisting you onto the kitchen island. He moved so quickly you didn’t have time to yelp or note how cold the granite felt on your ass.

Rafayel’s lips came crashing down on yours. His tongue flicked your bottom lip. Your head spun trying to keep up. You parted your mouth, allowing him to dart in and twine your tongues while your heavy breaths mingled together. You curled your fingers into his hair, raking your fingernails against his scalp.

“Y’drive me… crazy,” he breathed.

“Should… be saying… the same thing… about… you,” you quipped in between kisses.

You tugged on the hem of his shirt. You wanted to feel him, all of him, against you. Breaking away, Rafayel ripped the damn thing off of him and tossed it somewhere you couldn’t see because he immediately attacked your own right after, pulling your shirt over head and capturing your nipple between his teeth.

You arched your back, tugging his hair a little harder than you intended. You heard him mutter something you couldn’t quite catch under his breath, too absorbed in the delectable way his mouth ravaged your inflamed peaks. 

“Raf, would you just… just fuck me already,” you demanded, the unbearable ache between your legs now too agonizing to ignore. 

Your plea seemed to light a fire within Rafayel, and he gripped you firmly by your thighs, hauling you towards him until your ass hung precariously off the edge of the counter. Holding you in place, he dove in, and without waiting, he bucked his hips. You gasped. Your arms instinctively rose to his shoulders in a futile attempt to brace yourself from his assault.

Your cunt sang, avariciously clenching around his shaft with no intention of letting go. Unlike the slow, methodical thrusts from before, Rafayel pounded into you without abandon in a dizzying speed. 

He was bullying your cervix, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. 

You hooked your legs around him driving him in as deep as he could go. “Deeper, Raf,” you pleaded, catching his eyes. “Need you… need you deeper.”

Rafayel gazed into your eyes, and then abruptly rammed your hips.

“Fuck!” you screamed, reeling from the sudden sting of pressure radiating through your lower stomach.

“That deep enough… for you?” he growled.

Stars dotted your vision, and all you could do was mewl as you clutched his shoulders with all the strength you had left in your fingers. You heard Rafayel snicker, but his moment of triumph was short-lived when your legs locked around him even tighter.

Shit, cutie,” he rasped.

Your clit brushed the jut of his pelvis every time Rafayel even shifted. Your head flopped back, your eyes closed. “Feels… fuck… feels so… good,” you whimpered.

Your bodies rocked together. The coil within you grew taut, a bundle of energy ready to burst and fling free with the slightest provocation.

“Raf…” you whispered hoarsely.

“Shit, cutie, I’m–” Rafayel took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m–”

His body tensed, and then he spilled into you, jerking with every spurt of his hot cum. You enveloped his head in your arms, stroking the back of his head as he helplessly clung to you.

“I love you… so… so much… so… fuck, cutie… don’t even… know,” Rafayel babbled, his voice a strangled, hopeless mess.

His sweet, earnest cries set your heart aflame, the tipping point for your own release, and the coil within you snapped. You felt yourself clamp down around his pulsating length, and your body roiled with ecstasy, shattering into a million pieces.

“God, Raf…”

Your body was on fire. Your blood roared in your ears, and you captured his lips with your own, falling deeper into your shared intoxication. The two of you shared kiss after dizzying kiss, riding out the blissed-out haze of your releases together.

You planted one last kiss on his swollen lips before pulling back. “So, was that enough of a repayment for you?”

Rafayel nodded blankly, and you tittered at the blank glaze in his eyes. 

“Good.” You brushed your lips on the tip of his nose. “Next time, can you please just tell me why you’re upset instead of being difficult about it?”

You watched as clarity returned to Rafayel and he wrinkled his nose.

“Baby, I’ve waited 800 years for you. The least you can do is let me pout about petty things.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re still holding that over my head, are we?”

“Yep,” Rafayel drawled, smirking at you. “For as looooooong as I waited for you.” He exaggerated the ‘o’ in the word ‘long’ as if to make his point.

You sighed and shook your head, but a smile danced on your lips. “Fine,” you conceded. “If it means I get a good dicking like this in the process, I guess it can’t be helped.”

You cackled with glee as Rafayel sputtered, another blush coloring his cheeks. You held his burning cheeks in your hands and tenderly pressed your lips to his.

“I love you,” you murmured, peering into his eyes. “Even when you’re being a child.”

This time, it was Rafayel who rolled his eyes, but he pounced, bombarding your face with wet kisses.

“Rafayel, stop,” you squealed and made a fruitless effort to push him away.

“No,” he protested.  “I waited 800 years for you. Least you can do is let me love you as much as I want.”

You melted, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning into him with your full body, a wicked thought occurring to you. “You know,” you whispered suggestively into his ear. “We still haven’t christened the grand piano sitting in your living room.”

You snickered when Rafayel choked, but yelped when he swept you into a princess carry. 

“Should probably fix that, shouldn’t we?” He devilishly grinned and strode out of the kitchen with you kicking delightfully in his arms.

“Raf, put me down,” you cried as you swatted at his shoulder.

“No, we’re going to go christen the piano.”

You rolled your eyes again, but you hummed, snuggling into his hold. As much as Rafayel drove you insane, you couldn’t stay mad at him, not when he warmed your heart just as much. 

Maybe the childish nature of your boyfriend wasn’t so bad after all.

[elftwink]

it is actually wild how cis people pretend "can you please not misgender me" as some sort of egregious demand that we're sooo unreasonable for and how we should just be able to brush it all off no matter what, considering not only do cis people get wildly offended when they're misgendered but also when they accidentally misgender someone they believe to be cis they practically get down on their knees and beg for forgiveness, so great is the social transgression they just committed. they really expect you to be mad as hell. obviously water is wet but sometimes i think when you're told over and over and over again that you're making a big deal out of nothing and everyone else is actually so chill about misgendering, it's important to recall that cis people are by far the least chill about being misgendered, and that in the absence of trans people, cis people all agree that being misgendered sucks and the person in the wrong who needs to apologize is the misgenderer, even if it was an accident (in fact especially so). like everyone implicitly understands the discomfort in being misgendered, and when they insist that it isn't uncomfortable, what they actually mean is that they think you deserve the discomfort. i think we should stop letting these assholes mince words and feign ignorance about something they understand perfectly well. if u all were literally half as chill as you expect us to be we could blanket the earth in 10ft of snow

[eff-plays]

Also enby here! I hate how much I hate Taash's writing.

It's pretty clear to me how it could be a story that would resonate with a lot of people, something raw that came from the writer's own experiences... but it doesn't work for this character. Like, the catharsis of confronting an unsupportive parental figure is usually something I'm all for - except Shathann is not not supportive, she's confused. She's trying to understand Taash through her own cultural framework, but that's not good enough because she doesn't use the right words, so we still get to yell at her like she rejected Taash's identity. The way the writing engages with multiculturalism - or the qun in general - is atrocious.

And the Bharv scene had me seeing red, tbh. I know people have different reads on the scene, some more favorable than others, but it fundamentally misses the point why sometimes misgendering might happen - Isabella is telling a story she has told many times before, from a time when she still thought Taash was a she, so a slip up can happen even if she's fully supportive and accepting, because she's going against both muscle memory and the brain's silly habit of not applying new information retroactively as well as it should - and then, since Taash's entire gender discovery has this preachy tone and a vague cloud of A Teaching Moment hanging over it, it more or less casts that stupid performative act of self-flagellation as The Correct Way To Appease The Transes If You Commit The Sin Of Misgendering which is just... no. I don't want people who otherwise support me wholeheartedly to make a big deal of it if they misgender me by accident, actually. Just correct yourself and move right on - make it as mundane as messing up my address because I moved recently, actually. Treat it like it's not a big deal, like it's a normal thing for me to be enby, because that's the fastest way it will become the new norm. There are studies about this sort of thing.

It would be different if Taash had to struggle to get their new identity accepted by their peers, but that's not the case at all - the Lords, the companions, their mother, everyone is completely on board with them being nonbinary as soon as they understand what's up - so it felt like the narrative is targeting the wrong people for transgressions they didn't really commit, if that makes any sense.

Sorry this is so long, but the frustration over seeing the character I was most looking forward to messed up so badly has been festering in me for a while now. I hope you have a wonderful day. <3

Yeah! Taash themselves is written as though the whole world is against them and their gender identity, as though it's some never-before-seen struggle unique to them, but in an attempt to not bum anybody out by making that TRUE, everyone around them is like "oh good for you!! here's a pamphlet with all the up-to-date words to use for those who are just like you!!"

So we have this character who's angsting about their gender and how they're soooooo different and alone, while everyone around them bends over backwards to show their support. Even their mother, who's the main person who doesn't "support" them, is at worst confused, and she fucking DIES for that sin and in order to re-establish the 100% support rate Taash gets for their gender identity.

That's the part that makes them feel like a whiny teen and makes their struggle so hollow. You can't both have a huge fucking tragic coming-out story while the entire world around you is rolling out the red carpet in anticipation for your exit.

That's why I predicted Taash's whole story would fall apart for me the moment my Rook was like "I'm exactly like you and I know how you feel" in this very sympathetic way early on. I was like "oh boy. they're showing so much empathy and are being very supportive while being explicitly nonbinary, I imagine this will undercut Taash's entire storyline when the game will attempt to show them as uniquely isolated due to their identity." And I was right! Because the game doesn't account for the possibility of a nonbinary Rook being there to support them, all you get are like a few asides of "I know how it feels uwu" and Taash being like "woaow you soo know how it feels", but fundamentally their story is still about them being SO nonbinary, more nonbinary than anybody else has ever been nonbinary, to the point where your actual nonbinary Rook just has to stand there and pretend they don't exist at all. And then when Rook has to be a pseudo-mentor to Taash while seemingly being their peer is so weird, too, and doesn't help the feeling of Taash just being a huge fucking child about the whole thing. Like a teen whining that nobody gets them while the adults around them are like "it's ok! these feelings are natural! here's a pamphlet!"

Anyway yeah. I have feelings about how nonbinary Rook breaks Taash's whole storyline that I haven't even talked about yet. The way the game sort of expects Taash to be the one true enby of the world in a very self-important sort of way and ends up creating a bunch of contradictions. You can't both have "uwu being nonbinary is so normal and natural that nobody questions it and everyone automatically knows Rook's pronouns" and "uwu being nonbinary is normal but sooo unusual and not everybody will get it and you need to adjust and it'll take time and when you fuck up just apologize profusely for this grave offense." Like, which is it, game? You need to pick because otherwise Rook's nonbinary existence makes Taash's whole deal into a big fat nothingburger. And you'd think that the whole Qun/Rivain storyline would at least put a unique spin on their nonbinary story and set it apart from Rook's but. Well. That would require not having the Whitest Possible Take on that part, and I'm not sure BioWare could ever deliver that.

[1960z]

“haha odo is so beige and bland and boring despite being a literal shapeshifter” like ok yes I laugh at those jokes too and find them funny I literally have no issue with them but sometimes I also wanna talk about how that’s kind of the whole point of his character.

like odo’s abilities and way of being is so unlike any other known species in the alpha quadrant that it’s shown to be disturbing and off-putting to a lot of people — or at the very least that’s what he was led to believe. like we see this in the alternate where mora tries to convince him he’ll either be locked up in a prison or put in a zoo to gawk at if he’s perceived to have committed any sort of crime or transgression.

so despite being able to literally become anything he can think of, he chooses his default presentation to be as standard, bland and uninteresting as he possibly can. male, always in a beige uniform, very standard hair cut.

odo is so plain because he was made to be afraid of being literally anything else

[thewordfortheday]

Who is a God like You, who pardons sins and forgives the transgressions of Your people? You do not stay angry forever but delight in showing mercy. (Micah 7:18-19)

Sometimes we believe we've failed God so badly that He'll never forgive us. But the Bible says, "Jesus Christ came into the world to take away our sins. We deserve to die for our sins -- but He died in our place. Every sin we ever committed was placed on Him, and He took the judgment we deserve.

God doesn't want anyone to sin, but He knows we will. The Bible also says, "He delights in showing us mercy." We sometimes wonder if God can really forgive us, you see, God will always forgive us when we sincerely repent and ask for His forgiveness. Today, confess your sins to Jesus, turn away from them, He will surely cleanse you from all unrighteousness, and embrace you, because you are His child.

[creatingblackcharacters]

as a nonBlack person, I sometimes wonder what the appropriate response is to being accused of antiBlackness by someone who isn't Black. if a Black friend told me I had done something antiBlack, I wouldn't question it, I would just ask them what I need to know in order to avoid committing the same transgression in the future. but for nonBlack friends, sometimes I worry that they're trying to white-knight on behalf of Black folks or misunderstanding what Black folks have said. I try to acknowledge that as a nonBlack person who often passes for white, there are antiBlack behaviors that I'm not always aware of and sometimes I will do things that are antiBlack. I worry though that Black folks will see that and think that I'm letting myself off the hook for my racist behaviors, when that's not my intention at all. is there a better way I can approach those conversations?

(I'm sorry if I didn't articulate this well, I'm intellectually disabled and I'm struggling with English today. also, feel free to ignore or delete this ask if you're not comfortable answering it - you don't owe me your emotional labor. I love your blog and I'm trying to be as mindful as possible of my biases being raised in an antiBlack society.)

Tbh, your best bet here is

1) stay ready so you don't have to get ready. If you are making sure you're educating yourself, you'll be less likely to end up in as many of these situations, and when you are in them, you'll have some context and confidence to have the conversation. Because you might be wrong, and you gotta accept that with grace! But you might not be!

2) do your own research. Fact check! This is the internet- people lie! Often! They very often are so ready to be right that they parrot things they do not understand, especially to look "woke" (😭). It reveals that they're not doing it because it's the right thing for the community, but because it makes them feel smarter in front of the audience they ACTUALLY want validation from. You can usually catch this by noticing if that person ever actually interacts with other Black people, or if they're just saying things but get defensive when someone Black actually joins the conversation.

3) admittedly it would help your confidence if you also followed Black people, or had Black friends. It would help you know from people firsthand what matters, what's going on, and how people are responding to it. You have to build real community. If people see you actually care and are trying, they're less likely to believe poor of you than if you just show up claiming to be the Savior of the Blacks. 👍🏾

[autolenaphilia]

Some thoughts on The Coffin of Andy and Leyley

I found out about The Coffin of Andy and Leyley from an ”antiship” blog that I was on solely to block, because these people are always violent callout culture transmisogynists. Them getting very upset about this game having incest in it piqued my interest. The art looked interesting, and if these people hate it, it can’t be all bad.

(Case in point about the transmisogyny, from my understanding some people tried to dox the pseudonymous and secretive developer of this game, Nemlei. And the motivation was to prove the doxxer’s suspicion that Nemlei is a trans woman, because “only a trans woman could create such degeneracy.”)

Sure enough, TCOAAL is actually a nuanced and well-written psychological dark comedy /horror game. This is going to be more of a preliminary analysis than a review so full spoilers beyond this point. It’s by necessity preliminary since the game isn’t finished yet. My review is: go buy it if you are a fellow sicko who enjoys interesting stories about cannibalism and incest and like visual novels.

TCOAAL uses a trick from more transgressive forms of horror fiction, where the protagonists are not the heroes, but the villains, and the story is from their perspective. Andrew and Ashley Graves are murderers who kill people, sacrifice their souls to demons and cannibalize their bodies. They would be the villains of a more conventional horror story, their crimes investigated and thwarted by some heroic detective perhaps. But in this type of story, you are denied the comfort of heroes, or even innocent victims as you watch the protagonists twisted psychology lead them to commit terrible deeds.

The tone of the story mostly isn’t really horror, but very dark comedy, kinda Jhonen Vasquez-ish. The horrors are portrayed with a gleeful flippant tone, and cute appealing art. The tone mirrors how especially Ashley feels about her crimes. The game’s tone gets serious sometimes, going for straight horror occasionally, acknowledging how heartbreaking yet insane the Graves situation is, but there is a deep vein of the blackest humor.

Andrew and Ashley

Andy and Leyley themselves have this co-dependent toxic abusive sibling dynamic. Ashley is emotionally abusive, extremely possessive and manipulative towards Andrew. But her beloved Andy is the only person she actually cares about, and the rest she is able to kill with gleeful abandon in her heart.

Yet Andrew is not purely a victim. I’m going to talk at length about him, because the gap between how he describes himself and what the game shows is fascinating. I’m not the first to point this out. And it even extends to the game’s promotional material, like this official art on the game’s steam page is actually subverted by the game itself.

His character is not "doormat extraordinaire" who just "exists", the words "very not good, in fact very bad" apply to him too.

He is a victim, and loves to point at times how exploited, manipulated and abused he is by Ashley and he’s of course right. But he also uses that as an excuse for the horrific violence he commits, that he is just a doormat has been manipulated and corrupted by Ashley. “I was just being manipulated by Ashley to do it” is his variation on the old Nuremberg defense for his crimes. He has no sense of personal responsibility, no understanding that even if someone else tells you to do it, you are still responsible for your actions.

And the game itself proves that “it’s all Ashley” is not really true. A lot of the violence and murder are definitely on Andrew’s own initiative. He is violent towards Ashley too, the abuse is reciprocal. And he like Ashley doesn’t care much about other people. He gets distraught about killing people, but if you follow his dialogue, he is mostly freaked out about the consequences for himself. He is dependent on Ashley as someone who he can lay all the responsibility and blame for his own actions for. And of course, there is genuine affection there, because things are complex. He was parentified to take care of Ashley as a child and still has the drive to be her caretaker and protector.

It’s a fascinating pair of characters, and an interesting dynamic to observe.

“Der Mensch lebt nur von Missetat allein”

And the game’s writing is smart enough to have them not be an individualized evil, that came out of nowhere. Andrew and Ashley are the products of a neglectful and cold parents. Their mother made Andrew the favorite, but basically in order to parentize him to take care of his younger sister. And their dad can’t even remember the names of his kids. Not that the cycle of abuse starts with the parents, the mother had Andrew and Ashley when she was 15 and 17 respectively. But that doesn’t excuse how they ultimately, sell their kids’s lives for money to an organ harvesting scheme. This scheme is strongly implied to be part of an hilariously over-the-top soda company, toxisoda (it’s implied their soda is literally made from humans, so the company is doing the same thing that Ashley and Andy does, but on an industrial scale).

This is the situation that pushes Andy and Ashley to become evil murder-cannibals horror movie villains they become. They are deliberately being starved to death, and decide human meat is preferable to that. And the point here is obvious. To quote Brecht, “Erst kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral” or in english translation “Food is the first thing. Morals follow on.” Andy and Ashley are bad people who kill and eat other people, but they are the product of an evil society. A family system where children are property of their parents to be abused and sold. And ultimately a capitalist system which kills people to feed others, a societal and systematic version of what Andew’s and Ashley does. They literally become cannibals to escape becoming literally or essentially cannibalized themselves by the capitalist system. Capitalism is a system which works on prey and predator dynamics, and they just fought to became predator instead of prey. To further quote the same song by Brecht, in capitalism, “Der Mensch lebt nur von Missetat allein” or in english “mankind is kept alive by bestial acts.” And in that broader view, Andrew and Ashley’s small-scale evil is dwarfed by the system they are born into.

Incest

It’s with all this context the game’s treatment of incest must be understood. It’s a horror game, about two siblings with a fucked-up abusive relationship. Of course there is incest, it’s far from being the worst thing these two do. The game only gets more explicit about incest in one optional ending, but it’s there explicitly and subtextually from the very start. Ashley jokes about it repeatedly, it’s there in the possessive jealousy Ashley feels for any of Andrew’s girlfriends, it’s implied in the casual physical intimacy of the siblings. Like it’s very obvious that their fucked-up but close relationship can lead there right from the beginning of episode 1. It’s a very natural conclusion to their dynamic. And the characters know it, Ashley definitely knows it, and their own mother accuses them of it. Andrew denies his mother’s accusation of fucking Ashley, and he’s probably not lying at that moment, but his relationship with Ashley leading there make perfect sense and he is not just capable of admitting that. Anyone who claims to have played this game and then claims be shocked that there is an optional incestous ending can’t have been paying much attention. This is the incest cannibalism game.

The Graves siblings are heading towards committing more murder as long as they stay alive, and incest is a minor sin for them. And probably not even the unhealthiest way for their relationship to develop. It definitely won’t fix them, but I doubt it will make things much worse.

And condemning the game morally is just absurd. This is a horror game, and you are outraged about the incest and not the murder-cannibalism? The Graves siblings relationship is not portrayed as healthy and the incest is part of that.

In fact the game portrays this double-standard in the actual story. It’s the possibility of her kids committing incest that finally makes Mamma Graves admit she is “the worst mother ever”, and not the whole selling the lives of her kids for money thing.

Sure, there is a fair argument to make that the incest is romanticized and fetishized. Ashley and Andrew are certainly drawn as attractive, and even the abusive elements can be part of the fetish. But the thing is, Ashley and Andrew are not real people, it’s fiction, it’s not real incest, so if people get off to it, I have no reason to see it as a problem.

The antiship blogger was actually especially angery about this official art from a devlog and honestly after playing the game, it kinda sums up my feelings about the incest controversy:

[katherinakaina]

The problem with house elves in Harry Potter.

Typical argument goes as follows: it is bad and irresponsible for an author to create enslaved people who love their enslavement and love their masters because of all the real world parallels to real slavery. Similar arguments were actually made about American slavery and every other slavery before or since. In our world such rhetoric is always propaganda. But in Harry Potter it’s portrayed as genuine.

For a children’s book especially, it’s not a good look. As a children’s book, Harry Potter contains too many dark and difficult topics and without satisfying lessons or conclusions it’s tempting to say – don’t introduce slavery into your story. Don’t create willing slaves, for starters.

But the problem is in the lessons or conclusions part, not the introducing part. And even willing slaves can be explored in interesting ways and really done justice when in hands of a competent writer with good politics.

How so? Well, don’t create such creatures just because. Make them into a coherent metaphor for something. There are several possible options, starting from less fitting:

1. House elves are dogs. Or children.

You can frame dogs as voluntary slaves if you don’t know much about dogs. Unlike house elves, they are perfectly independent creatures that do not have an inborn desire to obey humans. They need to be trained and even then they can be very stubborn and do not appreciate or even tolerate abuse like house elves do. Dogs are more like children. You have the position of authority over them but that makes you responsible and it is your job to make them happy and occupied.

But if you are really committed, you can frame childhood as slavery too. Being a child or a pet is a vulnerable position to be in. Your labor is sometimes exploited and you don’t control your life much. You know how it is.

So, there are creatures who love their sometimes actually slavery-like situations because they love their "caretakers" and you cannot solve this problem by just separating the two groups. It would be doing everyone a disservice.

But in Harry Potter, Hermione decides to free elves purely on philosophical ground and in her zeal doesn’t consider the reality of their special psychology. Who would even make such a silly mistake?

2. House elves are house wives. And Hermione is a lesbian separatist.

This angle really comes into focus when we meet Winky in the fourth book. She is a female elf and a loyal supporter of her master Barty Crouch Snr. You can very easily read her as this conservative fearful simple-minded wife that just wants to keep peace and make her husband happy above all else*. The only thing that is above the “husband” is her “son", her perfect boy who can do no wrong – Barty Crouch Jnr, a death eater and the main villain for most of the book.

In the beginning of the book, Winky gets "divorced" against her will, by her “husband”, for a public transgression that made him look bad. It’s this situation that shocks Hermione to the core and makes her believe that all elves should be free. But then Winky ends up in the Hogwarts kitchens (where elves live among themselves like in a convent) and we see that she’s devastated, blames herself, becomes an addict and never fully recovers. Hermione never gets strong evidence in the opposite direction and eventually abandons her activism.

This does sound like a cautionary tale a conservative would write about marriage. How feminism is women’s main enemy and how we all are deeply unhappy without the authority of a husband. Again, actual arguments that people make about modern society TODAY.

Obviously, that’s not how the real world works. But even here separatism is a bad solution. Yes, there is a rare house elf that can handle freedom**. There are women (not quite so rare) who don’t want to engage in relations with men. But it would really be doing everyone a disservice to force apartheid between men and women. Most wives love their husbands. Even when they are abusive. Most women can stop loving a particular man, but not men in general. There’s no escape from the biological prison of heterosexuality.

Anyway, those are all bad metaphors that require a lot of stretching. House elves don't look like creatures that evolved to cooperate with humans like domesticated animals or humans themselves. They are too subservient. Such a thing wouldn't happen naturally. They seem to be created (or altered) artificially to accept humans unconditionally***.

3. House elves as perfectly aligned Artificial Intelligence.

House elves have stronger magic than wizards, they think differently from them but still are perfectly loyal and obedient to those they consider their masters.

This is the best metaphor, in my opinion. After all, science is similar to magic. They are both really powerful. And both can be used for better or worse. You don’t have to write sci-fi to talk about any futuristic concept. Those are just aesthetics, really****. And that’s a pretty cool question to ask – if people could create a house elf… would they? Not a far fetched idea at all.

So, when written well a house elf can be a perfectly good narrative device. Introduce them into your story as a metaphor for domestic servitude or AI, an enslaved god in a box. You can even mix those metaphors. Make your house elf a stand-in for a waifu simulator. Make them Joi from Blade Runner 2049. Make it real dark.

Tone it down for a YA audience, of course, but still, why not? There are real life implications here. You can even start with the SPEW plot as well. Show that brute force lesbian separatism or rewriting the code of a perfectly happy and aligned AI is stupid and, in the latter case especially, really dangerous. Don’t separate families on the basis of some abstract philosophical grievance you made up. Don’t kidnap people’s pets. Sure!

What’s next, though? What do you do with a subservient creature you cannot just free?

In the real world we have laws surrounding all of these issues, protecting all spouses, children and pets from abuse. And when sentient waifus become a thing we will have to intervene as well.

How come this point never crosses Hermione’s mind? How come she gives up on SPEW and never finds a third alternative?

A better written Hermione would say: “Okay, Hagrid, I concede that house elves should not be taken from their homes. Fine. But are we really also fine with families like Malfoy’s treating their elves like dirt? Elves do become distressed when it happens, we can all clearly see that. Harry was right to free Dobby, we all agree on that. But do we agree that it was Harry’s responsibility to do that? No authority had taken Dobby away from his masters even though Dobby actively wanted to be taken. No authority had permanently taken the right to own house elves from Malfoys. They can just buy a new one and abuse them as well! I know you don’t have child protective services either, so we should probably start with that but can we at least agree that it's a goal for the future? There’s a pile of clothes for elves who want freedom in the kitchens now. That’s a good thing, right?”

But such a conversation can never happen in Harry Potter, about any issue*****. Because that would imply a systemic change. It would imply that the Ministry of Magic, portrayed as useless and incompetent most of the time, has to do something. And we can’t have that.

Instead we have a toothless morality that we should just all be better as individuals. We should help victims when some injustice really stares us in the face. And we should treat our own elves better. Be nice to your wife. Be kind to your children. Don’t hit your dog. Don’t inflict pain on your waifu simulator. What happens behind the closed doors of your neighbors is really none of your business. Family is the cornerstone of society and the government should not meddle in its affairs.

This is what makes Harry Potter's house elves irredeemable. Not their existence but all the lessons we expected to not learn from them. A competent writer with good politics wouldn’t stop the conversation on “well, they enjoy slavery so we must not intervene”. In a bad situation there’s always a less ridiculous alternative to doing nothing.

_____________________

* There are no sexual relations between wizards and elves anywhere in the books as far as I know. I’m only talking about the social dynamic of traditional marriage, nothing more. (Although in real world sexual abuse does happen in all of the situations discussed here)

** The only one we see is Dobby but even he was not free from his affection for wizards. He just switched from serving his family to serving the main character, not de jure but de facto. He risks his life and suffers abuse for Harry and in the end he dies saving Harry’s life.

*** As far as I know it was never confirmed how elves came to be in Harry Potter. Which is bizarre considering this author's love for writing extra worldbuilding. That suggests to me that she was uncomfortable with the topic herself and didn’t really want to make it into a coherent metaphor. Else she could have given them any origin story she deemed fit.

****I do mean that fully. A spell that reads minds and computer chips in brains can and should serve the same narrative purpose. You can go full Black Mirror in your fantasy novel. That one episode where people’s eyes film everything they see – literally a pensieve.

*****They ponder once that they sort children into houses a bit early and even though it would be a comparatively easy fix they still do nothing. They never do anything!

[darkmaga-returns]

You’ve probably seen the recent report warning that native White Britons are on track to become a minority in the United Kingdom within 40 years. It’s been widely circulated—we covered it here—and the report has drawn attention from major news outlets around the world.

But perhaps the most revealing aspect isn’t the report itself—it’s the reaction to it. Many who express concern over the findings seem desperate to avoid committing any cultural transgression while sounding the alarm. Commentators are going out of their way to declare, emphatically, that their concern has nothing whatsoever to do with preserving ethnic Britons in Britain.

This kind of behaviour isn’t limited to media personalities or mainstream commentators. It reflects a broader, publicly enforced sentiment. Europeans, as a rule, are expected to maintain a posture of indifference toward the preservation or continuation of their own ethnic group. Anyone who expresses concern, however measured, risks being smeared as a—God forbid!—“White Nationalist,” or worse, the ideological heir of Hitler himself.

“Whites”—to use the label as it is often used, denoting people of European descent—are the only family group that has been socially and psychologically conditioned to be indifferent, and sometimes even averse, to their own continued existence. When they do state something seemingly defensive of their own nations, they instinctively apologise and throw up a hundred qualifications, desperate not to be seen to have any particular affection, gratitude, or obligation towards their own people.

Instead, they hide behind meaningless platitudes like, “It’s about preserving our culture, not preserving our people,” as though that were a more virtuous pursuit. In other words, “We’ll take the gift, and to hell with the gift-giver.”

[reverieshifts]

𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒓

𝒔𝒊��𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒓

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒓: 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒏

Often romanticized in surface-world myths as enchanting maidens with shimmering tails, the mer are in truth an ancient, sentient species whose existence predates most human civilizations. Far from being mere legend, they are a fully sapient people with a vast cultural legacy, intricate societal systems, and astonishing biological adaptability.

Though referred to as “mermaids” in human folklore, the mer are not bound by binary concepts of sex or gender. They possess the innate ability to change sex at will, a trait that promotes harmony and adaptability within their pods—tightly bonded social units that function like extended families.

Their bodies are exquisitely evolved for aquatic life: sleek, hydrodynamic, and free of body or facial hair to reduce drag in the water. From the waist up, their form bears a superficial resemblance to humans, but from the hips down, they are all power—muscular tails built for speed, endurance, and precision. The color, pattern, and texture of these tails vary dramatically between regions, with coastal mer often displaying vibrant hues, while deep-sea mer favor darker, camouflaging tones.

Their long, flowing hair serves more than an ornamental purpose—it is a deeply symbolic marker of status, identity, and memory. Among the mer, hair is sacred. Only those cast out from their society—rogue mer—are stripped of it, their hair cut short as an irreversible sign of exile and disgrace. To lose one’s hair is not merely a punishment; it is the severing of one’s place in the current of their people’s history.

𝒔𝒐𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒐𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆

The mer are deeply communal beings, their lives woven together in vast, fluid social structures known as pods. These pods function as extended families, sometimes numbering in the dozens, sometimes swelling to over a hundred. Survival in the depths demands unity, and so mutual aid, shared knowledge, and unspoken trust lie at the core of mer society.

Leadership within a pod is not inherited nor enforced, but earned. The most respected figures are those who possess age-earned wisdom, a deep connection to the sea’s rhythms, or rare magical ability. Authority is subtle, more guidance than command, with every voice in the pod holding weight. Roles are fluid—mer may spend seasons as hunters, crafters, or healers, shifting duties according to need, skill, and calling. A rare few devote themselves to the arcane tides, becoming masters of water-magic who help steer their pods through storms both literal and spiritual.

While many pods are migratory—tracing the ancient current-paths their ancestors swam for generations—there are places in the sea where the world itself seems to pause. Sacred convergence points where pods from across the ocean gather in great celebration and exchange. The most renowned of these is Atlantia, a sprawling, bioluminescent metropolis cradled in a vast undersea chasm. Known as the Heart of the Sea, Atlantia is less a city than a living memory—a place where knowledge, stories, songs, and soulbonded kinships are shared. While not all mer remain there year-round, its importance as a cultural and magical nexus is undeniable.

Yet even in a world built on community, exile is not unknown. When a mer commits a grave transgression—such as taking the life of another or betraying their pod’s trust—they are cast out. This exile is formalized in a solemn rite: the cutting of their hair, a sacred symbol of lineage and belonging. Rogue mer, as they are called, are sentenced to solitude, their names unspoken by those they once called kin. Some wander alone until the sea reclaims them. Others gather into fragmented bands—loose, uneasy alliances born more from necessity than trust. These outcasts live on the edges of mer society, both feared and pitied, reminders of the cost of broken bonds.

𝒃𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔

The mer are exquisitely adapted to life beneath the waves, their bodies honed by millennia of evolution within the ever-shifting tides of the sea. Their skin secretes a thin, silken mucus that acts as a barrier against salt, parasites, and infection, while also nourishing the vibrant scales that shimmer across their tails. This layer reduces friction in the water, enabling the mer to glide through the ocean with remarkable speed and elegance.

Though they possess functional lungs, mer rely primarily on a set of gills discreetly nestled along the sides of their necks—capable of efficiently filtering oxygen from even oxygen-poor waters. When necessary, they can also hold their breath for extraordinary lengths of time, a skill often used in shallow dives or surface-world exploration.

Their senses are finely tuned to the ocean’s unique demands. Mer possess low-light vision that allows them to see clearly even in the twilight depths where sunlight cannot reach. Their hearing is even more acute—sensitive enough to catch the distant rumble of tectonic shifts or the high-pitched sonar of hunting dolphins. Combined, these senses allow them to navigate vast underwater landscapes with unerring precision.

One of the mer’s most remarkable traits is their regenerative capability. While not instantaneous, their bodies heal with surprising speed, particularly when submerged in saltwater—minor wounds close within hours, and more serious injuries knit together over days with minimal scarring.

But perhaps the most extraordinary gift of the mer lies in their bond with the ocean itself. They do not merely swim through it—they listen to it. Mer can feel the tug of distant currents, the rhythm of tides, the tremble of a coming storm. They share a near-empathic link with marine life, able to sense moods and shifts in behavior. Among them, a rare few—called sirens—possess a heightened form of this connection. These gifted individuals can communicate with sea creatures in intricate, emotional harmonics, and some can even influence them. Their attunement to the sea is so profound, it is said the ocean sings back to them.

𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒄 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒏

Magic is not a force the mer wield—it is a current that flows through their very blood. It binds them to the sea in a communion older than recorded time. To the mer, the ocean is not a place but a presence—vast, living, and sacred. They do not simply live within it. They are born of it, shaped by it, and return to it when they die.

All mer possess an inherent magical sensitivity, allowing them to perceive and respond to the ebb and flow of tides, the moods of sea creatures, and the subtle shifts of current and salt. Through a fusion of body language, ultrasonic tones, and emotional telepathy, they commune with marine life on levels no human could begin to mimic. Most mer command only small magics—enough to stir a lazy current, still a bleeding wound, or sharpen their speed when hunting. But among them are those gifted with something far deeper: the sirens.

Sirens are rare, revered, and feared in equal measure. Their magic hums like a second heart, allowing them to summon storms, calm tempests, or call entire shoals of sea creatures with a single song. Their voices can soothe or shatter. Some say a true siren can still the waves with a breath—or drown a fleet with a scream.

Mer society is built around harmony with the sea. To take from it is necessary, but to do so without gratitude is unthinkable. Every hunt is conducted with quiet reverence. When a life is taken, thanks is offered, and nothing is wasted. Greed is viewed not only as dishonorable, but as dangerous—disrupting the delicate balance upon which all ocean life depends.

This sacred regard for the sea does not extend to the surface world.

To most mer, humanity is synonymous with desecration. They see the trail of oil slicks, the discarded nets, the sunken ships bleeding rust into the water. Humans take and take, never listening, never learning. Poachers who hunt mer for their scales or magic-infused blood are considered monsters. Whalers are met with fury. Entire pods have been lost to human greed, and the memories of these atrocities linger like shipwrecks on the sea floor.

While some coastal pods have cautiously begun to tolerate human presence, such efforts remain rare—and fragile. For now, the sea is still divided. And beneath its surface, the mer watch. Waiting. Guarding what remains.

𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂

Ok, so I have SO MUCH I could talk about when it comes to the mer, whether that's the different subspecies, their belief system (they sort of believe that the ocean itself is a semi-sentient entity), their magic, or even their language (yes, I developed a whole ass language for this dr. It was hell). But for now, I thought I'd talk about the basics before diving into all that. Also, I’ve done so much for my elodia dr lately that I wanted to spice it up a bit and do a post or two on this one.

Also, the reason I kept mentioning rogue mer, is that in this dr, I was actually raised by a small pod of exiles (they weren't actually the ones exiled, but the descendants of them).

[nerdygaymormon]

Happy Pride 🏳️‍🌈

I want to wish a Happy Pride to:

Green Carnations

In 1892, Oscar Wilde had some of his friends wear a green carnation on their left lapels to the opening night of his show. An elegant and witty character in the play—who paralleled real-life Oscar Wilde—wore a carnation as part of his costume. Why green? It was an unnatural color for a carnation, Wilde chose this since it was said that homosexuality was unnatural. The green carnation became associated with Wilde and his flamboyant friends, and spread as a secret code to show others that you're gay.

"Be Gay, Do Crime"

The slogan "Be gay, do crime" has existed since at least 2011. The slogan is used to indicate that fighting back may be necessary, plus being gay was criminal in many place so to be gay was to commit a crime. It's a reminder that Stonewall was a riot. The slogan stands in contrast to the polished, corporate version of contemporary Pride, and shows that queerness has always been transgressive, regardless of its legal status. Part of being queer is being willing to push boundaries and protect one's self from the law since we have traditionally been attacked by it.

Peppermint Patty and Marcie

Peppermint Patty defied traditional gender norms. She played all sorts of sports at a time when it wasn't common for girls to do so. All the other female characters wore dresses, but Patty wears a t-shirt, shorts and sandals and the only other female character not to wear dresses is Marcie.

Peppermint Patty regularly flirts with Charlie Brown and has a strong bond with Marcie. While we don't know for sure, it certainly seems that Peppermint Patty is bi and her best friend Marcie is a lesbian.

I can imagine Peppermint Patty organizing the school's GSA or an all-inclusive dance, and loudly calling out any queerphobia. I like thinking of Patty getting a man's suit from a thrift store and going to Prom where she dances with both Marcie and Charlie Brown

Absolut Vodka

In 1979, Absolut entered the American market, but sales were slow. In 1981, Absolut starting targeting the LGBTQ consumer with the idea this group are trendsetters. Since 1981, Absolut has had print ads in queer magazines, sponsored events in gay bars, donated more than $40 million to queer charities and causes, sponsors the GLAAD Media Awards, and numerous major LGBTQ events in the US annually. Absolut has commissioned many openly gay artists to create ads, such as Andy Warhol, Nereyda Garcia Ferraz, David Spada, Keith Haring and Kenny Scharf. Supporting the queer community in 1981 was risky, but they have invested in the community and earned loyalty in return.

Pink Triangle

In the 1930s and 40s, just as Nazi Germany required Jews in the concentration camps to wear a yellow star of David, gay men, bi men, and trans women had to wear a downward-pointing pink triangle on their chest. The symbol was reclaimed in the 1970's by the queer liberation movement as a symbol against homophobia and was adopted widely by the LGBTQ community. Sometimes the pink triangle was turned upside-down so that it is upward pointing to show that now we own it, not the Nazis. The community took this symbol from the holocaust to show we are stronger than the worst done to us.

The pink triangle has largely been replaced by the rainbow Pride flag, and a reason for this is explaining why a pink triangle is the symbol of the community required an explanation of its dark past and therefore was about what others did to us rather than a symbol representing who we are and our hopes & aspirations. Although it isn't used much anymore, it's important to remember the pink triangle as the first widely-adopted visual symbol of the queer community

Ace & Aro Rings

Beginning in 2005, wearing a black ring on the middle finger of your right hand became a way for people to signify their asexuality. The material and design of the ring are not important as long as it is primarily black. It’s about carrying a reminder on our hands that there are others like us, and it's a way to identify each other. A white ring on the left hand of the middle finger is the aro equivalent.

Eyebrow Slits

Eyebrow slits was a trend in the hip hop community in the 1990's and were called "eyebrow cuts." The trend fell out of style, but was brought back in the 2010's by some male artists and models as an edgy fashion statement and it became trendy among some young men. Lesbians quickly adopted this trend, perhaps as a way of showing they aren't beholden to gendered fashion rules, and it quickly grew in popularity on social media as a way for members of the queer community to express themselves and signal to each other. The eyebrow slit trend largely has faded except among the LGBTQ+ community, and so has become associated with us.

Nautical Star Tattoos

For centuries, sailors would get tattoos, often of images with symbolic meanings, such as the nautical star (which represents the North Star) which was believed to ensure a sailor’s safe return home. In the 1940s and 50s, lesbians were navigating the choppy waters of societal norms and expectations, and this five-pointed star tattoo became their compass, helping them find others like themselves. They'd get this tattoo on the wrist because it could be covered by a watch strap during the day, allowing women to hide their identity when necessary for their safety or professional lives, but then they could reveal it in safe spaces. This symbol was revived in the 1970's but nowadays the tattoos are usually larger and can be on different parts of the body as it doesn't have to remain hidden anymore.

Online "Am I Gay?" Quizzes

A common experience of people who are gay, bi, and pan, is they find an online quiz that will ask a few questions and then determine whether you are gay, or will reveal how gay you are (as though this can be graded like a school test). Sometimes the questions are lighthearted, while others try to be more serious. Here's the thing, more than any quiz results, searching for this type of quiz is probably the biggest indicator that a person experiences attraction to people of their same gender. It can be helpful for someone to have a "confirmation" of how they're feeling, and thus these "am I gay" quizzes will remain a rite of passage many.

Subaru

In the early 1990's, Subaru was struggling. Sales of their dependable but plain cars were in decline. Subaru knew teachers, healthcare professionals, IT professionals, and the outdoorsy types bought 1/2 their cars in America, and they targeted advertisements at those groups. Soon they realized there was another core group as lesbians were 4 times more likely than the average American to purchase a Subaru which are not too flashy and ideal for their active, albeit low-key lifestyle.

Subaru began printing advertisements that made subtle nods to lesbians in a way that slipped past the notice of other Americans, such as having the license plate "XENA LVR" on a car. Many ads had taglines with double meanings. "Get Out. And Stay Out" could refer to exploring the outdoors in a Subaru—or coming out as gay. "It’s Not a Choice. It’s the Way We’re Built" could refer to all Subarus coming with all-wheel-drive—or an LGBTQ identity. Subaru was one of the first companies to offer financing to women, which meant lesbians could actually buy the cars.

Subaru noticed a group of customers who often felt unwelcome and invisible and developed a campaign that was so successful that it became a stereotype that lesbians drive Subarus, even leading to the word "Lesbaru." Polls show that the queer community views Subaru as the most queer-friendly brand.

[f1crecs]

Fic Rec List - Lewis/Nico

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hello! thank you for your asks. we would love to share some brocedes recommendations with you. the lore that these two have is a little bit mind blowing - so of course the fics are, too!

we have highlighted ones that contain fluff/domestic goodness in purple for you. 💜

enjoy!

wanna kiss you, but if I do I might miss you, babe by @blorbocedes | T | 2k Nico has the perfect life - beautiful wife, beloved children. He also still has Lewis. These two don't go together but he ignores that as best he can. This is a such a perfect look inside the head of a cheater who knows what he's doing is wrong, yet manages to hide the fact even from himself.

When Nico woke up, he had the dull headache of a slight hangover; the previous night crystal clear – the transgressions of his marriage. Nico breathed, imagining the tearstained apology to his Vivi – a lapse in judgment, and turned to tell Lewis they could never do this again, the excuses of being drunk, lonely, convenient. The space beside his bed is empty, Lewis gone already with no traces of himself left behind. Well, that's one awkward conversation made redundant. It's too cliche to commit infidelity in your marriage and try to overcompensate with lavish gifts, so instead Nico came home with presents for his daughters as always, and made love to his wife, twice. He went down on her for an hour – affirming to himself that Monza was a one off mistake, and making her feel desired, and how grateful Nico was for her, for everything they have built together.

Always The Same Smile by @effervescentdragon | M | 2k Written for the prompt "wag!nico (2016 WDC and retired) and world champion husband vegan dog dad lewis hamilton.... give me established relationship... give me functioning power couple." This author's Nico characterisation is always so on point, and I love how she captures the complexity of the Brocedes dynamic. They get a deserved and fitting happy ending in this one, and I loved it so much!

They didn't want to see the way Lewis' face lit up whenever he saw Nico, or the way Roscoe ran towards Nico immediately (because he knew who was responsible for feeding him more often than not), or the way Nico always praised Lewis when he was invited to commentate and still never held back in his commentary, or the newest tattoo across Lewis' heart, or the way neither of them was ever linked to any random love interests, or the way their vacation pictures came from the same place, or the way Nico still somehow knew the grid gossip he had no way of knowing (and used it whenever he saw fit), or the way the causes they supported were very much aligned.

nsfw: hall pass by @like-pilot-lights | E | 7.3k Wifeguy!Nico gets to have his cake and eat it too (aka Nicos wife is okay with sharing him). As a part of the Nico Rosberg support squad I love a fic that lets him have it all and doesnt portray him as a miserable man that let the love of his life slip through his fingers. The Nico in this fic is in a loving relationship with Vivian who also happens to realize that he has always been a bit in love with Lewis and sets about making sure they get their heads out of their asses.

“Shouldn’t there be, uh, rules?” He says into her hair, as she kisses his neck. She pulls back and regards him, amused and wary. “What do you mean?” He can tell from her face that she knows exactly what he means. “Viv.” “We can have rules, if you like.” She lowers her head and nips his earlobe with her teeth. “Use a condom, for one.” Nico tries not to think about his wife thinking about any activity between him and Lewis that requires a condom and fails, feeling himself getting hard just at the thought. He nods, letting her tongue trace over the curve of his ear. “Anything else?” “Well, just do – whatever you did before.” Whatever they did before . Without meaning to, he snorts a gentle laugh at the thought. “What’s so funny?” she mutters into his ear, slipping a hand down his side. Nico has abandoned any pretence now, is quite sure that his wife is actually kind of enjoying this. He tests the theory. “Well, I’m not sure a blowjob in the Mercedes garage is possible this week.” He holds his breath. It’s the first time he’s actually admitted it out loud, rather than just meekly nodding at his wife’s assumptions. She might, he thinks, storm out right now, horrified at the truth of it. Instead, she lets out a moan and shifts in his lap.

beep, beep, beep by @witchee_writer | T | 10k After a major crash, Lewis finds ways to recover - and finds solace in his old teammate, Nico. I loved this fic because even though it started off heavy, it got so much lighter and had so many cute, fluffy moments! I love angst with a happy ending!

Lewis hadn't seen his life flash before his eyes when he crashed. If he had though, if his life had flashed before his eyes in all of it's technicolor brilliance, he knew what he would have seen. Not championship wins, not living the high life, but hot days on the beach in Greece. Nico's bare back to his chest, Lewis running a hand through his hair as they dreamed big, dreamed of what they could (and would) do together. He would see all of their good times, and maybe some of the bad too.

nsfw: Roseberg's Vs Haminkton by @jean----ralphio | E | 16.3k Nico the florist is madly in love with Lewis the tattooist. Everyone knows this except for Nico. I enjoyed this fic because the love/hate vibes are immaculate. Lewis lives rent-free in Nico's head, to Lewis's slightly fond bemusement and the entertainment of a stellar supporting cast of other drivers.

“I want to get something for Lando. What is seductive?” Carlos blinks at him, then eyes the freesia display. “Who the fuck is Lando?” Nico mutters, before he gestures over to the camellias. “Those represent desire, but that’s all bullshit.” “He needs to know I’m trying to seduce him,” Carlos insists. “I don’t know, man!” Nico groans, rubbing his eyes. “A cactus? They’re kind of phallic?”

nsfw: kellogg's frosties & video games by @georgerussells | E | 58k It's 2021, and contract negotiations for the 2022 season for Mercedes are being decided. It turns out, a familiar face decides to take the seat next to his former rival and teammate : Nico Rosberg is Lewis Hamilton's new teammate. Angst with a happy ending is the love of my life! This is one of my favorite brocedes fics of all time and is a must-read for sure!

There are more flashes of champagne. Flashes of Nico’s smile, of them having pizza in some cheap Italian restaurant at the beach. Eating Kellogg’s Frosties right from the box in the morning, sitting on the kitchen counter, their legs dangling down, thighs touching, them making plans for the day. Nico’s laugh. // There is a touch, they spin and then they’re both in the gravel. Lewis is fuming and he gets out of his car, the Spanish sun burning down on them. He’s ready to yell, the anger hot and white in him, pooling in his stomach. They don’t talk for the rest of the day, the coldness between them a stark contrast to the hot anger from before.

[justforbooks]

Edna O’Brien

Novelist who scandalised her native Ireland with The Country Girls, and explored the lives of women who love and suffer

Before Edna O’Brien, Irish female writers tended to come from the preserve of the “big house” or enjoyed the kind of privilege that made a life of writing possible. And by and large, their books dealt with genteel themes and conformed to recognisable genres and narrative forms.

When O’Brien’s first novel, The Country Girls, was published in 1960, all that changed. As her friend and peer Philip Roth remarked: “While Joyce, in Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist, was the first Irish Catholic to make his experience and surroundings recognisable, ‘the world of Nora Barnacle’ had to wait for the fiction of Edna O’Brien.”

Written in exile in London, The Country Girls brought O’Brien, who has died aged 93, to international attention.

The reception in Ireland was largely hostile due to the book’s frank portrayal of female sexuality and desire. It was denounced as a “slur on Irish womanhood” and banned, as were several subsequent books. The notoriety established an enduring public persona – the glamorous and worldly, convent-educated libertine – which sometimes worked to the detriment of O’Brien’s reputation as a serious and committed writer. For decades, her name operated as a byword for transgression and subversion, particularly for women.

In addition to more than two dozen novels and short story collections, O’Brien produced numerous plays, a couple of memoirs, children’s books and a collection of poems. The largely first person, linear narratives of her early novels evolved into a consciously experimental style in the 1970s and 80s. A Pagan Place (1970) is written in the second person singular: Night (1972) is a single sustained monologue.

The debt to Joyce, whom O’Brien revered and was able to quote at length from memory, was obvious. Like Joyce, she understood how the cadences, rhythms and syntax of English as it is spoken in Ireland could be used to liberate narrative from its empirical impulse and, among other things, give voice to female subjectivity. But her themes were entirely her own.

In 1983, the writer and journalist Nuala O’Faolain wrote: “Edna O’Brien is not a writer within a conscious literature. She owes nothing to any predecessor or to any tradition. She is a writer with one theme, women who love and suffer.”

From the 90s onwards, O’Brien consciously expanded her range in a quartet of books that dealt with the massive social, political and economic changes that were sweeping through Ireland, themes largely ignored by other Irish writers.

The first of these, House of Splendid Isolation (1994), dealt with the Troubles via the relationship between a fugitive Republican, McGreevy (based on the Republican paramilitary Dominic McGlinchey, whom she interviewed at Portlaoise prison), and an elderly woman, Josie, whom he takes hostage. In the same year, she interviewed Gerry Adams for the New York Times and in 1995 published an open letter in the Independent calling on the then leader of the Labour party, Tony Blair, to open up a dialogue with Republicans.

In Ireland and England, O’Brien’s involvement in political activity and her perceived sympathy for the Republican movement led to widespread criticism – in the Guardian she was described by Edward Pearce as “the Barbara Cartland of long-distance republicanism”. By insisting that dialogue is the necessary first step of any conflict resolution, O’Brien did no more than anticipate the zeitgeist.

In subsequent books, O’Brien fictionalised divisive events that an increasingly prosperous Ireland would sooner have ignored. The real story of a 14-year-old rape victim who had been stopped, by law, from leaving Ireland for an abortion became Down By the River (1996). Generally speaking, these books were poorly reviewed in the UK and Ireland. Many of O’Brien’s severest critics were the same people who found her intervention in politics offensive and she was routinely accused of being out of touch with modern Ireland.

Her 2002 book, In the Forest, was based on a notorious triple murder in County Clare. O’Brien’s fictional killer, O’Kane, descends into madness and violence via a life of exclusion and abuse. Writing about the novel in the Irish Times, Fintan O’Toole painted the actual events as beyond human comprehension while at the same time excoriating O’Brien: “...(the events) did not and do not have a public meaning... there is simply no artistic need for so close an intrusion into other people’s grief.”

There is an irony here: the Ireland that had been scandalised by the antics of Baba and Kate in The Country Girls was still unable to confront the ugly underbelly of a society in which poverty, the degradation of women, violence and routine abuse had been endemic for decades.

There is an urgent, heightened quality to these books – their narratives strain as they shuttle back and forth across space and time. Chapters are routinely no more than two pages long, staccato dialogue sits cheek by jowl with descriptive passages of extraordinary vividness and terseness. Reviewing O’Brien’s The Little Red Chairs (2016) in the New Yorker, James Wood described her late style as one that “mixes and reinvents inherited forms, blithely shifts from third-person to first-person narration, reproduces dreams and dramatic monologues”.

O’Brien put this style to great use in her biography of James Joyce (1999). It is still by far the best short introduction to the writer, his works and life. Such was O’Brien’s ability to weave her own words in and around those of Joyce that when the manuscript was submitted to the prickly Joyce estate for approval no changes or deletions were requested.

The daughter of Lena (nee Cleary) and Michael O’Brien, Edna was born in the village of Tuamgraney, County Clare, into a newly independent Ireland where church and state conspired to control all aspects of women’s lives and bodies. Her family had the trappings of wealth – they lived in a large house with a gate lodge, kept horses and employed farm workers – but money was scarce.

Her father’s unsuccessful horse breeding, gambling and alcoholism maintained a constant level of tension in the house, which often erupted into violence. Her mother’s love for her bordered on the obsessional – Edna was the youngest by five years of four children. Decades later, Lena’s frequent letters to her exiled daughter in London, many of which admonished Edna for her writing and lifestyle, ended with the hope that they would be buried together.

O’Brien claimed that the only books in her childhood home were bloodstock manuals and the Bible, and she often made reference to her mother’s visceral fear of writing. Her turbulent childhood remained a constant touchstone in her fiction, as did the landscape of County Clare. She was educated at the Convent of Mercy in Loughrea, where she excelled at the sciences – her English teacher found her assignments “too exuberant” – and she enrolled in a pharmaceutical college in Dublin, working part-time in a chemist shop.

She met the Irish-Czech writer Ernest Gébler, eloped with him and subsequently married him, against her parents’ wishes, in the summer of 1954. In 1960, the couple and their two sons, Carlo and Sasha, moved to London, where O’Brien was engaged by the publishers Hutchinson to undertake manuscript reports. Iain Hamilton, who ran Hutchinson, was sufficiently impressed with her efforts that he and Blanche Knopf advanced £25 each to get her to write a novel. The Country Girls was written in three weeks.

O’Brien’s success led to strain on her marriage with Gébler and it broke down in 1966. As with her childhood, it provided a rich seam for her writing. She engaged in a successful three-year custody battle for her sons – she had walked out in the middle of cooking dinner one evening – and this included making an undertaking before a court that she would never let her sons see her 1965 novel, August Is a Wicked Month. The acrimony with Gébler continued – he claimed that he had largely written her early books.

Not since Oscar Wilde had an Irish émigré in London lived such a flamboyant life. O’Brien moved in an international celebrity set and spent extended periods in the US, where she enjoyed a large following. Her friends included Jane Fonda, Jackie Kennedy, Samuel Beckett, Mick Jagger, Francis Bacon, Ted Hughes, Princess Margaret, Ian McKellen and Harold Pinter. In 1972, she was described in the Longford report on pornography as a “purveyor of insidiously pornographic and perverted views on sex”. She took LSD with RD Laing, a disastrous experiment that unhinged her mind for a year. She was a regular at the White House St Patrick’s Day party, and posed for Bill Brandt and David Hockney.

Although O’Brien’s professional career coincided with feminism, she had an awkward relationship with the movement. Her independence provided an early example for those seeking greater equality with men, but many were uncomfortable with the concentration on love in her early books and the fact that many of her female characters could be characterised as victims.

O’Brien was routinely referred to as “the Irish Colette”. It was difficult to square a statement such as “I am obsessed by love, by the need of it and the near impossibility of it …” with the impulse in early feminism for independence and activism. But, while O’Brien’s female protagonists might not provide ready standard-bearers, that was never really her project.

The fine short story The Love Object (1968) perhaps offers a deeper insight into her real motivation. An impassioned affair between a television announcer, Martha, and a “famous”, happily married, lawyer ends badly and Martha reaches suicidal depths. As she slowly, gradually recovers from the affair she finds herself falling in love with the memory of the lover more deeply than ever she had been while he was available to her. The story ends with these lines: “I suppose you wonder why I torment myself like this with details of his presence but I need it, I cannot let go of him now, because if I did, all our happiness and my subsequent pain – I cannot vouch for his – will all have been nothing, and nothing is a dreadful thing to hang on to.” More Proust than Colette.

Casual sexism is commonplace in writing about female writers and O’Brien suffered more than most in this regard. Profiles and reviews of her books concentrated on her looks, her poetic manner of speaking, her accent, speculation about lovers, often at the expense of her writing.

It is hard to imagine Seamus Heaney, John Banville or Colm Tóibín being written about in this way. As she wryly commented: “It’s assumed that in order to be a serious writer, you have to look like the back of a bus.” Because she was regarded as a scandalous woman, it was assumed that all of her female characters were thinly disguised autobiography.

This charge simultaneously relegates autobiographical writing to a secondary category and implies that women’s experience is unworthy of “serious” literature. O’Brien is on record as saying: “Whether a novel is autobiographical or not does not matter. What is important is the truth in it and the way that truth is expressed.”

Although the final decade of O’Brien’s life was marred with ill-health, she continued to write. At the same time, the critical response to her work (and appreciation of her career) underwent a significant shift. It is perhaps ironic that the wholly positive reception of writers such as Eimear McBride, Anne Enright and Anna Burns, all of whom owe a significant debt to O’Brien, created an atmosphere in which the older writer could be reassessed. In Ireland, she was given the title Saoi, the highest honour of the Aosdána, in 2015. In 2018 she was made an honorary dame and in 2021 a commander of the French Ordre des Arts et des Lettres.

Her late novels continued to explore familiar territory – the control of women and their bodies, the treacherous and all pervasive workings of patriarchy, the impossibility of love, the violation of innocence, exile and abandonment – but with a renewed vigour and urgency.

She was drawn to ever more horrific material, and the writing style became sparer and sharper. Reviewing Girl (2019), O’Brien’s reimagining of the 276 schoolgirls kidnapped by Boko Haram jihadists in 2014, in the Guardian, Alex Clark wrote, “There is the blend of economy and lyricism, vignettes tumbling over one another to disorient and energise the reader. There is the intense focus on the emotional lives of women on the sharp end of mental and physical incarceration or constraint, broadening out to sketch in the patriarchal and theocratic structures that hold them there.”

The theme of exile is as old as writing itself. For many Irish writers, it seems to be a prerequisite but for O’Brien it had a particularity that transcended her physical separation from Ireland. From an early age, she perceived her own femininity as a form of exile. She fervently believed that true art could only be produced out of pain, rupture and displacement.

In 1976, in her semi-autobiographical Mother Ireland, she wrote: “I live out of Ireland because something in me warns me that I might stop if I lived there, that I might cease to feel what it has meant to have such a heritage, might grow placid when in fact I want yet again and for indefinable reasons to trace that same route, that trenchant childhood route, in the hope of finding some clue that will, or would, or could, make possible the leap that would restore one to one’s original place and state of consciousness, to the radical innocence of the moment just before birth.”

O’Brien is survived by her sons.

🔔 Josephine Edna O’Brien, writer, born 15 December 1930; died 27 July 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[thegreatzombieartisan]

A Study in Mercy: Aredhel, Turgon, and Eöl

But Aredhel sprang before the dart, and [the javelin] smote her in the shoulder.. It was appointed that Eöl should be brought on the next day to the King’s judgement; and Aredhel and Idril moved Turgon to mercy

Some readers, I gather, believe Turgon a fool for letting Aredhel leave Gondolin. The lady herself more so for seeking mercy for her estranged husband. Perhaps, a commenter suggested, she had Stockholm Syndrome.

An unsurprising sentiment. We live in unmerciful times. Outrage is the norm. Indignation is relished. Historical context doesn't matter. “Wrong thinking” is unforgivable. Conviction without grace. Justice and virtue, we are told, demands it. You can only be redeemed through ruin.

Tolkien's Vision of Mercy

In an age that has all but forgotten mercy, Tolkien offers us respite: a world where all of Creation is an act of pure mercy. For Tolkien, mercy is a necessary part of life. Our fallen nature means we will always need mercy; and can always hope for the redemption of others and ourselves.

Even Aredhel, Turgon, and yes, Eol.

Mercy is an act of love

Mercy goes beyond what is deserved or earned. Love means willing the good of others. While compassion stirs our hearts in the face of suffering, mercy compels us to take action, to do what we can to alleviate the pain and hardship of others (self-inflicted, other-inflicted, or —as it often is — a combination thereof).

Mercy is free but not cheap

While freely offered in legendarium, mercy is rarely accepted. Those who do accept it often fail, ultimately abusing this gift à la Melkor, Sauron, and Gollum. The reason for this struggle is simple: once accepted, mercy is a radical commitment to inner transformation, which is especially difficult for those who are proud or deeply entrenched in their ways.

Mercy does not "let people off the hook"

This is a common misperception. Mercy doesn't bypass accountability but seeks to heal and transform. It grants forgiveness for poor behavior so that the relationship, fractured by wrongdoing, can be repaired and amends made, if feasible.

However, sometimes tolerance for misdeeds is tantamount to consent of wrongdoing; and there can be no mercy.

...in the night [Aredhel] died.... Therefore when Eöl was brought before Turgon who found no mercy; and they... cast him down from the sheer walls of the city.

Mercy also costs the mercy-giver: one who receives it must also in turn give it

If Aredhel asks for Turgon's mercy on Eöl's behalf, she must have received it for her own transgressions. However, the act of granting or seeking mercy on someone’s behalf can also be costly if the intended recipient fails to appreciate or misuse it -- an unfortunate truth Aredhel learns firsthand.

Eöl is an archetype of resentment

Understandably, Eöl was unhappy at the choice before him: remain in Gondolin or death. However, as brother-in-law of a generous king, Eöl would’ve been be compensated with many favors and privileges. Most importantly, given an opportunity to reconcile with his estranged family.

Yet his pride prevented him from accepting this new reality. He couldn't move past unknown spiritual wounds inflicted during Morgoth's rise, which he projected onto his son and the Noldor. Consumed with competing hate and envy toward his estranged relatives, he sets a path of destruction for his family, Gondolin, and ultimately himself. At the same time, Eöl is a figure of pity as much as scorn. Someone who threw away happiness with both hands.

Aredhel is an archetype of casual evil

It’s the sort of individualistic and self-centeredness of the current zeitgeist. She may not intend harm but, in pursuit of her desires, she accepts collateral damage; and is content to let more responsible people clean up any mess (enter Turgon, stage left).

Like many in our time, she chased the false god of absolute freedom to avoid inner emptiness; and used her family ties with the king to go above the law.

Though Aredhel's misdeeds are not few, the most hurtful for Turgon was likely choosing independence rather than return to Gondolin when separated from her escort. She must have realized that he would believe she had perished, since she had vanished right before entering … the Valley of Dreadful Death.

While Aredhel pursued her desires and new life, a guilt-stricken Turgon grieved her assumed demise for almost a century. Still, she is a lost soul who realized too late that freedom isn’t free.

Turgon is an archetype of the merciful ruler

He knows he is not perfect. He defied the Valar and slayed his own kin, leading himself and his people into seclusion within the Hidden City to evade Morgoth. Still, Illuvatar, through Manwe and Ulmo, shows him mercy — who was he to withhold mercy toward others?

But Aredhel said: “… And if you begrudge me an escort, then I will go alone.” Then Turgon answered: “I begrudge you nothing I have…”

It strongly suggests Turgon took pity on his sister and strove to ease her unhappiness while respecting his law. Though she was undeserving, being both haughty and cavalier in her approach, he ultimately yields as an act of mercy.

By recognizing he is accountable for any harm to Gondolin by permitting Aredhel leave (also later Huor and Hurin), Turgon can grant mercy without grievance or resentment. And despite everything that occurs thereafter, he forgives her, simply grateful she had come home safely. Viewing Turgon's big heart as foolhardy, even irresponsible, fails to recognize a key fact: doom was destined to discover Gondolin. Moreover, of all the exiled Noldor in the First Age, Turgon's works and magnanimity are arguably most critical in eliciting mercy from the Valar. Moreover, his courage and endeavors, were passed onto his daughter Idril and his grandson Earendil. The rest, as we know, is legend. Nobody is perfect. We often commit the same mistakes over and over. Though we have an inherent dignity, we are also fallen. This truth ought to give us pause for reflection. Rather than outrage and arrogance at the mistakes of others, Tolkien invites us to cultivate humility and gratitude; and have mercy.