#so we lash out in defence instead of taking it as an opportunity to learn

[wistfulcynic]

Harsh-Sounding and Potentially Unpopular Opinion Incoming. (lots of them, actually, brace yourselves.)

here it is: On the whole, people do not consider or relate to the experiences of others unless they are forced to. 

Now i am not saying that this makes any of us terrible people. Just that there is a natural inclination to assume that your way of doing things or of thinking about them is The Way and unless it is actively brought to your attention that this isn’t true, you just hang out in your own little solipsism forever. 

i think about this a LOT whenever i see discourse about, let’s say, just to choose a topic at random, racism in fandom. i think about it every time i see a white person say “bUt noT eVEryTHiNg iS aBouT RaCe.” Because they’re right. Not everything is about race. For them. 

It’s that “for them” that trips us up every time. 

(disclaimer: i am a white person raised in the USA. When i say white people/Black people/POC i’m talking about Americans.)

We white folks love to say that we don’t think about race. For us, that’s a kind of virtue signalling. “I’m so enlightened I don’t even think about race!” Give me plaudits now for i am a Good Person. But what we fail to understand is that Not Thinking About Race is only possible for us because white supremacy makes it so. Not Thinking About Race is a privilege we have because our race doesn’t inform every aspect of our lives. It doesn’t prevent us from getting jobs or educations, it doesn’t lead to us being followed around in stores or accused of crimes or shot just for existing in public. This isn’t virtue, it’s obliviousness. We don’t think about race because we don’t have to, because being white doesn’t affect our day-to-day lives and, ahem, on the whole people do not consider or relate to the experiences of others unless they are forced to. 

POC are forced to. (i’m basing this on what i’ve learned from POC talking about their experiences, please call me out if i get anything wrong). POC have to think about race all the time because it’s constantly shoved in their faces, by the lack of diverse representation in media, by the constant stream of news stories about Black people being killed for no reason at all, by their own daily experiences of microaggressions and injustices and downright tragedies. POC think about race because they don’t have the privilege of Not Thinking About It. 

All of this, when brought into the fandom environment, leads to a fundamental failure of communication and understanding. When a POC says “this thing is racist” and a white person immediately replies “but i wasn't even thinking about race!” both those things are true. Both those things are true but they are not. both. equally. valid. 

The POC spots the racism in the thing because they a) think about race by necessity and as a matter of course and b) have direct experiences of racism on which to draw. Whereas white people all too often spend their whole lives surrounded by other white people without any diverse viewpoints or experiences to force them to consider how others might see things. This leads to a whole lot of well-meaning white people who do and say racist things, not out of active racist intent but just by living as a privileged person in a racist society full of racist institutions and never actually thinking about whether their experiences of that society and those institutions are universal or not, or considering how it might feel to be deliberately oppressed, excluded, and unserved by that same society and those institutions. 

Again, this doesn’t mean that we are inherently bad people. It does mean that we are humans with human flaws that we need to be aware of in order to behave in ways that don’t cause harm to others. This is not easy. When you are raised to think in certain ways and do certain things and you know that there’s no malicious intent in any of it, it is harsh and jarring to hear someone tell you that those things are racist. It’s natural to want to defend yourself. It’s not, unfortunately, natural to think “actually maybe they have a point. Maybe they know something i don't. Maybe it’s something i need to understand if i’m going to have a fully informed opinion on this topic.” 

It’s not natural to think that but it is essential. We need to learn how to listen without defensiveness and how to decouple our actions from our beliefs about our character. It’s possible to do and say racist things without being a bad person, so long as when we are told that those things are racist we stop doing and saying them. Believe people when they tell you that what you’re doing harms them, and then don’t fucking do it anymore.

You think POC talk too much about racism? You want them to stop? This is how that gets done. It’s the only way that gets done. Arguing with them, trying to invalidate or silence them—that just takes your racism from “unintentional” to “actively fucking harmful.” That’s where it stops being an unintended consequence of your privilege and starts being a choice.

Listen to POC. Listen to them and do better and then maybe they won’t have so much racism to talk about. Then maybe we can all go back to enjoying our gay pirates in peace. 

Then. But not before.

[engie-ivy]

Another story for my candy heart fix from @goodboylupin and the Candy Hearts Challenge! Humour, lots of shameless flirting and a fed up Regulus.

Candy heart message: CRUSHIN'

Regulus has agreed to tutor a classmate in statistics, but quickly comes to regret his life choices when the only chance the guy seems interested in, is the chance of getting to snog Regulus’ older brother.

“You want to snog my brother!” Regulus points his pen accusingly in Remus’ direction.

Remus huffs and straightens his back. “In my defence, your brother is very snogable!”

Part one: Crushin'

Part two: Fallin'

What chance do I have? Part one: Crushin'

REGULUS BLACK: You can come over. My parents aren’t home.

REMUS LUPIN: ??

REGULUS BLACK: Oh my god. That sounded wrong.

REGULUS BLACK: I meant for the tutoring session.

REGULUS BLACK: I know my parents’ reputation. I thought you’d feel more comfortable coming here knowing they aren’t home.

REGULUS BLACK: I am NOT trying to hook up with you.

REMUS LUPIN: Oh thank god.

REMUS LUPIN: Not that you’re not an attractive guy.

REMUS LUPIN: I just don’t see you like that.

REMUS LUPIN: And I mean, you’re probably a bit young for me.

REGULUS BLACK: Lupin.

REGULUS BLACK: Please shut up.

Remus drops his phone on his bed with a shudder.

He’s not a bad student. He knows all about history and writes killer political essays. He’s just terrible with numbers, but he needs to pass his statistics course.

Regulus is a quiet guy, but he’s nice enough. Rumour has it that his parents are these excessively pushy and high-demanding lot, who bully their children to do nothing but study and threaten the school into letting them skip grades. Apparently, they want their eldest son to become the youngest doctor in town, and their youngest son the youngest lawyer, just so they can brag about their advanced children to their posh friends. They’re lucky both their sons are actually very intelligent. Regulus is in Remus’ class, despite being much younger, and they say his older brother, who should be somewhere around Remus’ age, is already in college.

In any case, Regulus won’t pass up the opportunity to earn some extra credit by tutoring Remus in statistics over the summer.

The house of the Black family is exactly like Remus would’ve pictured it. Very old-fashioned, with weird, old objects everywhere, but while some houses packed with old stuff seem warm and cosy, the Blacks’ house just seems cold and dark.

Remus is sitting at the kitchen table watching Regulus flip through textbooks, talking about how they’ll start with refreshing his knowledge on basic chance calculation before moving on to z-scores and significance tests.

Remus is already bored.

Suddenly, a tall, muscular, slightly sweaty guy barges into the kitchen. He’s wearing running shoes, shorts and a t-shirt that clings to his form and shows off his broad shoulders. As good as the shirt looks on him, Remus isn’t complaining when he takes it off, revealing his well-trained torso.

“Jesus, it’s warm outside,” the guy says, dropping the shirt on the floor while pulling the hair tie out of his hair and letting it fall in dark waves across his shoulders. He grabs a water bottle out of the fridge, and throws his head back to drink, spilling some water that drips down over his chest.

As Remus not very subtly ogles the guy, he wonders whether statistics was so boring that he zoned out and is now in some sort of hormonal teenage fantasy. Well, he hopes that if that were the case, he would’ve at least not fantasized Regulus sitting there, glaring from the guy, to Remus, and back to the guy.

“Sirius!” Regulus eventually snaps. “We have a guest.” He gestures at Remus.

The guy, Sirius, who must be the older brother, turns his head and only now spots Remus sitting there. He smiles sheepishly at him. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hello,” Remus says, and they just look and smile at each other for a while.

Then, Remus leans his head on his hands, giving the guy a sweet smile. “So, do you come here often?”

Sirius blinks at him. “Eh, yeah. Yeah, I do. I kind of live here.” He quickly recovers himself. “What about you? You’re a classmate of Reggie? You must be new. I don’t recall seeing you when I went to school there, and I definitely would’ve remembered a face like yours.”

Remus grins. “Yes, my parents moved around a lot, so I went to a lot of different schools.”

Sirius raises his water bottle. “Well, here’s to hoping you’ll stick around this time.” He takes a swig and then grins. “And hoping you’re so bad at... statistics, was it? That you’ll be coming around here more often.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Remus says, looking up at Sirius through his lashes. “I’m bad. I’m very, very bad.”

A slight flush appears in Sirius’ neck, but the grin stays in place. “Good. Then I guess I’ll be seeing you. I’ll try to keep my shirt on next time.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account!” Remus calls after Sirius as he leaves the kitchen.

As he stares through the window at other side of the house into the backyard, where Sirius has gone to stretch, Remus can feel Regulus’ eyes burning on him.

“What?”

“You want to snog my brother!” Regulus points his pen accusingly in Remus’ direction.

Remus huffs and straightens his back. “In my defence, your brother is very snogable!”

Regulus shakes his head. “What is it that people see in him?”

Remus points towards the backyard, where Sirius is just bending over to stretch the back of his legs. He doesn’t think he needs any more explanation.

Regulus groans.

The second tutoring session, Sirius walks into the kitchen in low-hanging sweatpants, clearly just out of the shower, with damp hair and a towel around his neck, again shirtless.

He smiles as he sees Remus. “How is it every time I see you I’m not wearing a shirt?”

“I guess I’m just lucky?” Remus suggests.

“I know chance calculation isn’t your strong suit,” Regulus says without looking up from his book. “But considering the fact that Sirius walks around shirtless ninety percent of the time, you don’t need much luck. In fact, it would’ve been more impressive if you saw Sirius with his shirt on.”

Remus lets his eyes wander over Sirius’ muscular chest and abs. “I highly doubt it.”

Regulus’ eyes snap up as Sirius sits down on the kitchen counter. “No. You. Out. Now.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “You’re kicking me out of my own kitchen in my own house? I’m not disturbing you.”

“Lupin has enough trouble learning anything as it is, without you sitting there making eyes at him, turning his brain to mush.”

Sirius glances at Remus, who just shrugs. Regulus isn’t wrong.

The third tutoring session is, to Remus’ disappointment, at his house. He’d wanted to protest, but Mr and Mrs Black are apparently back from their business trip, and shamelessly flirting with Regulus’ hot, older brother in front of their strict, high-society parents seemed a little awkward anyway.

When Remus opens the door, a disgruntled looking Regulus immediately pushes past him and strides into the house, leaving Remus looking at a brightly smiling Sirius.

“Hi! Regulus wanted to ride his bike here, but you know, it’s probably going to rain, so I thought it better to give him a ride in my car instead.”

Remus looks up at the clear blue sky with the sun shining brightly, not a cloud to be seen anywhere.

“I see,” Remus says. “And I suppose you have to give him a ride home as well?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“And it’ll be a lot of trouble if you have to drive all the way up and down again.”

“So much trouble indeed.”

“The best thing is probably for you to just stay here.”

“That sure seems like the best solution to me.”

For the fourth tutoring session, Remus has lost track of time sitting at the kitchen table at the Black family home, drinking tea and chatting with Sirius. Remus is telling him about all the different places he has lived, and Sirius is telling him what it’s like to be in college at his age.

REGULUS BLACK: What’s keeping you?

REMUS LUPIN: ?

REMUS LUPIN: I’ve been at your house for like more than an hour, waiting for you to come down from your room?

“You said you’d let me know when Lupin got here!” Regulus points a finger at Sirius.

Sirius blinks innocently at him. “It slipped my mind. I have such a bad memory.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “You know the Latin name for each part of the human body by heart!”

“Did you know Remus wants to study history?” Sirius says, not very subtly changing the subject. “Won’t he just make the cutest professor?”

“Not so much as you’ll make the hottest doctor!” Remus replies.

“Yes,” Regulus says, while placing his books on the table. “I’m sure the scientific community and the world of medicine will be greatly benefitted from your good looks.”

Remus sighs.

Sirius has just gone upstairs after Regulus threw a book at his head when he interrupted his explanation for the fifth time, distracting a very willingly-distracted Remus with cute dog videos.

Remus sighs again.

Undeterred, Regulus keeps on talking about some jar of marbles out of which Remus for some reason only wants to take the red ones.

Remus sighs again.

“Is there any chance you’re going to stop doing that if I keep ignoring you?”

Remus shakes his head, and Regulus drops his pen and looks up at him. “Okay, what is it?”

“I don’t think I want to snog your brother anymore,” Remus says.

He had expected Regulus to be relieved, but instead something fiercely protective flashes over his face. “I swear to god, Lupin, if you were just leading him on all this time...”

“What? No!” Remus quickly says. “I just mean that I don’t want to just snog your brother anymore. I think I actually like him! Like, like like him! I think I have a crush on your brother! You know, the massive, won’t-go-away-on-his-own kind.”

Regulus just stares at him.

“I mean, at first I just thought he was incredibly hot, funny and charming,” Remus continues. “But now I found out he’s also clever, sweet and caring!” Remus’ tone makes it sound like it’s the worst betrayal he’s ever experienced.

“And this is a problem how?” Regulus asks.

“He’s in college!” Remus exclaims. “He’s probably just looking for a fun summer flirt to pass his time before school starts again, and now he has ruined me for other men forever!”

Regulus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lupin, I know you’re terrible at chance calculation, so I’m going to put this in words even you can understand. The chance of my brother being into you is one hundred percent.”

“Really?” Remus’ face brightens.

Now it’s Regulus’ turn to sigh. “I never thought I’d ever be saying this, but I’ve had enough. Lupin, will you please go upstairs and snog my brother?”

Remus knocks once and then steps into Sirius’ bedroom. He’s immediately backed up0 against the door by Sirius’ body pressing against him. Sirius’ arms wrap around his waist and Remus’ arms almost automatically wrap around his neck, so he’ll soon be able to finally run his fingers through that perfect hair.

Their faces are so close together Remus can feel Sirius’ breath as he speaks. “Took you long enough.”

Part two

[sanoiro]

Lucifer Meta - Celestial Powers

Celestial Powers have occupied a lot of our time in this fandom. What do they mean and how they are controlled? Perhaps the answer is in this self-actualisation all angels seem to possess.

Back in S2 Lucifer told Linda that all angels were born with their gifts and when she asked him if that was it, he seemed baffled from that question. 

What we know so far is that 

Lucifer draws out desires

Michael draws out fears

Amenadiel can slow down or even stop time

Remiel can sense the creation of new Celestials 

Uriel could see patterns of action and results 

And then we have Azrael. Azrael is the Angel of Death but what is really known about her gift? Very little. She can transfer souls? But how does she know where to go and when? Does she senses death? Finality so why did she need a sword that could enforce that finality to everyone?

By looking back a theory was formed one that may be supported by some lines throughout the seasons. 

Celestial powers are not gifts. They are defence/coping mechanisms, coping mechanisms, customised for every Angel as if when they were created Mum and Dad gave them what they needed to feel safe, to be safe. So in a way a gift but did they made the same mistake Lilith did? Instead of making them untouchable each and every one barricaded behind their insecurities. 

Let me explain this. 

Amenadiel in S5 told Chloe that humans saw their desires reflected on Lucifer. That is why they were drawn by him. Lucifer hid behind -let’s call it- a celestial mirror that kept everyone out but made him likeable. If Michael was correct then Lucifer biggest fear was to be unworthy. 

That is supported by Lucifer’s own words in the end of 3x11. Lucifer waited for aeons his Father’s forgiveness and after a lot of time he got disappointed so his vacation started. I do wonder sometimes if that case in 3x11 started by Michael. Was Aiden (the fighter) confronted by Gil (the boxing coach) out of fear and that led to the murder? Was it a celestial influencing murder? It’s probable. 

Let’s not forget that Lucifer fought back when he was called Evil by Amenadiel that’s what urged his decision to throw the towel on ruling Hell and start his vacation. But back to the Celestial powers. 

Now let’s leave Lucifer for a bit and move to Michael. Michael as very well Lucifer and Amenadiel said essentially reflected fears back to others, in an attempt to conceal his own fears of inadequacy. It is interesting how similar Lucifer and Michael are cognitively.

Amenadiel’s powers were brought forward at his talk with Remiel in 4x07. 

“My powers, they kept me at a distance, kept me disconnected from humanity. And I think that's why they're gone now. Because I don't want that anymore.”

When Amenadiel had to confront his son’s humanity all his fears and insecurities came back thus his powers returned not in a loss of control but in order to protect him. They acted like an armour. 

Here I would like to say that whether Charlie or not is a Celestial is an interesting question. He is half so it is plausible to get sick or even grow old, it is normal to have human attributes but also he remains a Celestial as Remiel recognised him as one before his birth. 

Now add to that the fact that Michael may have manipulated the ‘evidence’. We have seen that some Celestial powers work on other Celestials like with fear and desire or even tracking down a Celestial as we saw with Remiel. So I wouldn’t be surprised if as Charlie comes from Amenadiel’s genetic code he can be controlled by him in that way. Or because Amenadiel was feeling threatened by his son’s humanity his powers lashed out to Charlie thus immobilising him. 

As Lucifer noted in 508:

“You stopped time to prevent all these from happening.”

And here is the sweet spot. I do believe to an extent subconsciously that’s what was happening with Charlie. Amenadiel made sure to extend the effect of his power to Charlie, to stop time and protect his child. 

It didn’t mean that Charlie was necessarily too human or not a Celestial but that the desire to protect the one that Amenadiel loved meant to stop time. And as you may have guessed something similar happened to Lucifer and Chloe in 507. 

When it comes to Lucifer and Chloe we know that he is vulnerable around her and that she cannot be affected by his mojo. 

Let’s start with his mojo. 

If we assume that his mojo is a defence/coping mechanism, surrendering to her emotionally and carnally in 506 led to an effect similar to what happened with Charlie. 

There is no reason why Lucifer would not have been able to trust Chloe in 1x01 in order for his mojo to not work. So we should assume something is there but what we are interested here is how Lucifer’s mojo passed to Chloe. 

What Charlie is for Amenadiel, it’s Chloe for Lucifer. The person that they love most and are ready to do anything for them, even change, they can expand their powers and that’s what I believe happened with Chloe. 

Aside from what she may be aside from mere Miracle, and thus can be receptive to the mojo transfer (like a magnet that needs the right metals in order for a pull to exist), I believe that Lucifer passed to Chloe his mojo as a way to protect her. 

His power shield was given to the person he cared most and wanted safe. It is only natural for us to give everything to make sure our loved ones will be safe. The expression if I could give you my heart, moon etc imagine it being possible for Lucifer when he gives her a part of him unconsciously. 

But when does he get it back? 

As some fans have noted on Twitter and on Tumblr did the injection triggered him on being invulnerable again around Chloe? 

I believe that yes. Lucifer has spent all his being on protecting her, she knows she can take care of herself but for the first time, he was near on losing her because he couldn’t act. 

Let’s assume that the gun had not been tampered with or anything else. Let’s assume that while Dan was unconscious between his flights with Michael, Michael did not get the opportunity to somehow make the shooting realistic for everyone. 

At this point, I want to say that speculation is still lit within me. Otherwise, Dan’s actions don’t make any sense. 

It would make sense for Lucifer to miraculously regain his invulnerability and fro Michael to play easily with Chloe’s fears in the caves. He even seemed to know that Chloe would be rescued. Was he the one who manipulated Dad into finally coming to Earth? That will be known in P2 I guess but if all the above is not somewhat true then Michael’s plan has no value whilst he seems to always know exactly where the next pawn will land. 

My opinion? Michael takes after Dad…. Go figure… Which I’ll explore in the Second Act as I believe it is related on how Lucifer transfers his mojo and loses his invulnerability. 

As you remember Lucifer’s mojo returns in 507 as Lucifer draws out the guard’s desire to be a dancer in order to get a lead on Chloe. So Lucifer’s mojo returns when he needs to protect Chloe again and she cannot do it herself. 

If we now assume that Lucifer’s vulnerability has nothing to do with Michael then it’s similar to his mojo coming and going and yes connected to the shock of not being able to protect Chloe. 

Chloe in 505 tells him that according to Amenadiel’s theory Lucifer is vulnerable around her because he chooses to, and as we have said before in other meta, he trusts her. That discussion between them took place in 1x04 and after that, we know the rest. 

In a recent interview with Ildy Modrovich and Joe Henderson they confirmed (at 2:43) that Lucifer is vulnerable around Chloe because he chooses to be. 

Ildy said: ‘He wasn’t evolved mentally so his body laid the stepping stones for him’

Additionally that: 

‘ He decides to make himself vulnerable and because his brain is kind of behind, his body does it for him. That’s why angels self-actualize and have the powers they have, be they good or bad. They are trying to tell them something that they need to learn.’

That’s a realisation he has after Chloe tells him Amenadiel’s theory in 505 so we can assume that cognitively can now albeit again unconsciously stop that from happening. Therefore he regains his invulnerability when there is an imminent danger around Chloe like her ex cradling a gun and pointing it at him.

Finally what we also need to explore is why Chloe loses suddenly the mojo in 507.  She asks the desires of two suspects and then in their third one is gone. 

Between those two events three things happen. 

Lucifer’s fears and annoyance over Chloe surpassing him after talking to Mario intensify. 

He is willing to use intimacy as a means to get back his mojo

Goes to couple therapy with Chloe but here is the thing that’s the one thing that I believe turned the tables. 

While at couples therapy some revelations do happen but mainly for Chloe. 

As Linda said they do not know everything about celestial powers so nothing is ridiculous not even power transference through sex, an emotional surrender or as Linda says it having sex with someone you care about requires surrendering control, giving up power. 

Lucifer with the parallel of Chloe losing her power through the loss of her gun and part of her identity decides to of course get a gun and use the Diablo Lt. Detective badge prop he stole from set in 503.

Fast forward we go to Los Angeles Theatre where they question the barytone and there Lucifer has a gun and a badge. He reclaims power in the form of what gives power & a part of her identity to Chloe. He feels secure and also feels like he can protect himself and Chloe. 

If the theory of the powers being a defence/coping mechanism then by getting a placebo in the form of a gun it means that Chloe no longer needs his mojo as she is safe with him while he has control of a deadly weapon but also that effect is so strong that he does not manifest - not retrieves - manifests his mojo again. 

That of course is lost when while having the gun on him he gets immobilised, he can no longer protect himself nor Chloe and thus the barricades are all back up. Both his mojo which he uses to find/protect Chloe but also his invulnerability around her again in order to keep both of them safe. 

I would like now to close this meta with the idea that Chloe also had a role in this as I do believe that losing the mojo involved her understanding of Lucifer’s powerlessness and therefore she once again surrendered emotional control to him and thus allowed the mojo to leave her, so Lucifer is not the only one who controls that give and take but on a degree, no matter how small, Chloe does as well.   

[ladylynse]

For @zutara-dumpster-hours​ (since I’m assuming this is the relevant blog). Happy birthday, Tali! You wanted to see something in the ATLA role reversal AU with Sokka trying to join the Gaang, so here you go.

Sokka wants to make up for his past actions, to join the Gaang, and Azula is having none of it. 

Also on FF and the AO3.

-|-

“We’re not alone,” Toph said, stopping in her tracks and nearly causing Zuko to bowl into her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Azula said sharply, and Toph pointed a finger at the wall of rock ahead of them. Azula had thought they were safely within the Earth Nation, far from any patrols the Water Tribe might have sent out. They were walking now to give Appa a break from flying, but they weren’t on known trade routes; they were specifically avoiding the paths on any map she’d ever seen. As far as she could tell, they were a day’s walk from the nearest village, but—

“There’s someone in there.”

“Inside the cliff?”

“We’re in the Earth Kingdom. It’s not just a cliff. Someone built rooms inside. I’d guess it’s an old bunker if we weren’t so far from the old front lines.”

“So someone’s home? Whoever built this place?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s abandoned and we’re not the only visitors.”

Azula looked at Aang. “We can’t risk the Water Tribe finding you. Zuko can check it out.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t hey me,” Azula shot back. “If they’ve sent that crazy old blood bender after us again, you’re going to need my lightning to neutralize her. Unless you’ve suddenly figured out how to do it?”

“Crazy old blood bender?” Toph repeated. “What happened to you guys?”

“It’s…kinda a long story,” Aang said, the apology in his tone, but Zuko snorted and contradicted him.

“It’s really not. Her name’s Hama, and we think she’s the one who taught Katara to blood bend. It’s exactly what it sounds like. She can turn you into a living puppet. We’re lucky she didn’t kill us all the first time.”

“Uh, guys?” Toph interjected, but Azula wasn’t going to let Zuko leave it at that.

She sniffed. “I wasn’t with Zuko and Aang when she ambushed us, which gave me the opportunity to catch her by surprise, and the old hag is as susceptible to lightning as everyone else.” She turned back to Zuko. “Which is why you need to investigate.”

“Because I’m suddenly the most disposable?”

“Guys!” Toph stamped her foot, and the rock in front of them split. She pointed ahead of them again.

Azula followed her finger, and her heart jumped into her throat. She moved in front of Aang, knew Zuko was doing the same to guard his other flank, and both of them readied themselves to fight.

“It’s okay,” Aang said. “He’s alone. Right, Toph?”

“Right.”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Sokka said, sounding remarkably put together for someone who’d just fallen through a window that had once been a wall of rock. Azula supposed it said something about his composure, about his upbringing, the way he simply stood up and dusted himself off as if it were nothing, but she hated him for it. And I’m not here to hurt you? Azula nearly sent a lightning bolt at him for daring to presume that they’d fall for a trick like that after everything they’d been through.

“Sure,” she bit out. “Of course you aren’t. Because you’ve never tried to kill or capture us before. That was someone else, like your crazy sister.”

“Katara’s not…. Well, she wasn’t always. But I’m not here to make excuses for her or for me. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, and I want to make up for it.” He hesitated. Another acting job. She kept her anger under control, ready to let it lash out all at once. “I…I came to join you, if you’ll have me.”

“We won’t,” Zuko said flatly before she could open her mouth. “Now how did you find us?”

“Consider it a show of good faith,” Azula snarled when Sokka didn’t immediately volunteer the answer.

“I was guessing,” Sokka started, and she sent a small burst of flame past his shoulder—a warning shot, and it was with some satisfaction that he flinched away.

“Try again,” she ground out.

“Look, I…. I know what you’re doing. I know you’re trying to get in touch with sympathizers in the Earth Kingdom to get enough supplies for the next leg of your journey. I know you’re making your way to the southernmost peninsula before you set off over the water—”

“So that’s where your sister plans to ambush us?”

“Azula,” Aang said quietly, “let him talk.” He glanced at Toph and added, “There still isn’t anyone else around, Toph?”

“Just us. He really did come alone. I think he fell in through the chimney, too.” A grin grew across her face. “Unless you got yourself stuck inside on purpose?”

Sokka’s answering smile was sheepish, and Azula didn’t trust it for a second. “I was rigging something up. I would’ve gotten out soon.”

More likely, he was strategizing and trying to catch them unawares. She still couldn’t believe he’d found them. They’d been so careful not to leave a trail. It’s another reason they weren’t flying everywhere they could, even though they’d be able to cover more ground that way. So what wasn’t he telling them?

Before Azula could say any of this, Aang had stepped forward and was gently nudging her and Zuko to the side. “Why do you want to join us?”

Sokka picked at the wrapping around his left wrist for a few seconds, not meeting their gaze, before finally whispering, “Because I don’t think I’m on the right side of things.”

“Well, you aren’t,” Azula spat.

Aang put a hand on her arm, and she bristled but quieted. “Go on,” he prompted.

“Life was always…hard,” Sokka said, ignoring Azula’s snort and Zuko’s bark of laughter. Instead, he raised his eyes to meet Aang’s. “Katara is strong, the strongest water bender in our tribe to be born for generations, but the expectations placed on us, her especially, are unachievable. She’s never seen to be as good as she needs to be, so she keeps working, and she gets better. You won’t be able to beat her without help. Especially not if you come to fight her on her own turf.”

Azula couldn’t keep quiet anymore. Did he think they were idiots, that their planning was for nothing? She wasn’t about to tell him their plan, of course, but he really didn’t think anything of them if he thought they were going into this without any sort of plan. “Because she’ll just turn us into puppets and kill Aang when he can’t move to defend himself?”

“Katara can only blood bend under the full moon. She’s good, but she still needs to be at her strongest to do that.”

Azula blinked. They hadn’t realized that. Sure, Hama had ambushed them at night, and it had been a full moon then, but they’d assumed she’d struck at night to try to catch them off guard. They’d assumed she’d wanted the moonlight not just for the strength it gave her but for the light it would give her to move around. If she hadn’t had that argument with Zuko, if she’d been in camp with the rest of them….

“I can help you,” insisted Sokka. “Aang, you still need to learn how to water bend, don’t you?”

“You’re a non bender,” Zuko said. “How can you teach water bending?”

Sokka crossed his arms. “I know the forms.”

“Bending is about more than just forms,” Azula snapped. “Not that I’d expect you to know that. It’s about feeling and intention as much as it is form.”

“And I sat through the same classes as Katara when we were younger,” Sokka countered, “and watched more even after it was clear I wasn’t a water bender. I can teach Aang if he’ll have me.”

“You should give him a chance,” Toph said quietly. “You need a water bending teacher, and we can’t afford to be picky.”

“We can’t afford to trust him, either,” grumbled Azula, “after what he’s done to us.”

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” Sokka said. “I’m only asking that you give me a chance to atone. How much do you really know about the Water Tribes? Do you know anything about our strategies? Our weaknesses? You don’t even look like you could make it through our defences. You don’t need to worry about Katara if you can’t make it that far.”

“We’re not telling you what we know,” Zuko said. “How stupid do you think we are? We’re not going to—”

“We don’t need to tell him our plans before we find out everything he has to offer,” Toph interrupted, “but you two don’t need to keep shutting him down before we—or at least Aang—hears him out. This isn’t an ambush. I’d know. He’s alone. And if he found us this time, he could find us again even if we try to leave him behind.”

“I can’t believe you’re going along with this!” Azula exclaimed, throwing up her hands and hoping Toph had half an idea of how much she was glaring at her right now.

“I’d say I can’t believe you’re not letting Aang have a say in this when he’s the Avatar, but you’re you, so that would be a lie.”

“Toph!”

“Toph’s right, Azula,” Aang said. “I need a water bending teacher.”

“Your water bending teacher should actually be a water bender.” Azula saw Sokka flinch at her words, but she didn’t care. So what if that was a sore point for him? It was the truth.

And for a non bender, he was dangerous.

Something Toph and Aang seemed to be forgetting.

That boomerang of his wasn’t just for show. He could use it and use it well, potentially incapacitating a bender who didn’t see his attack. She had never let him get close enough to get into any hand to hand, but she didn’t doubt his combat skills on that front, either. For all she knew, he was as good as Ty Lee, or nearly so.

And trusting him just seemed to be such a phenomenally bad idea.

Aang was too soft, too trusting, and she couldn’t let him make this mistake. She turned her head slightly to find Zuko already looking at her. He gave a slight nod, his lips pressed tight in an expression with which she was painfully familiar. He was ready to fight, just as she was.

They’d have to separate Sokka from that boomerang of his first. She didn’t want to doubt Toph’s skills after what she’d seen her do, but Azula wasn’t going to risk Sokka taking out their earth bender. Aang was pretty good now, but Toph was far better. Azula didn’t plan to sacrifice any of her friends, but the truth of the matter was, she and Zuko were more expendable than Toph. There were two of them, and if they had to, one of them could see Aang through this. He didn’t have to have two fire benders by his side.

She shifted her weight to adjust her form and saw Zuko mirroring her. Sokka noticed but was too late to react. And by the time the cry of protest left Aang’s lips, fire and lighting were already racing towards the relentless hunter who’d dogged their steps for so long.

If he wanted to come along, well, he could do that as their prisoner—their hostage—instead of as their friend.

It might have worked if the earth hadn’t suddenly closed around Sokka, protecting him, while simultaneously swallowing her and Zuko until they were up to their armpits in sand.

“I’m calling a time out,” Toph said as the earth around Sokka shifted, freeing his face but still trapping the rest of him. “Aang, you can let these guys out once you have your answers. I’m going to get some water. See if you can figure this out while I’m gone.”

Struggling got her nowhere. “Toph! This isn’t funny!”

“Neither is frying people we need on principle.” Toph raised one hand in a wave as she walked past. “Have fun.”

“Aang, are you going to get us out of here?”

Aang shifted on his feet. “Um, soon, but maybe, ah, Toph has a point. About talking. And I really do need a water bending teacher.”

“I can’t believe this,” Azula muttered, except that wasn’t true. She could believe it. This was Aang, after all. Even after everything Sokka had done to them, Aang would be willing to give him another chance. That’s just the way he was.

Whether she liked it or not, Sokka was going to be Aang’s water bending teacher. And she and Zuko might not trust Sokka as far as they could throw him, but if he was going to join them, at least she could count on her brother to have her back—and have an extra of eyes on Aang’s, just in case.

(see more fics | part 2)

[atalana]

Callum, Dark Magic, and The Meaning of Strength

Okay, so... season 2 gave us a lot to think about. And then I had a huge conversation with a friend about it, which made me think even more.

I wanna start this by talking about dark magic, where exactly it comes from, and why it affected Callum the way it did. Because while it might be normal for a dark magic novice to find a spell like that draining, it turning into a full on illness that would have killed him is not standard practice.

Now dark magic isn't technically magic. Not in the traditional sense, anyway, which is why the Xadians don't see it as magic. And they've got good reason. Using primal magic is about connecting with the universe, it's a give and take thing, and to use primal magic you have to trust and respect the elements around you. When you have a good relationship with the source of your magic, it will work for you, because it's a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Dark magic, on the other hand, is essentially necromancy. It's trading in the lives of other beings to gain power for yourself. And the universe isn't gonna let you just do that. Not without consequences. If primal magic is an exchange of trust between you and the universe, dark magic is you standing with your boot on its neck demanding it works for you. And the universe is gonna fight back against that. So you need the mental strength and defences to keep it under control.

Claudia said that using dark magic without proper training is dangerous. And she trained with Viren, she'd know why. Because there's no balance to dark magic, and therefore, no limit. Once you make that connection with dark magic, you're chaining yourself to a starving lion. And either you learn to dominate it, or it eats away at you until you die.

When you train dark magic properly, you'd learn this slowly. The smaller the spell the smaller the threat, and you can learn to build up your mental defences without risking the magic winning. And the more practiced you get, the easier it is to take more and more from the universe (but also the more it takes from you, hence the whole dark magic zombie appearance).

But then we have Callum. And Callum approaches dark magic like it's primal magic, which is a very dangerous thing to do.

There's a few different things that made Callum super vulnerable here.

First, he expected the same give and take trusting relationship as with primal magic, which dark magic doesn't have.

Second, his mental defenses were at an all time low, because he'd spent most of the season trying to remove them in order to connect with primal magic (in a trusting relationship, you can't spend the whole time with your guard up, or it won't work).

And third, he was afraid of dark magic, and you can't hold something hostage when you're afraid of it, it'll lash out and you'll lose.

So Callum goes in trying to copy what Claudia did (and points to him, he does have a photographic memory, so casting the spell itself wasn't actually a problem, which is I'm sure why he thought he'd be fine). He succeeds in casting it, because his technique was fine, but he doesn't have anything in place to protect himself, so instead of forcing the universe to take the power out of the bug, it takes the power out of him. And then, without Callum forcing it to stop, it just keeps going, draining him for everything he's got.

The first part of his mindscape is that battle with the magic. It's worth noting at this point that a decision either way would have kept Callum from dying, he just had to be sure about it. Reject the magic completely, and it loses its hold over you. Accept the responsibility of it, and you learn to control it (which will eventually turn you into someone like Viren). But Callum chose the former (despite being tempted by the latter), which is very telling of who he is as a person.

It's no coincidence that Callum's psychological journey this season went hand in hand with his magical progression. And the key to that is in what Harrow told him about strength.

Harrow starts off by talking about the traditional idea of strength. You know, your stereotypical masculine ideal - show no feelings, be in control at all times, be physically strong, slay a dragon, etc etc. He talks about how this is what you're taught true strength is, which is true in his world and ours. This is what's constantly equated to strength in the stories we're told, the lessons we're taught, that strong people suffer in silence, that strong people carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, that strong people are strong enough to survive life on their own, and emotions and vulnerability are weaknesses. This is usually also equated with physical strength, these are the ass-kicking heroes we're supposed to look up to.

And this is the kind of strength required for dark magic. If you want to control your magic, you need to control your own mind, show no weaknesses that could be exploited, it's a fight for your life that you have to be sure of winning.

It's no coincidence also then that dark magic is the traditional tool of the humans, because of course it is. It is all the ideals we're taught to strive for - power without limit, controlling those around you, relying on no one but yourself.

And throughout the series, this is something Callum's failed at. He's not a fighter in the traditional sense, he's not physically strong, he's shitty in a sword fight, and he's so empathetic and caring. And he beats himself up for that, because he believes those are the traits that make him useless - not surprising, given how he's been raised to view those as the only important traits, especially for a prince and not a regent. He's royalty, and that's a title that has a lot of weight to it, but he's not of royal blood, he'll never be the king, which puts him at a disadvantage right off the bat. He's constantly trying to prove himself, and he hasn't found the way to do that yet, because as far as he's concerned, his only strength is art, which isn't a 'real' strength. Feeling useless is the whole reason he turns to dark magic, which feeds again into that parallel.

But then Harrow says what is in my opinion the most important lesson in the series, and I love him so much for saying it - that isn't real strength.

Real strength isn't about how much power you have, how much you can control, or how guarded you can be. Real strength is in trusting others, in staying vulnerable, in the quiet moments that look like weakness to people who perpetuate the physical strength ideal. (And honestly as someone who struggled with this idea a lot as a teenager and eventually overcame it, I know Harrow's right, but I so rarely hear it said in media).

This is the kind of strength needed for primal magic. The strength to look at a vast, terrifying universe, and ask it for help. And that's a hard thing to do. Callum even comments on how surprisingly easy dark magic was, because that kind of thinking is very easy to slip into. It's easy to try and gain power, it's easy to have walls up. It's hard to put your trust in something so completely, not knowing what the outcome will be. But that's where the strength part comes in.

Harrow is present in Callum's mindscape to remind him of this, when dark!Callum is doing its best to convince him that dark magic (and all it entails) are the only way. It's the human tradition! It's the only way humans can survive in this world! It makes you powerful and useful and no one will be able to control you!

Everything Callum's heard his whole life, in one form or another, everything our media tells us constantly.

Harrow reminds Callum that he is in charge of his own life. He is free of the harmful traditions of the past, he forges his own way. And Callum says no. No, I decide who I wanna be.

Choosing to keep your vulnerability in a world trying to take it from you isn't a weakness. It's the strongest choice of all.

And it's knowing that and deciding that that frees Callum from the dark magic. It doesn't grant him instant access to primal magic, or there wouldn't be any point - true strength is not an easy journey, and there's always a chance you'll fail. But it puts him in the best position to try. And by accepting Sarai's help, he manages it.

Harrow wanted his sons to forge a new path, to be free of expectation and not defined by what came before. And Callum's done that. (Ezran is also doing that, in his own ways, I think, though there was more of a focus on Callum this season). They're moving towards a new future, a one where humans can learn primal magic, not just dark, and one where creativity, kindness, and patience are seen as the strengths they are, not as things holding you back.

(As a side note, I've seen a lot of theories around of Callum being a half elf, but I gotta say, I really hope that isn't true, because it runs so counter to everything this season was saying. Yes, Callum is the first human we know to do primal magic, and a lot of that is on his own merit, but he never would have learned had he not had the opportunities and guidance that he did. Very few humans can even do dark magic, we've only seen Viren and Claudia do it so far, and primal magic is hugely out of reach for the majority of people. Villads is a good example, he understands the sky arcanum, but wouldn't have considered using it for magic, because magic's not a part of his world. And those who would have the knowledge and motivation to learn magic are the people who already have power and resources, who believe in the wrong kind of strength, who wouldn't be able to understand an arcanum even if they did know what one was. Which means they're therefore much more likely to see dark magic as the only, or possibly the superior, option.

Callum may never be king, but he will stand alongside Ezran as they lead their people into a new age, and he'll be the one teaching them magic - turning what was once an impossibility into an opportunity, and hopefully mending the original rift between humans and Xadians.)

[coeurlkin]

Sahasrara.

The first impact rang out through the ruined temple as fist met fist, both men's knuckles crashing together, leaving the pair stood there. A simple action meant to test the mettle of any who stood before them. If either had fallen in that moment, there would have been no doubt as to their unworthiness.

Both men had their reasons for being there, for answering the call, but only one would see their ambition come to pass. Wyra'to locked eyes with Vilbrand, the intensity of his gaze matched, the straining of bone against bone finally giving way as the Highlander took the offensive.

Vilbradr let out a cry before spinning to the right, pushing further into Wyra'to's fist with his own whilst spiraling around with his other arm, the back of his hand screeching as it cut through the tension towards it's target, only to be met with the back of Wyra'to's forearm. The momentum of the strike was absorbed by the muscular Keeper's guard. Still, the wolf pushed himself onwards. His right leg bursting upwards from the floor, his body still turning as he sought to lash out with a high kick, the movement only just allowing him to move out of the path of a solid right jab. The Keeper had rooted himself in place with his knees bent, every muscle tensing at the presumed moment of impact, only to then relax once he failed to connect. The two men span to face each other, Vilbradr twisting into a spinning heel kick, Wyra'to kicking upwards and intercepting the blow with his shin. The strike rattled his bones, forcing the Keeper to grit his fangs. Vilbradr was strong, that much was obvious, but above all else, he was DRIVEN. To succeed, to claim victory. To accept defeat would be to accept death. Death... 

The thought lingered in the Keeper's mind for long enough, the momentary lapse being seized upon near instantly by Vilbradr. A left fist, and then a right struck the Keeper - once in the abdomen, the next in the chest, breaking his guard and sending him back a few paces. Onwards, the Highlander twisting on the spot and lashing out with the bottom of his boot, planting it square in the centre of Wyra'to's chest, pushing his foe further and further away.

The onslaught caught Wyra'to off guard, his muscles aching from the impact, his bones rattled and flesh bruising beneath the garb. Despite all of this, neither man had drawn for their weapons - Vilbradr's claws still lingering at his hips and Wyra'to's hands as yet unaugmented, the pair intent on testing each other, probing for any weakness, poring over every ilm of the other's body for some sign of weakness, something to capitalise on... Again, Vilbradr was upon him, descending upon Wyra'to with a downward swing of his right fist, missing only by a fraction of an ilm. His flank was exposed, now was the time to act, now was the time to strike back! A solid hit draws a grunt from Vilbradr, an elbow striking him in the side of the ribs, only for the Keeper's left knee to soar into his stomach, followed by an attempted jab to the throat which he narrowly avoided. Backstepping, Vilbradr span off to the side to put distance between the pair before calling out.

"Your master taught you well... But come, what say you? Shall we truly begin?"

A challenge.

Wyra'to felt his blood start to boil, his pride screaming out at him and blotting all other thoughts from his head, his stance shifting as the pair circled each other. The stillness lasted only a moment before being shattered by a pair of twin releases - both men's bodies blazing out through the darkness as they opened each of their six gates. Vilbradr stood with his right weapon held outwards, his left remaining at his side whilst his weight shifting to his right leg, three long claws protruding outwards. A sinister glow radiated off of weapons, all instinct screaming at Wyra'to to keep his distance... An impossibility. This was a challenge. A trial. It would be met in kind. Wyra'to's own fists took form, the coeurl heads he had grown so accustomed to blazing into life, sneering, snarling and burning bright. 

The pair circled one another, holding up their respective guards, waiting, watching... Until finally the Keeper made the first move. No more subtlety or hesitation, now was the time to act as his master had taught him to! A right, then a left, and then a right, a flurry of punches carving through the air and towards Vilbradr, only to be met with the backs of the blades, each punch blocked with an apparent ease. Still, the Keeper had to keep going, fist meeting metal over and over, ringing out through the chamber, the sudden bursts of air pressure causing the flames to waver and dance. Shadows grew and shrank as the men moved around the arena, Vilbradr taking the opportunity to lunge outwards with his claws, only to either miss or have the weapons deflected at the final moments. 

Blow after blow, strike after strike, neither man able to get the edge over the other. Wolf and Coeurl, locked in a dance of fists and fury spanning the whole of the arena, back and forth, neither of the men willing to give any ground or quarter whatsoever for what seemed like an age... But this could only last so long. One would have to break eventually. Vilbradr’s next move saw to that. 

A sudden, explosive release of aether knocked Wyra’to off of his momentum, forcing him back and sending him crashing to the floor, scrambling to get to his feet. He recognised the technique almost immediately the Arm of the Destroyer – but there was no time to admire his foe’s form, this was not a friendly match between comrades. This was a duel to the death. This was a matter of his survival.

Wyra’to was barely able to get onto one knee before his foe was upon him once again, a heel crashing down towards him, only to skim past his ear and shatter the stonework before him instead, giving him an opportunity to strike back with a rising uppercut. Vilbradr was taken aback by the Keeper, the strike to his chin breaking his focus and leaving him wide open to a barrage of body shots, rib punches and swipes, before finally ending with a dual fisted lunge at his chest, snarling coeurl heads searing him before he was able to recover. Staggered, Vilbradr took a few further steps back before calling out at the Keeper.

“The traitor taught you that, then? What it is to study under one who fought so valiantly under Theodoric’s banner!”

“Yer wrong! Master did what’e needed ta survive, ta keep th’ faith strong... What’a th’ Elders who took dere lives in dis place? Wouldja besmirch dem too?”

“Better to die by your own hands than live with the shame of betraying your brethren! The shame of Sandwalker ends today, with you!”

Vilbradr’s rage grew and grew, a righteous anger – here stood a man who claimed to be of the Fist, yet learned under one who had betrayed it. So many had fallen to that man, and yet Wyra’to still followed him, still took his instructions, still stuck with him in spite of it all. To Vilbradr, he was no better than a henchman. A lackey. It imperative that he win, for the sake of all those who lost so much on that fateful day. He was upon Wyra’to in a flash, an inhuman burst of speed carrying him across the arena before the Keeper could even so much as blink, let alone form any tangible type of defence. Great swipes of his claws, raking strikes rending fabric and flesh like they were one and the same, each motion spilling the blood of his foe across the floor of the arena. Wyra’to screeched, his arms coming down to try and block off the strikes, his left fist shooting directly into Vilbradr’s cheek with enough power behind it to shatter bone – yet the Highlander would not submit. 

The pair traded blows, relentless, claret staining the stonework, the scent of sweat and iron permeating the air in the room which only seemed to grow denser and denser with each passing moment. Wyra’to’s breathing grew heavy and laboured, cyclas in tatters across the floor, his shoulderguards having long since been discarded and his . Vilbradr too was suffering, his torso exposed, bruises and burns covering much of his body. The scent of burnt flesh hit him HARD, the fire in his eyes still burning in spite of it all. He had far, far too much to lose to let this pretender lay claim to what was rightfully his. Why even bother coming? Why even attempt to answer the call? Blood trickled from his lips as he spoke again, each word dripping with venom. 

“It ends, here. Pretender.”

He moved towards Wyra’to with a predatory glint in his eyes, prowling, stalking his prey. This wasn’t a man, this was a beast, one dedicated entirely to the hunt. Wyra’to stood on the spot, dazed and weary, his vision blurry and fading through the continued blood loss. The haze which had descended upon him was torn away in a heartbeat as he felt something sharp, a very sudden pain which rocked him to the core, a set of claws having torn through his body just beneath his ribs. Everything burned before going numb, his fangs locking together and his fists going limp. The coeurl heads fizzled before going out entirely, his body hanging there, suspended on the claw until it was torn from him. Knees met the floor, the wound pouring out and covering his right side, his left arm weakly rising to try and staunch the flow. This was it, he thought. This was how it all wound end. Weak. Afraid. Alone. His Master, his friends, those he loved and cared for... There were no tears. Not a sound.

Only silence.

Vilbradr took a step back, then another, then another, putting a comfortable distance between himself and his foe. He’d done it. He’d won... Yet why did he not feel any different? Here he was was, victorious, his foe at death’s door, and yet the seventh gate was not his. Why? Why was this happening? Was he unworthy? No, it had to be something else... The highlander turned to face the statues, the air growing thicker and thicker as he called out. Why, O Rhalgr? Have I not done enough? Have I not pleased you by striking down the right hand of a despot? A warmonger? A criminal? His voice cracked, exhaustion giving way to desperation, body finally reacting to the myriad of wounds which covered it. His gaze shifted back to the Keeper... No, it couldn’t have been. There was no sound. No breathing. No obvious sign of resistance, and yet he could feel something. Something which shook him to the pit of his stomach. 

The man forced himself forwards, towards the Keeper, dropping both of his weapons as he advanced. There was no way. Then it happened. A dull glow at first, growing brighter by the second, right in the centre of the Keeper’s forehead, followed by a sudden gust as the air began to move around the pair. The light continued to grow, Wyra’to’s body starting to stir, his fists clenching once again, the flow of blood slowing down before coming to an outright stop, allowing him to rise to his feet, albeit slowly. One step, and then another, the Keeper moved forwards, forcing Vilbradr back, fear overwhelming the Highlander.

“No... No!”

Both men had felt the call. Both men had come here, to this sacred place, with something to prove. Vilbradr had come for vengeance. Wyra’to had come for forgiveness. The understanding had hit him in what he thought would be his final moments, a sudden clarity. It would be impossible for him to ever set everything right, this much was true, but he was not his Master. He was his own man, able to serve Rhalgr in his own way. Able to protect those he cared for, to teach, to ensure that those who came after him would never repeat the mistakes of their forefathers. Vilbradr kept scrambling back as the figure before him moved, aether flooding into the severely wounded Keeper’s body, the sight before him both terrifying and majestic in it’s own right. He had tried his best, but it wasn’t enough. His ambition wasn’t enough. 

There was barely time to utter a prayer, with Wyra’to’s hands cupping down at his right side, a singular coeurl head blazing into life, energy crackling off of the sneering, snarling visage. It grew and grew, until the power within could no longer be contained, the platform starting to tremble. The Keeper threw both hands forwards with a ferocious snarl, his broken hands parting, the maw of the beast opening as a torrent of aether burst towards Vilbradr. A cascade of burning light. 

In that moment, he was illuminated. 

This... This was the true radiance of the Destroyer. Even as he felt his body break apart, his skin peeling and burning, his blood boiling, bones crumbling to ash, he was thankful to have been given this chance. To feel the Destroyer in all his glory. Everything grew numb, and then nothingness. All that remained were the shreds of Vilbradr’s garb, his weapons, a bloody, charred smear on the floor. Wyra’to’s body too grew still before giving out entirely. Blood tinged his vision, his chest shaking, his hands burning and raw from the sudden outpouring of energy. Exhaustion struck him. Everything hurt. Every ilm of his body was in absolute agony. Whatever had happened could be answered for later. Now, he would rest.

Perhaps a bell. Perhaps a sun.

Perhaps forever.

[naferty]

So....🎁2/19 is my bday 🎂 and I was wondering if you had any sneak peeks for Finding Pack or Mr and Mrs... Mom & Dad? Or if you'd be able to give a little IronPanther lovin'? I'm still a bit pissed at Steve for the bs he pulled in CW and have been obsessed with IronPanther lately. Anything will be loved though ❤❤

You left me with too much limit and little time so I sort of had to quickly write this out, an Ironpanther with shifter mixed in and some Tony and tiny Peter fluff, and I hope it makes your day brighter. Happy Birthday!

This is part 1 for you! I’ll get you part 2 out the moment I can.

~~~

Tony prowled his territory cautiously. Recently there had been an influx of humans wandering the forest, searching, hunting, and he couldn’t risk getting caught off-guard. Not when many shifters had moved further south, away from the humans residing north.

They were being pushed back. There was no denying it now. Many shifters were losing their homes in a rapid rate and many were leaving even faster.

The safest for shifters were to pack up. A lone shifter was an easy target, but a group had a chance. Tony was not amongst the lucky ones to have a group watch his back, at least not outright. The shifters of the area were canine and many. They had little trouble sticking together. Forming packs and tight bonds that made it harder for humans to target. Their instinctual needs making it easy to fall into roles.

A pack of these canine shifters were kind enough to be acquainted with him. Some might even, dare he say it, call him a friend of the canines. Which was saying a lot, considering he was a white tiger and made canines wary in the best of times and posed a threat at the worst.

Not many would’ve taken a chance on him, but he was thankful the uncoordinated pup (though he claimed to have been a teenager) had stumbled upon him. Disoriented and lost, he had feared him at first, but the pup began talking his ear clean off and stuck close when Tony showed no signs of wanting to eat him. The only shifter in the area Tony offered safety that the pup needed and Tony understood wandering the forest alone as a cub. It brought forth terrors. Never knowing when something would strike or when a human would jump from the shadows.

Tony allowed him to stay, learning the pup’s name was Peter and coming to understand how he ended up lost, how they ended up getting attacked but he didn’t know by whom, not when his aunt and uncle screamed for him to run. He stayed with Tony for days and Tony ended up hunting for two. The most hunting he had ever done in his life.

Eventually the pup’s pack traced his scent and came back for him. Their hostility quickly dissolved shortly after they learned his role in protecting Peter until his family found him. Aunt May and Uncle Ben were grateful. Their leader offered his thanks and promised to spread word of him to other canines of the area. He was an ally and was to be treated like one.

There was no complaints from Tony, not when it resulted in many canines simply avoiding him instead of confronting him when their paths crossed. Tony hoped this thin line of friendship with the pup’s pack extended to helping, or at least keeping an eye out on him, should the humans walk into their territory. Naturally, that thin line extended both ways, so when he heard a howl with a very familiar tone to it Tony didn’t even hesitate or think about it twice. He ran to the howl, taking notice of the sounds of footsteps on dead grass the closer he got. He caught a glimpse of tall shadows standing upright through the trees. The shadows of danger. The shadows of death. Humans were here and Peter had been howling in fear near the area.

Heart beating heavy in his chest he rushed forth, crouching when the shapes of the humans became clear. There were five of them jogging through the trees and there, in the direction of their path, was Peter’s form, shivering with his tail curled around himself. He was trapped. Rocks and boulders blocking his path and far too small to jump over them.

The humans aimed their guns at him, ready to fire, and Tony moved with as much speed as he could. He roared, hearing it echo through the trees and watching as the humans turned to him in horror. He struck at those nearest to him, forcing the rest to back off with shouts and orders. He saw his opportunity and rushed to Peter, grabbed him by the scruff and jumped over the stones in hopes of it blocking the humans and climbed higher. He needed distance, he needed to hide, he needed to make sure Peter was as far away from the danger as possible, he needed to -

A sharp pain struck him on his thigh and gave him a flinch, but it didn’t bring forth a burning sensation of a serious wound so he ignored it and pushed forward with more force. He found as the seconds ticked by it became harder and harder to jump until eventually even moving his front legs seemed an impossibility.

The humans tranquilized him! Shit.

He draped himself over the last boulder he could climb and released Peter, nudging him to go with his snout. “Run, Peter.”

“No, no Mr Stark,” Peter’s tiny body shivered. “I can’t leave you here.”

Tony bared his teeth. “Go!” He managed to catch Peter run and hear the footsteps of the humans closer before he just couldn’t keep awake anymore. The very last thing he heard was Peter’s whine as something struck him.

He woke up disoriented with his head pounding and the ground shaking from underneath him. He was met with darkness and the foul smell of old fear and no forest. His only source of light were tiny holes allowing the sun to shine in and he cursed with a loud growl when he realized he was in a damn box. Moving also showed he was also chained down. A collar on his neck, shackles on his paws and a muzzle.

A soft whimper to his right made him stop from ramming against the walls in desperation. A tiny body was curled next to him and his heart stopped when he realized it was Peter. He didn’t escape. He was captured as well. Tony couldn’t save him.

He curled himself protectively around the pup, promising to find a way for him to escape no matter what.

~~

T’Challa held in a growl threatening to escape him. He had seen not one, but three - three - shifters chained up and displayed as if they were mere mindless animals meant to be exotic pets. To many in this event they were exactly that. Mindless animals praised as rarities by their sellers and paid little mind to them, never questioning how the black stallion standing tall showed intelligence in his eyes. But to those who knew exactly what this fabrication hid under it.

A black market running right under the nose of the clueless. A black market that specialized in the selling and enslaving of shifters for different purposes. For entertainment, for strength, for protection, for pleasure, and it sickened him.

He remained silent, however. It would do no good when visitors of the land caused a scene, not when relations were strained as it was. T’Challa promised he was going to personally see the end of such exchanges. To think they treated shifters as materials when they were just as human as any other.

The itch to take to his fur was strong but he needed the face of a simple man. It would do no good to cause panic and force the Dora Milaje to retaliate in defence, and so he continued his walk, followed by two fierce warriors. He carried his disgust on the inside while on the outside was the face of indifference. He hoped his eyes expressed his anger.

The more he walked the more he wished to leave the foul place. After watching the fourth clueless man stare at the stallion shifter and turn away without any recognition or care the decision to leave was easy to choose. This was when his little sister made an appearance and took that decision out of his hands. Her eyes so often bright in joy were forlorn, silent anger hidden under a layer of control. She wanted to lash out, just as he, but her reason unknown to him.

He didn’t have to ask her reason. She offered with a displeased head shake. “They are hosting an auction. Among their pieces is a shifter. Rare in color and mistreated. I fear if he is sold he will not see another day. Please, we must help.”

T’Challa frowned. Shuri was well aware of what hid amongst the illusions and also knew they couldn’t interfere, not yet, no matter how much they wish to aid. “You know we can not.”

“I have talked to him,” Shuri revealed. “He shows intelligence, more than most.” She looked down momentarily, showing a hesitation rarely ever seen by her. “He protects another. Younger. We must help.”

T’Challa didn’t understand, not at first, but if it had Shuri worried than it must have been serious. He nodded and followed after her, leading him close to the gathering crowd but remaining at the edge. There was a stage present where the auctioneer was to present the merchandize. Shuri led them around and through a black curtain behind it. The dark of the area prevented them from being spotted, but under a designated light source he saw multiple items waiting to be sold and among them a simple bar cage. Primitive and horrid, for inside was a beast. Chained to the ground with shackles on its legs, collar on its neck and a muzzle. The fur mangled, scars present in the patches it missed and dried blood decorating in-between the stripes.

A white tiger. Filthy, scarred, and afraid. It shaked in its hold, but through the trembling T’Challa could easily see the anger coursing through its body upon seeing them. The baring of its teeth accompanied with a soft hiss.

He was beautiful.

They got closer. The hiss grew with each step they took and the body curled into a ball as much as the chains allowed. When T’Challa and Shuri stood just outside the cage he knew why. There, curled up next to the belly of the tiger, was a pup, an adolescent wolf by the size, appearing to be around Shuri’s age. The youngster was untouched compared to the tiger. Better fed and fur relatively cleaner.

The tiger released a protective growl upon realizing he was studying the pup. T’Challa raised his hands, meaning no harm, but didn’t move. It was clear this shifter was mistreated. Not even the other shifters on display appeared to receive the same treatment. He couldn’t leave the creature alone like this.

“Be calm. We mean no harm.” The sharp eyes of the tiger pierced his being. He distrusted, as the nature of his environment. He would not believe a word T’Challa would say. Only actions will win the shifter’s trust. “We will help you out.”

The tiger huffed. His ears were pulled all the way back, flat on his head and tail flicking back and forth in agitation. He didn’t appear to wish to talk and T’Challa didn’t expect him to, but desperation was a strong motivation.

His shoulders sagged, head going down in defeat. “Save…. Peter… please. Get… him out.”

The pup whined and T’Challa knew he couldn’t leave either of them there. He turned to Shuri and they shared a nod of understanding.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)(Part 5)(Part 6) (Part7)

~~~

Happy Birthday!!!

[bladesandstars]

The Dragon’s Dagger - Chapter 2

The Game Begins

(Highspecs, Rating T, 1,317 words.  Read on AO3)

Basilisks roamed the grass beyond them, just far enough not to notice their presence, but close enough.  Gladio and Noctis looked at them, then looked at the other two.  Noctis rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.  The four continued to look at each other and at their targets warily, before Prompto jumped at the sound of a boot clanking on the stone behind them.

“Aranea!  Hey, good timing.”  He skipped back a step and tried to look nonchalant about it.  “How does she do that?” he hissed in Noctis’ ear.

“Commodore.”  Gladio’s voice was wary as he stepped forward to her.  “You here to help?  This is a big hunt and we’re not quite equipped for it.  If you’re interested, we actually could use a hand,” he said.

Aranea shifted her weight, lance in hand.  “I’d planned on taking this one down myself, but … it would be faster.  I suppose I could split it with you.  Half for you all, half for me.”

“No way!” said Prompto.  “There’s four of us, and one of you - that’s not fair at all.”

“This is ridiculous -” Gladio started.  Noctis snorted and threw up his hands, and Prompto continued to complain.

“Seventy-thirty,” rolled a smooth baritone over Prompto’s head.  He looked at her evenly. “Our favor.”

“Sixty-forty, Four-Eyes.”

“Noct?” asked Ignis, as always, deferring.

“Fine, whatever.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Highness.”  She shook Noctis’ hand but made eye contact with Ignis.

Even with five of them, the fight was hard.  In the field, Aranea referred to them all by first name - no nicknames, no slang, just the most direct way to get their attention possible.  She surveyed the field, assessing when it was best to go after a single basilisk by herself, and when a coordinated group attack was more effective.  She didn’t commandeer or insert herself into their well-practiced rhythm with one another, but instead supported and flowed with the group, taking care of herself as necessary.

Ignis was grudgingly impressed.  He hadn’t been ready to admit that a mere mercenary could have the kind of strategic intelligence he prided himself on.  He narrowly missed a hard blow and rolled, only to hear the sharp clang of a magitek lance behind him.  The look on her face was fierce, and she let out a sharp yell as her lance connected.  

They butchered the slain beasts and headed back to collect their reward, dusty and dirty.  Aranea collected her share of the meat and the pay and disappeared, a grin gleaming through her black helmet.  

Ignis headed for the shower, ready for a break before he needed to prepare dinner for the group.   He exhaled as the water hit his forehead and closed his eyes.  A flash of hard eyes, the ring of a lance, and a savage cry forced its way into his mind, and he was surprised to feel himself stir.  He laughed to himself and shook his head as he soaped the day’s grime away.

When Aranea walked back into the bar, late afternoon had just begun to turn into evening, and the smell of coffee still pervaded over the sticky-sweet scent of alcohol. She saw Ignis over by the window, a cup of coffee next to him, staring at a chessboard. She sauntered over to him and looked over his shoulder.  He was playing both sides; moving pieces and pondering with his arms folded across his body.  

“Chess for one, eh?  Not a lot of challenge in that. Buy me a drink?”  She sat down, uninvited.  

“Hm, yes,” Ignis hummed, still absorbed in the pieces in front of him. “Oh, uh - apologies.” His head shot up to see her sitting across from him and a slight, startled blush tinged his cheekbones. He took a moment to fully register what she’d said, and then smirked.  “No, actually after the deal you struck today, I rather think you should pick up mine.” He looked out at the sky.  “I would say it’s a bit early, but it has been a long day.”

“It certainly has.” She sighed. “Nice work out there.”

He nodded.  “And yourself.”  He motioned toward the chessboard.  “Do you play?”

“I know how.  Can’t say I’ve done it in several years.”  Her expression clouded a bit, and she stared at something just outside the window.  

He set up the pieces.  She watched his long fingers flick them into place with efficient, practiced skill. He gestured, offering her the choice of which side of the board to take.  She arched an eyebrow at him and stayed sitting with the black pieces in front of her.

He moved a pawn toward the center of the board.

“Where did you learn your lancework?  It’s quite impressive.”

She moved one of her own pawns in response.

“Same place you did, Specs.  From someone who was better than me.”

He steepled his fingers and tapped them to his lips. “Ah, the Altissian Defence. Interesting.  Not unexpected.”  He sat back, thought, and moved his knight.

“Puzzling, that you’re out collecting hunts rather than doing the Emperor’s bidding.”  He watched her fingertips linger over the smooth top of one piece, and then another, before she answered with another pawn.  

“Simply perplexing, I’m sure.”  Her voice was dry.

He moved his own pawn, and the corner of Aranea’s mouth quirked.   “The Meldacio Bind. I’d expect nothing less in response.”  Her arms folded over the back of the chair as she stared at the board and thought, then moved.

He moved another pawn, and she captured it with her own.  “You’re a good negotiator.  Get a lot of practice at the Citadel?”

Ignis smirked a bit as he immediately captured her piece with his knight.  He studied her, wondering how many moves ahead she was capable of thinking.  “Yes, though I’m afraid I never truly got an opportunity to ‘practice.’  Negotiation is, sadly, one of those skills where there is rarely a consequence-free opportunity to try and fail.”

“Still, you strike a good bargain for someone who’s never had to negotiate a paycheck in his life.  Or so I assume.”  She moved her own knight.

“Hm. Assuming. A dangerous venture.”

He moved another pawn.

“But, in this case, correct.”  He watched her as she considered her next move. She’d also cleaned up after their battle, and his gaze lingered on her dewy skin.  

She lowered her lashes and a small smile curled at her lips.  He had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that she’d read his mind.  She moved her pawn two spaces forward to threaten his knight, and he quickly retreated.  

Aranea peeked up at him innocently through her lashes.  She had, in fact, noticed him staring, and enjoyed it immensely.  She’d be lying if she said his moves on the battlefield hadn’t inspired some impure thoughts in her own head as well.  She brought out one of her bishops, and let her eyes catch his as she let go of the piece.  

Green eyes reflected a bit of surprise, and then a bit of challenge.  The two of them moved pawns out onto the board, flanking the other pieces and developing their strategies.  Ignis glanced up at the clock and sighed.

“Well played, so far, Commodore. Care to continue this later?”

“Call me Aranea.”  She looked around. “I don’t think we can really permanently reserve this table.  Won’t they just put it away?”  She got up and swung her jacket on.

“I would think anyone trained at the Academy would be able to play chess without a board.”

She stopped and narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yes, officer corps, if I don’t miss my mark. And I don’t think I do.”

Her gaze darkened, and she let his statement hang in the air for a moment before giving him a curt nod and walking away.  

Without turning around, she tossed, “Pawn to a4,” over her shoulder, and kept walking.  

[floraone]

In Defence of Seiya

So, one, because I’m currently writing him, and two, because he’s one of my most favorite characters, I wanna break a lance for Seiya, today. You’re still allowed to hate him afterwards, obviously, but maybe just hear me out, ok?

Yesterday I had a wonderful conversation with one of my dearest friends, a die-hard UsaMamo shipper just like me, but, other than me, the beauty of the Seiya x Usa BROTP still alludes her, and Seiya has a bit of a bad rep for her, but she gracefully allowed me to sum up our conversation, here. So, there you go!

(Also, I’ll be referencing to Seiya as a “he”, here. This is Stars arc, 90s anime, we’re talking about, and there he’s, at least to me, quite obviously portrayed as a guy, in his civilian form.)

Seiya was an ass for impersonating Mamoru toward the end. It deliberately hurt her, even when he KNEW how much she was hurting. Yet he still did that, and then even gave her that inappropriate “am I not good enough” line, after she broke down.

So, the scene meant here is this one, of course.

And I think it’s important to keep in mind that Seiya had no chance knowing that he was inadvertently impersonating the guy that Usagi misses so much.

He’d just, upon remembering their good times, made peace with her and the situation, was about to say goodbye for good, as he saw Usagi’s desk (with that adorably cute Mamo-chan doodle on it) and placed the rose, which is always in his performing outfit, on it as a goodbye token, when he was interrupted by Rei who was in frantic search of Usagi.

So, he came up, saving her by distracting the enemy, and just threw the damn thing he just so happened to hold in his hand.

He had no way of knowing what that image would do to Usagi. He’d never heard of Tuxedo Mask. Or that he threw roses. He was just the guy to the rescue, coincidently happening to have a rose at hand. He wouldn’t know to do this on purpose.

And yes, he says that line, but he’s breaking down with her, as he does. But it’s not a “take me”, it’s not a self-serving opportunity he sees to cut in and steal the girl…. Remember this is JUST after he’s sighed and smiled and been thankful for the time he did have in her vicinity. It’s more a … you’re hurting so much, I feel your pain so much, god I wish I could take that pain away from you, and damn if it were me I’d never do this to you, you’d never be in this much pain because of me, I promise I would never do that to you, I don’t treat you like that, I don’t want you to hurt, why can’t it be me, all I want to do is make you feel better, why can’t it be me?

He loves her, in the selfless way that he wants what’s best for her, and he’s not allowed to give it to her, and it’s frustrating!

Seiya was an ass for telling Mamoru he needs to protect Usagi at the very end of Ep. 200. Like, he really needs to be told that?

So, again, Seiya doesn’t know the guy. He knows nothing but that he was now apparently not so bad as he thought, and instead dead all year, and now appearing in some sort of armor, as he was revived. Personally, I never understood it as a way of Seiya telling Mamoru off, but instead it was stepping back, acknowledging that it was Mamoru’s place to protect her, be by her side, and not his. I understand it as a message solely intended for Mamoru; I’m not in your way, I know she’s yours, but damn take care of her cause she’s worth it.

(Excluding the part where I really don’t like it when men talk over women’s heads over their protection, especially when we’re talking about the girl who JUST saved all of the friggin’ universe, but ah well…)

I still feel like Seiya should have respected the boundary line that was implied by Usagi’s relationship.

The way I see it, to him, Usagi was in somewhat of an abusive relationship, albeit emotionally. She was in a relationship with a guy that upped and went and left her hanging without a word, so much that she skidded into depression. Personally, I myself would be MAD at my friends if they saw me in one and didn’t at least try to act like he’s maybe not the best choice in the world.

And as someone who’s in love with her, who adores the ground she walks on, only wants what’s best for her (which in the end, is what love is) I wouldn’t want her to be in a relationship like that, REGARDLESS of if she’ll be with me afterwards, then, or not,

and, like, this was his view, and still he really didn’t try anything (at least in the 90s anime version, but Manga!Seiya and 90sAnime!Seiya are so different, with different motivations, different feelings, different genders, I really don’t compare the two at all.)

Remember this is the story/show where Usagi gets kissed by people left and center, without her consent? In the anime, he wasn’t one of those. He picked her up on a friendly date, they had chemistry, and he kissed her on the cheek as a goodbye. These are all things you’d do with your friends, his only fault here was that he happened to be in love with her at the time, at least the way I see it.

Shouldn’t Seiya have asked about Mamoru, then? At least try to find something out about the guy?

well, for one…would you have? I wouldn’t want to hear the praises of a guy you know has left her without saying anything. Also, I mean… He’s not in her life. She’s depressed. And he’s mad at him for treating her that way, he even says it out loud to his photo; He doesn’t say “Ugh I hate that you exist” he says “I don’t like the game you’re playing with her” - I don’t like the way you treat her. He’s legit MAD at Mamoru for doing this to her.

This is an amazingly protective, friendly gesture, if it were true. This is how I would want all of my friends to react if it happened to me, and if it were actually the case – and Seiya has no way to think otherwise. It wasn’t, of course, but he had no way of knowing that. In fact, if he had dug further, asked about him, he’d have found out Mamoru has NEVER ONCE written back and his standpoint would have only gotten clearer. And if he’d dug even further, the story he’d have gotten wouldn’t have helped Mamoru’s case in this instance, either.

No matter the praises Usagi would have sung… I mean… what would have come out? He’s my lover from a past life, we have a miracle romance, then he was brainwashed and turned evil and almost killed me, before I killed him, instead, and then our future daughter turned up, and he left me because of dreams, and I cried myself to sleep, and then later he was kidnapped again, and right when I had him back he left me for America and now he’s never written back… It doesn’t SOUND so good.

Seiya wouldn’t have learned anything that he wouldn’t have interpreted in that exact way that he did.

But, then, the moment he realizes he was wrong, that Mamoru was dead, actually, his heart breaks for her. How could Galaxia have done this to her?

And then the only thing he does is try and make sure Mamoru treats her right, tell him to. He steps away without any fight whatsoever. Seiya loved Usagi. He loved her despite the fact that he had no chance. Just because she didn’t love him back, and was in a relationship with someone else, doesn’t make him a bad guy. In fact, I think he was an incredibly decent guy.

So many people lash out when they are in an unrequited love. It’s an incredible sort of heartbreak, and it’s understandable that so many do, but it’s also pretty harsh. The people they adored get devalued and degraded to bitches and asshole who are fools for not wanting them, get faulted for making them fall in love in the first place, and get left behind so the person can go and heal and forget. And, sometimes, the other party isn’t so innocent, either (which obviously isn’t the case, here), but even without that it’s really hard to just take yourself and your hurt back, and simply adore that person, while staying in their lives, no gain whatsoever.

Seiya does that. He adores her. He doesn’t blame her once, only wishes it were different. He takes himself back, and simply becomes the awesome friend that she really needs in that depressing time. And that is pretty damn selfless.

I mean, he didn’t choose this. He didn’t decide, oh, I’m gonna fall in love with this ditzy girl who has someone else; it just happened to him, and he dealt with it in a pretty heartbreaking way.

I mean… he repeatedly risked his life for her, this girl who will never be his.

And I understand that. I mean… I adore that girl, too. We all do, right?

[andyhoangthemanipulatedimage]

Week 5: “The White Pube: In Defence Of Criticism.”

In this podcast, the participants discuss about the event of “KFC GATE” a beta bro styled artwork on Instagram by Harry Meadley that consists of 10 buckets of KFC original pieces chicken.

This artwork had depicted a theory that someone had written about that had discussed the different types of males in the art world and how this work would be considered a beta bro work.

What I took away from this podcast was

That we should value criticism as it helps us explore work as we have someone else's perspective on things we are unable to see which will, in turn, make our work become better.

That you must tag the artist in posts or they will get triggered for not getting recognition.  

To start constructive feedback and opinionated discussion about something you must as the white Pube cast says “forging a new path that stretches out that space, so criticism happens” as doing this will start a discussion on things that will get people engaging with the work.

The white Pube sock states as an example that there will always be people in the world that won’t take criticism well and learn from them to improve on their work like Harry medley. I agree with them as I had noticed his work was quite bland and boring with lack of thought behind it, as it was basically just 100 KFC buckets on the floor. This also links into the idea of types of males in the art world as I can see that like something a male user on Instagram would post too on their Instagram.

Because of The White Pubes comments and criticism on Harry’s artwork people saw that criticism as hate because people began to write about how the white Pube was a group of people who weren’t supportive of emerging artists.  

The white Pube also went into the topic of why it is okay for smaller lesser-known people to replicate a sort of style or hierarchy it but when big brands or well-known names do the same thing, they get demonized and criticized heavily by the people.

There is a difference between Clap backs and criticism as clap backs are comments used to defend themselves while criticism offers a deep analysis of the work or subject and how you maybe disagree with certain things that hinder its outcome from your perspective.

Treats by Lara Williams was reviewed by the White Pube as they read the book and didn’t like it so, they stated various elements and points that was cliché that took away from the quality of the book. The crew got an email back a couple of days or weeks following from a supposed fan of Lara saying they didn’t agree with their criticism and that “don’t critique her she’s in a fragile place”. This to me seems like these people shouldn’t be publishers or artistes in the first place as if you’re going into the art world and you have that fear you should just not as criticism helps you get better and improve upon your work.

Another thing I had picked up from the podcast was that when people disagree with your Criticism, they tend to lash out at you, not in a logical way but instead, they basically state that if you don’t like something because you’re a hater. This is very common in the social media world as it’s a part of most music fandoms.

FKL Alexandra the lead of a production when faced criticism she came back at white pube with anger basically telling them that their opinion was wrong as the White Pube had stated how much Cultural appropriation was present on her work which they were trying to point out.

This for me was the most straight forward and a good point from the podcast as it states, “When you put your art into a public space you need to reciprocate.”. This meant that when you put something out in the world as a creator or an artist you need to be ready for criticism. Criticism can be hard and harsh but it's what you do with the criticism is what matters.  

Something the cast had stated in the podcast was that everyone who writes for guardian and trusted news sources etc. don’t want to cross lines to bridge some sort of criticism on a certain topic for instance if it's about a famous person as they would rather stay on the safe end to please readers or fans as they fear losing opportunity in their career. However, this doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate opinions they want some but not too much

No accountability of criticism allows people to be more truthful. This was something from the podcast that had me thinking how true it was as there are examples of me when I had criticized my High Schools environment or learn through an anonymous survey, I wrote a lot and without that anonymity, I would have just stayed quiet  

No one wants makes make changes as they do take om criticism but will do the minimum of those demands. This is a point in the podcast that they had discussed which resonated with me as linking to the previous paragraph I had stated I wrote constructive criticism towards my old High School; they did the bare minimum change with mine and the other students' feedbacks.

A small thing I also thought was funny was that when people disagree with your criticism they come for your looks as they have no facts or points backing their argument up

Overall, I believe that criticism helps us move forward especially for me as an interior designer as I take those views others have that see flaws in my work and try to fix them to better my work. The criticism it helps and always interests me as they can see things that we can't. So, this is why when critics have a platform to speak directly to Artists it will benefit them.