#we are more obliged to our state than to our mother

[anni1309-blog]

felix catton x reader

warning: nsfw, cockwarming, oral, slight angst, plot twist

people loved felix. he was confident, friendly, protective but also funny, goofy just a good person to be around. that’s what you would see from the outside. but I knew the real him. we met long before oxford. we were practically just toddlers when our mothers became friends. you know, being from the same status, it connects and so Felix and I were never too far apart. it was when my mother died, that Felix suggested I also stay at Saltburn, maybe he thought, Oliver would feel more understood coming from a similar story. Oliver Quick. it never felt right. something about him. his eyes, so piercing, so perceptive. I felt unwell in his presence.

the days before Oliver’s planned birthday soirée, Felix got more and more clingy. we were always close. maybe closer than most best friend relationship would be. we were each others first. first kiss, first time having sex. I loved Felix but he was so much more than that.

since last week he requested me sleeping in his room, which I obliged. we were in each others embrace just talking about everything. he told me about his worries and also about Oliver that he felt bad for him and planned to take him back to his mother for a reunion.

the day of Oliver’s birthday came and I crossed Felix in a corridor having an unreadable expression on his face, a look of arger, confusion and disappointment. I tried talking to him but he refused. later on I was talking to a friend from uni when Felix dragged me off without an explanation into the middle of the maze. he was drunk. he hoisted me up on the pedestal pulled my panties down and got on his knees. I looked at him in confusion “Felix what are you-“ he looked up at me with a desperate look “please just- please let me do this”. knowing I had no chance refusing I let him attack my pussy which he ate so eagerly as if it was his last meal. my fingers buried in his hair holding him close as his large hands pinned my thighs.

steps were heard and Felix looked up annoyed to see Oliver who was just mumbling out Felix’s name and words of apologies. I was a bit disoriented by the pleasure that was taken from me when Felix stood up took me by the arm dragged me to the exit. of course I tried to resist but he looked almost stern but eyes full of determination “please go back to my room, don’t worry, I’ll be quick” he whispered in my ear and gave me a longing look before softly kissing my cheek. I knew it wasn’t up for debate so I went to his room waiting in his bed. an hour later felix came into his room, bumping into a few things before crashing in his bed beside me. he was shivering. his eyes glossy, sniffing ever so slightly before pulling me into his embrace. his head fell into the crook of my neck so I started stroking his hair softly. “Felix” I tried gently. he looked at me. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable, he didn’t wanna talk about it. “can I please sleep in you?” he asked weakly. I nodded my head so he quickly removed our bottoms and pushed his hard cock into me. the first penetration was always hard for both of us, his sheer size made me shiver and he let out a low groan, holding me as close as possible as be both fell asleep.

next morning, Elsbeth opened the door to Felix’s room, finding us in the same state as we were the prior night, but deciding not to comment on it, spoke with shiver in her voice “Felix darling, Oliver is missing.”

[ryosei-hime]

Moxxie’s Abused Body Language

Obligatory disclaimer: This is my interpretation of the subject at hand. Nothing I say within should be taken as an attempt to state what is and is not canon. If your views or interpretation differ, this is not an attack on you personally or those who interpret things differently from me.  

So, with that out of the way, this post’s focus is primarily on Moxxie’s character and how the Spindlehorse crew managed to convey a lot about his childhood abuse through the use of body language in season 2, episode 3.

It’s very easy to see that Moxxie begins to show signs of fear from the moment he realizes where they are. He becomes physically and vocally distressed to the point that he actively fights getting out of the helicopter before Blitz pushes him out. He’s literally shaking here.

Even Millie’s presence isn’t comforting him. In fact, he becomes even more nervous when Crimson takes her hand and watches them very carefully. He knows what Crim is capable of and he knows he won’t hesitate to hurt Millie. Neither being a woman nor technically family is enough to stop him.

A lot of Moxxie’s body language during the introduction of Crim is very obvious. He hunches a lot. He has a lot of darting eyes and fiddling motions. He becomes quieter and more withdrawn than usual. He’s noticeably uncomfortable the entire time.

Even Blitz picks up on it. Once they’re inside, he’s much more subdued than usual throughout the rest of the night and seems to be focusing on assessing the situation. 

And, of course, you can see that Millie knows something is wrong from all this as well. She’s in tune with her husband’s feelings. In the scene where Blitz and Crim are talking, Millie’s eyes follow Moxxie’s as they dart, looking where he’s looking to track the source of his distress.

Anyone who has been raised in an abusive home recognizes certain tones when used by their abusers. We can hear that tone when Crim says “Moxxie, I raised you better than that.” This is a warning tone. This is a threat to get back in line and know your place before they put you in it. Moxxie obeys this underlying command quickly, habitually falling back into appeasing his abuser to avoid his wrath.

I believe he does this not only due to his own trauma reaction but also in an attempt to keep Millie and Blitz safe. If he sets off his father, he knows both of them would come to his defense and that could lead to them facing the same fate as his mother. I personally believe Moxxie is well aware that her attempts to help him as a child resulted in her murder, and he would do anything to avoid the same fate for Millie. 

However, we all have our limits, things we can’t help but stand up for even in the face of abuse. You can see that Moxxie cares a lot about his identity as a bisexual because he actually speaks up against his father’s past treatment of his relationship with Chaz despite the potential costs. He’s indignant that Crim would spend so long making him miserable for who he is only to turn around and pretend to accept queerness just for the sake of money when he wouldn’t make that effort for the sake of Moxxie himself. It’s clearly a very sore spot for him.

But the minute things turn to guilt tripping about abandoning the family, Moxxie sinks down into his seat in shame. Familial duty and obligation like this is something that’s hard to shake as a child of abuse. No matter how much you understand on a logical level that you don’t owe the people who hurt you just because they gave you life, it sticks with you. And when you add the mafia and its sense of duty on top of this, it’s gotta be staggering.

So, Moxxie is immediately obedient when Crim decides everyone will be sleeping there that night. He’s been successfully put back in his place with fear and guilt. Hoping that if he can just get through this ceremony without causing a stir, he can leave in peace and never be bothered again as he’s been promised. He’s so convinced he can give his father what he wants and make him go away, that he’s a little caught off guard when called back to continue the altercation. 

And then Crim hits him.

I want to take a moment to talk about the surprise on his face here. One might think this means that Moxxie wasn’t heavily physically abused as a child, because the blow surprised him. But I don’t believe that’s true. Even when you’ve become used to being hit, you still react to sudden strikes this way. Especially if your abuser is one that’s hard to read. Crim strikes me as the quiet until he’s not kind and it’s hard to predict when that kind of abuser will strike. It’s also likely been years since Moxxie has had to deal with anyone hitting him in a domestic situation. So, of course he’s shocked by the sudden blow. But we’ll come back to that.

Panic begins to set in as Moxxie realizes, as far as he’s concerned, he can’t possibly concede to his father’s demands to marry Chaz. An instinct to do whatever needs to be done to appease the abuser has kicked in. He wants to give Crim what he’s asking for but can’t. And he knows being his son doesn’t mean he’s safe from his wrath.

Again, even in this moment, he speaks up for his bisexuality. And this is obviously an old argument that’s just become tiring at this point for the both of them. They slog through it like a well worn groove. But Crim doesn’t have the patience to run that track for long right now because money’s on the line.

He’s not playing this game with Moxxie anymore and Moxxie will be made to know it. Crim reminds him what he’s capable of.

The first thing shown in the flashback sets up how Crim feels about Moxxie’s relationship with his mother. He thinks she’s making him weak by seeing to his needs (cutting his food) and not demanding he do things for himself. She’s actively standing in the way of him preparing Moxxie for the life he’s chosen for him.

In my opinion, he does think he’s doing what is best for Moxxie considering the world he’s growing up in and the path Crim has chosen for him. Abusive parents often do in these situations. Each time his mother stands in the way of preparing Moxxie for that life, Crim sees it as both a disobedience towards him (which is already unacceptable) and a hindrance to his progeny, a source of pride in his world. He can’t have a weak son or it’ll reflect poorly on him with his associates.

So, of course the only thing to be done to save his own pride and his son’s life as Crim has planned it, is to remove this obstacle and get back to teaching his son to man up and become what’s expected of him - which is, of course, to become a carbon copy of Crim. And I feel like their designs being so similar really helps to underscore this desire of Crim’s whether or not that was done intentionally. 

We see evidence of physical abuse toward his mother during the flashback. In my opinion, she’s likely protecting Moxxie from suffering it himself as mother’s can sometimes manage to do in these situations by taking on even more abuse of their own. So, it’s possible there was very little to no physical abuse for Moxxie until his mother was gone.

But it’s shown onscreen that Crim has no problem hitting Moxxie even as a child. As far as I’m concerned, this is when Moxxie’s physical abuse from his father likely starts in earnest. But Moxxie probably learns that as long as he obeys him, he can avoid this abuse. So, I believe he would have been able to decrease the amount of abuse he received in time by being more obedient. 

I wanna take an aside for a moment to back up - or maybe better to say go forward - to his past with Chaz. In that flashback, Moxxie is shown being painted nude and his body has no white marks. One might question whether or not he actually received physical abuse based on this fact but to me it has no bearing on the issue. 

For one, smart abusers often try to find ways to do so that don’t leave marks. And Crim is the head of a mafia family. If he were to go around openly beating his kid, it would reflect poorly on him. Not because anyone in the organization would care about the actual abuse. But because it would make him look brutish and stupid for allowing it to be seen by everyone. That sort of leader just doesn’t last long and can be a danger to the longevity of the organization itself.

For two, imps get white marks from more extreme injuries such as gunshot wounds and broken arms. It seems that the skin has to be broken or theoretically burned to leave an actual mark. At least from the evidence we’ve seen so far. 

Given these two points, whether or not Moxxie was physically abused doesn’t really hinge on how many white marks he has on his body as far as I’m concerned. We’ve seen plenty of imps take blunt force trauma that didn’t leave them covered in white. 

If I were to speculate on the trajectory of his experience with abuse overall, he likely received none to very little as a child before his mother’s death, a lot after her death with it decreasing as he learned to obey and avoid triggering his father, and barely any as a young adult. 

I believe that reaching that time of almost no instances of abuse once he’d become what his father wanted possibly left him a little more comfortable than he could have otherwise been during the first part of this episode.

And yes even with all the fear and nervousness that I’ve pointed out, I do think there was a sense of security in the possibility that he could appease Crim in the end. Now Crim is telling him in no uncertain terms that he will kill them all if he doesn’t get what he wants. 

He knows this isn’t an empty threat. Those who suffer abuse at the hands of their family know the difference between warnings and promises.

I don’t think I really need to go over this scene. Moxxie is disgusted as he should be.

But this whole circus clown of a come on, definitely leaves him worse off once Chaz is ejected. The terrible price he has to pay to protect his loved ones has been thrust into his face, as it were, immediately, giving him no time to process first. 

Once he does get some time alone to think about his situation, he has something of a breakthrough. I really appreciate the growl in this scene because I don’t think we very often hear Moxxie growl. We usually get hisses from him instead it seems. And I think it helps portray the depth of his anger over what his father is demanding of him.

As far as Moxxie knows, his father has promised that all he has to do is marry Chaz. He wasn’t told he had to stay. So it would be easy to just comply and leave. That’s the safe route. But doing so would, presumably, violate vows he’s made to Millie. It would compromise the integrity of his relationship with and devotion to her.

This is important enough to Moxxie to fight for. Scrolling through his pictures of Millie not only made this clear to him, but I think it also helped to remind him that he left once before. He can leave again. He doesn’t have to be pulled back into the life that he worked so hard to escape. He doesn’t have to compromise what he wants from life to appease his abuser anymore. 

This is a very brief moment but it’s also a very important and powerful one if you know what you’re looking at. It’s so, so easy for abusive family to cause regression when they manage to wiggle back into your life for one reason or another. Family reunions, funerals, weddings. They will take those moments to grab you by the ankles and start pulling you under again. 

And that’s when the consequences and stakes aren’t even this high. But Moxxie won’t let himself be dragged back down and I really appreciate they gave him that moment no matter how brief. 

And even though they don’t go through his thought process for you to see that, you hear it in his speech the next day when he stands up to his father. I honestly appreciate that Moxxie threatens Crim the way he does here. It not only shows he’s regained confidence in himself and his skills, but he’s also speaking Crim’s language now. He’s putting himself on equal footing with him, insinuating he’s as much of a threat as Crim is to Moxxie.

I’ve seen a lot of criticism of this moment: that having Moxxie zapped and forced into the wedding regardless makes his standing up to his father fall flat. And I would agree with that a little but for the fact that there’s still time to bring that confrontation back around to completion. As season two and Helluva Boss as a show is still ongoing, there are plenty of episodes left for Moxxie to follow through with his threats and support this breakthrough with actions. Crim is clearly coming back, after all.

I also think, however, that having that moment at all is still very important to character development. Simply because there was no physicality to back it up, doesn’t mean the emotional journey that led to it was entirely worthless. Moxxie still had very important character development here. When he left the first time, he simply disappeared and did not confront his father. But now he has. And that makes a big difference. 

When he returns to his life, it’ll be with a different mindset and a different kind of confidence. He’s no longer running from his father, hiding from his duties, or obscuring parts of himself from his loved ones. He’s truly stood up and taken his life fully into his hands. And now there are parts of himself he can share with Millie that he couldn’t before. This can only bring them closer and make their marriage more intimate.

In the same way, he now has a point of connection with Blitz over their daddy issues, which brings them closer to fulfilling that true friendship Truth Seekers hinted at. One step at a time, Moxxie and Blitz come closer to understanding one another.  

All in all, I loved this episode. It does a good job of handling the subject of abuse and associated tragic backstory without sensationalizing or downplaying it, both of which are extremely easy to do in a comedy-drama mash-up. But I personally feel like they managed to hit the sweet spot between the two.

[secularprolifeconspectus]

Pro-Life Rescue & Direct Action: The Importance of Invading Abortion Clinics

Non-Violent Direct Action is Proven Effective

From Ghandi’s Indian Independence Movement to the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s Civil Rights Movement, to Serbia’s student-led resistance Otpor! and more, two things are consistently linked with the success of movements: a commitment to non-violence and the necessity of risking arrest. That’s because only when people are willing to take risks and make sacrifices, can the institutional power of an oppressor be challenged and delegitimized. Seeing other people getting directly involved in a movement motivates participation. There is a science to non-violent struggle and social revolution that has been documented by political researchers such as Gene Sharpe. From privileged people interposing their bodies between Black protesters and the police who brutalize them during the Black Lives Matter movement, to tenant networks mobilizing to blockade around the homes of vulnerable neighbors at risk of eviction by their landlords, leftists have proven these tactics save lives and advance change. If we want to see success in the anti-abortion movement, then we must follow proven social science.

Rescue is Necessary to Dismantle Big Abortion

Because we will never outspend the abortion industrial complex, the only way we can win is with people power. Abortion rescue disrupts the progress of abortion violence and applies pressure to those complicit. It viscerally agitates the public to reckon with abortion's violence. It reduces violence on the fringes of the pro-life movement by providing a non-violent outlet of expression for frustrated individuals. Non-violent abortion rescue interrupts injustice against prenatal people without unjust action and disarms the abortion providers without harming them. Parents seeking abortion as a solution to an unwanted or crisis pregnancy have bought into the lies of Big Abortion, and rescue unsettles that narrative. Rescuers hope to save not only the child, but also their mothers, families, and communities. Rescue is intervention intended to free even the abortion workers from the cycle of abortion violence. During the era of the late 80’s and early 90’s, it’s estimated that 60% of mothers with appointments for abortions on the day of a rescue never rescheduled.

Rescues Challenge Unjust Laws

We can’t let the reality that the law is on the side of the oppressors dictate what we ought to do. Our goal is to change that reality, not to live with it! Opposition to rescue implicitly affirms that the choice to kill is permissible. We have no ethical obligation to follow unjust laws; in fact, we may challenge unjust laws with civil disobedience. We must use our bodies as shields to stop the main aggressors of abortion from hurting the babies because law enforcement upholds the violent status quo of the state. When a rescuer is sentenced to jail, it is an opportunity for non-rescuers to hold the entire legal system accountable each day for the murder it protects until it is as safe and legal to protect children as it is now safe and legal to kill them.

Rescuers Save Lives in Prisons

If you are pregnant and incarcerated, you are the forgotten of the forgotten. Pregnant prisoners are either pressured into abortion, mistreated into a miscarriage, or forced to suffer a dehumanizing birthing experience, and predatory adoption agencies lie in wait to take and profit from their babies. Pro-Life activists imprisoned for rescue are presented the unique opportunity to advocate for better conditions for pregnant prisoners, to defend the lives of their unborn children, to organize support for their families from the outside world, and to serve grieving post-abortive women behind bars. Even incarcerated women deserve better than abortion. Thus abortion rescuers continue to rescue even while in prison.

Rescues Affirm the Equality of the Preborn

By taking the risk to rescue, you practice solidarity with the preborn and parents who believe abortion is their only option. You have the power as a privileged born person to put your body between the powerless and their oppressors, between an abortion provider and a helpless child. How do we show the world that fetuses are the same as us when we are nothing like them? The answer is simple: we make ourselves more like them. When rescuers stand in solidarity with the preborn, they become as vulnerable as the preborn are. If we say that a woman needs to sacrifice her lifestyle, relationship, body, and future for her unborn child, then we are hypocrites if we’re not willing to do the same. When we rescue, we are willing to sacrifice the same to prison for her child, ergo rescue is solidarity with moms too. Some people will never affirm the humanity of the preborn. It’s our job to do so by being physically intolerant of abortion through rescue.

Rescue is a Direct Act of Love

The preborn deserve to have someone show up for them. An attempt to rescue a preborn child may be the only act of love they ever receive before they are murdered. They have no one else as they are taken legally to their deaths. The success of a rescue is not determined by how many babies were saved that day; it's determined by how many babies were loved. If you were facing death, wouldn’t you want someone who loves you to stand physically with you to the last possible second as well? Your presence in their moment of suffering matters. The preborn deserve to have someone witness them as full people at least once in their life.

If Abortion is Murder, then Act Like It

Do your actions reflect the reality that the preborn are people equal to ourselves? Rescue fully expresses what it means to understand that the preborn have the same humanity as us. Our sacrifice forces others to see the humanity of the preborn, because if they aren’t people, why would we risk jail and potentially worse for them? If the preborn have the right to life, then we have a responsibility to make sure their right is respected. Rescue offers a final tangible act of love to a child as they are being taken away to be exterminated. If you KNOW the preborn are people and abortion is murder, then ACT LIKE IT!

How to Support Rescue

Not every pro-life person can be an abortion rescuer. Factors like finances, family, disability, and racialized police brutality prevent many folks who support rescue from feeling confident in participating. Luckily, there are many ways the pro-life community as a whole can participate in rescue without being a rescuer!

Sponsor a rescuer financially. If you can't rescue, donate to a rescuer who will do it for you! As rescuer Herb Geraghty said, "let us be your hands and feet". Offer monetary and emotional support to the families of rescuers.

Do jail support. Demonstrate in front of police stations, courts, jails, and prisons that are holding rescuers. Write to the rescuers frequently. If you are on a legal team, offer your local rescuers pro-bono defense.

Share rescue stories on your social media in a positive light. Comment on news stories that frame rescue badly. Make videos about rescue and why you support it.

Do culture jamming around clinics frequented by rescuers. Make posters and wheatpaste them to sidewalks, sharpie pro-life messages to the backs of signs, put rescue stickers on the alley walls around the clinic.

Help organize the rescues. Do research about the clinics for the rescuers. Keep the rescuers updated about police scanners while they perform a rescue. Coordinate supplies, donations, first-aid, and legal defense. Be there with food before and after rescue.

Learn More

Quotes About Abortion Rescues Rescue and Police Violence The Rescue Movement (Documentary) The Brutal Truth Dragonslayers Defenders of the Unborn Wrath of Angels Shattering the Darkness All the Rescues Essential Roles in Social Movements Types of Abortion Rescue Historic Abortion Rescues Media Bias Against Abortion Rescue Joan Andrews

[acourtofladydeath]

Poly+ ACOTAR Week Day 1: Beginnings

All his life Nyx has been raised by his parents, Rhysand and Feyre, and their mate Tamlin. One day he decides to ask him mom how their bonds snapped and she is more than happy to oblige.

Inspired by the storytelling in "The Princess Bride" and "How I Met Your Mother" this is angsty, fluffy fun.

So excited to kick off the first day of @polyacotarweek with one of my favorite trios, Feytamsand. Start reading below, or read the entire fic on AO3 here!

“Mom!” I shouted through the hall of the River House. It was her day off, which probably meant she was painting. The River House had a state of the art studio for her to work in, but she typically painted wherever inspiration struck. Which means she could be anywhere. 

The house was entirely too large. Something I loved growing up when I wanted to hide, but hated when I needed to find them. Sure, we could mind speak, but once I walked in on my parents having daemati sex, something I literally didn't know existed before then. After that, I refused to communicate that way unless there was an emergency. 

“In here Nyxie!” She called back from the library at the end of the hall. It had a huge window overlooking the Sidra and sunset. Throughout the day light cast through the window, ricocheting through the room. As it traveled it glanced across the wide array of books, some gilded and some plain, painting the floor in its own way. With the kaleidoscope of colors and dancing light, it was one of mom’s favorite spots to paint. Aunt Nes spent most of her time here when she visited, but today it was just mom. 

“What’s up, baby?” Mom said as I walked in. Covered head to toe in paint, she turned to look at me and wiped even more on her apron and one of her mate’s old shirts. Now which one, I wasn’t quite sure. But judging by those giant, billowy sleeves and the gauzy white linen fabric I had a pretty good guess. 

“I’m not a baby anymore,” I scoffed from the doorway. There was no way I’d get any closer to her like this. Last time she hugged me while painting it took three baths to get it all off and my clothes had to be burned. 

“Nyx you are thirteen, you are definitely still my baby. Even a hundred years from now you’ll still be my baby. I’m your mother, that’s how it goes.” She smiled softly at me then, one of those smiles that told me she was thinking about the past and the future all at once. They were my favorites. 

“What did you need? Or did you just want to watch me paint?” My mom asked, slight worry in her eyes. I’d never been great at schooling my expressions like dad was, mom and I had that in common. We both wore our emotions on our sleeves for all to see. 

I sighed, settling in to ask the question that had been gnawing at me for some time now. “One of the kids at school said something today that bothered me,” I rubbed at the muscles in the back of my neck with one hand, my gaze cast down on the floor as I tried to find the right words. 

It took me several long breaths, but mom waited patiently even as I felt her own anxiety build. “They said…” I let out a long sigh, there really was no good way to say this. “They said it’s not fair that I have two High Lords for parents, or for you to have two mates. And it’s not the first time, either.” 

Mom wrung her apron uneasily between her paint streaked hands, her art now completely forgotten as she focused on me. “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this love. We knew people might say things like this, Nyx. I wish I had better answers for you, but the Mother gave your fathers and I each two mates.” She looked up at me with apology in her eyes, something I never intended and didn’t need to hear from her again. “I never wanted it to affect you negatively though.” 

“I know mom, and I know we’ve talked it to death.” I ran a frustrated hand through my hair. “It’s just still a lot, you know?” A thought struck me then. I knew my parents were all mates, I knew they’d met around the time of Amarantha’s reign under the mountain. We’d had a lot of conversations that time so I wasn’t caught off guard if other kids or parents mentioned it, but still…

“How’d you all find out anyway?” 

Mom cocked her head slightly to the side, her brow furrowed just a bit. “What do you mean?”

“How’d you find out you’re all mates? I mean, we’ve talked about the mountain and how you met them, but I’ve never really heard the full story of how your bonds snapped.” 

A secretive smile slid across her face then, and my mom straightened her head toward me. “Would you like to hear the full story? I think you’re old enough now.”

“Only if you promise to spare the gross bits…” I said, internally cringing as the unbidden image of mentally walking in on them flashed through my mind again. Fighting back a shudder at the memory I continued,  "But I am pretty curious.” I smiled slightly, and her own brightened wide enough to light the whole room. 

“Are you too old to sit on mom’s lap for story time? I can change out of my paint clothes first, I know you’ve taken after your dad with how much you care for your clothes.” she asks, humor alight in her words. 

I feel the heat of a blush on my cheeks as I answer. “Definitely too old for sitting on your lap…but maybe not for the couch…” She knew what I meant. When I had bad dreams or hard days at school, sometimes I’d lay on the couch, head in her lap. It felt too juvenile to use the word ‘cuddles’ but I guess that’s what it was. A kid’s allowed to cuddle his mom right? 

A few minutes later, mom was back wearing leggings and one of her favorite sweaters. She sat on the couch next to the big window in the library and patted the seat next to her, warmth filling the space between us. I pushed off the wall from where I stood and went to join her. As I settled in, she began her story. “Alright Nyx, let’s start from the beginning. Here’s the story of how I met your fathers.” 

Continue reading at the first cut on AO3.

Please let me know if you would like off or on my taglist!: @pippsmcgee @born-to-riot @chunkypossum @bubybubsters @queercontrarian @yanny-77 @fieldofdaisiies @iftheshoef1tz @secret-third-thing

[joannechocolat]

On Women: Three Ways of Being Invisible.

In a world in which magazines and TV are filled with perfect, idealized images of women, it’s sometimes tempting to forget the ease with which we can disappear. In fact, stage magicians across the world have made it a traditional part of their show, along with women being sawn in half, used as targets in knife-throwing stunts and generally used as accessories to the main (and male) event.

But that’s not the only way women become invisible. The disappearance and death of Nicola Bulley earlier this year has once more raised issues around women, and their visibility. First, why was the disappearance of this particular woman given so much attention? Many women disappear without ever making the papers. But the disappearance of Nicola Bulley – a mother of two, from a reasonably affluent home and a professional background – became a kind of obsession to armchair sleuths and online conspiracy theorists, all keen to speculate on what might become a murder investigation, to the point of intrusion onto the search and to the distress of the family. As a response to growing criticism, the Lancashire police felt obliged to release details of Nicola’s “vulnerable” state - her menopausal problems; her self-medication with alcohol, all privileged information with little relevance to the case – so that when her body was finally found in the river some days later, the narrative around her had changed considerably. Instead of being a professional, active mother-of-two who had vanished under mysterious and unusual circumstances, she was now portrayed in the Press as a hormonal, unreliable woman with a possible alcohol problem, whose disappearance was no longer seen as suspicious, and who was now assumed to have “found her way” into the river, the implication being that she brought about her own death, either through suicide or negligence.

And it worked. People lost interest. The armchair sleuths moved on. It’s not my place to speculate on why poor Nicola Bulley died. But the shift in public sympathy following the release of her medical information is a shocking illustration of how women are treated, and how fast they can become invisible. Nicola is a case in point. She started to vanish from the headlines when her flaws were made public. Now she’s back in the news again. After weeks of invisibility, her narrative is being rewritten once again – somewhat reluctantly, it seems – as that of a murder victim.

But what all this teaches us is that the death of a woman is “tragic” only when she is young, attractive, white, and the mother of young children. Older women, women of colour, working class women, trans women, women with disabilities, women who do not conform to societal norms of desirability and virtue – the deaths of these women rarely make the news, and when they do, the coverage is often less than sympathetic. The first way of being invisible is not to be of value to men.

Because of this, when a woman’s death manages to hit the headlines, the language surrounding her murder tends to suggests that this is a rare occurrence. Sadly, not: about a dozen women are killed every month in the UK, most often by a partner. Unless there are newsworthy details, the majority of these are overlooked. The second way of being invisible is to be a victim of men.

Society centres the comfort of men over the welfare of women. How many rape and murder cases have we seen, where the victim has been eclipsed by a narrative that excuses the perpetrator? How many college rapists have been let off with a caution because of the damage to their prospects? How many true crime TV shows exist to serve society’s fascination with serial killers, portraying them as complicated, even heroic figures? It’s like a magician’s sleight-of-hand, in which the man’s visibility always eclipses the woman. And when women protest – as we so often do – about this prioritizing of men’s narratives over ours, we are portrayed as unreasonable, hysterical, hormonal.

The third way of being invisible is to compete in the world of men. History is filled with women’s inventions, art, political achievements and scientific discoveries attributed to men instead. Women’s sport is generally seen as less important than men’s sport – unless reporting accounts of women who are seen as too masculine to compete. The world of literature is filled with men who are simply seen as great writers, while women continue to battle the myth that women write for their own kind, rather than portraying the wealth and universality of the human experience. According to history - and literature, and politics, and science, and sport - you’d never guess that women were over 50% of the population.

But for centuries, men have tried to hide women’s light behind their own, whilst at the same time exposing women to the harshest kind of scrutiny. The male gaze can be extremely unkind, subjecting women to the strictest judgement, policing and control, deciding what they should wear, what size they should be, when and where they should be seen. Beauty is prized, whilst at the same time being seen as a kind of incitement. Modesty is prized - at least until the woman refuses to put out. Perfection is the ultimate goal, a goal that can never be approached, thus making women perpetually insecure about themselves, while men stride on in confidence. And when women do give men what they want – sexual attention -  they are all too often shamed for it, referred to as whores, or subjected to public humiliation – which has become easier with the rise of revenge porn. In short, women are expected to fulfil a multitude of conflicting roles at once. To be visible as well as invisible; alluring as well as reticent. And when they fall short, as they inevitably do, they are held to account, not just for their perceived failings, but for those of men as well.  

So, what is a woman to do? There’s a price to be paid for claiming our space. In spite of the risks, invisibility is sometimes safer. To be visible is to be a target. To stand out as a rival to men is even more perilous. Modesty – that double-edged virtue so beloved of the patriarchy – becomes a weapon with which to strike out at women who are successful. As with Emma Pattison, whose “high-flying” career has been blamed in the Press for driving her husband to murder - there is a narrative that suggests successful women – like crowing hens – are not only unnatural, but are somehow asking for trouble. Women who demand their space are seen as pushy, shrill and unfeminine. This is especially true of women who do not have the advantage of white, middle-class, cis privilege: they are especially likely to be viewed as mannish, aggressive, dangerous. All women are at risk because of their gender. But some are more so than others. Which is why we need to be visible not just for ourselves, but for each other: that means amplifying the voices of those who struggle to be heard. It means to protest on behalf of all women, not just the ones we see socially. Because women are as different and diverse and imperfect in every way as any other social group. All women are valid. All women deserve to be seen. And when we have visibility, we need to make sure our shadows don’t fall on the women behind us in our race to catch the light. Because only when all of us have the same rights will women have equality. And only when the illusion of perfect womanhood is gone – along with its toxic counterpart, the one who gives womanhood a bad name, the woman who doesn’t know her place - will women have the right to stand and be seen as they really are; as individuals, not types, with unlimited range of potential.

[feyreweekofficial]

Announcing Feyre Week 2024 Prompts!

art by: niruskyart (twt)

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for your patience and waiting as we came up with our prompts for Feyre week 2024! We were sad that there was no Feyre week in 2023 so to make up for it we are making a super-week and offering two prompts a day!

All prompts are completely option and there is ZERO obligation or requirement to do both prompts each day or to follow any prompts super strictly. Please feel free to pick whichever prompt you prefer on any given day you're participating! You may all follow the prompts as loosely or closely as you desire!

Look below for a little blurb about each prompt and some questions to get you thinking!

Monday 3/18:

Lady of Many Faces: As our lady of many faces Feyre has numerous parts of her personality. She's a mother, a high lady, a friend, a sister. She's cunning, kind, mean, thoughtful, nosy, and all sorts of things! How would you like to explore the different facets of Feyre Archeron? What sides of her character do you think could be further explored, or should have been explored?

Immortal With a Mortal Heart: As a Made being who was born human, Feyre may be one with this magical, faerie world, but at her core her heart will always be human. Does she struggle with this? How does her humanity impact her outlook on life and her interactions with others? In 1000 years will her heart still be mortal, or will she lose that part of her?

Tuesday 3/19:

Starfall: What kind of Feyre week would we be without the obligatory Starfall day? Starfall is one of the most beloved scenes from Feyre's journey and signaled a great change in her life! Does Feyre come up with any new traditions for Starfall? How does she celebrate it with Nyx? As of ACOSF, both of her sisters will now be celebrating with her from now on, does she do anything special with them?

New Beginnings: Today (March 19th) is the spring equinox in the Northern hemisphere, and one of the main reasons we chose these dates for our week! There's some speculation that Starfall takes place around this time in the books, and we wanted to honor that. As the frost melts and the seasons change new life blooms for us and for our beloved Feyre. What were Feyre's new beginnings like? How has her life changed? What was it like for her to wake up from her depressive winter "slumber" and come into herself? How has she changed over the course of the series?

Wednesday 3/20:

Cursebreaker: Feyre is the cursebreaker who freed the land from 50 years of suffering. What is having this title like for her? Is it burdensome? Do you think we'll see her breaking any curses in the future? "Cursebreaker" also has quite the intense meaning in the series, how does Feyre feel about that? How could her cursebreaking be explored further?

First of Her Kind: Feyre has done a lot of firsts throughout the series! She is the first to be made as she was. She's the first to come back from the dead bearing the powers of 7 high lords. She is the first High Lady and the first to survive looking into the Ourobouros. Are there any more iconic firsts Feyre will explore? How far can she go?

Thursday 3/21:

Childhood: We know a few scarce details about Feyre's childhood that have been scattered through the books. What more do you wish we knew? What do you imagine her childhood to be like that perhaps wasn't stated in the books? Is there anything you wish happened? How did Feyre interact with people before they fell into poverty? Did she have any interactions with her mother? What about after poverty?

Found Family: Feyre has found a family for herself through the Court of Dreams that is different than the one she was born to. Does she have any special traditions with them? Are there aspects of her relationship with them you wish were added? What's Feyre's domestic life like? How will her relationship with her family grow and change?

Friday 3/22:

AU: What would Feyre be like in alternate universes? What would Feyre look like in our world, another fantasy world, a video game? Anything Feyre AU! There are a million different ways we can imagine Feyre.

Theories: Do you have any Feyre theories, or just theories you really like? Share them with us! What would it be like if those theories were true? What do you imagine for Feyre in future books?

Saturday 3/23:

Warrior: From slaying the Middengard Wyrm to training with Cassian to defending the Rainbow all the way to fighting in the Summer Court with Morrigan, Feyre is a warrior and a fighter. How can we explore this? Does she learn any new fighting styles, or will there possibly be a battle she's needed in?

Jack of all trades: Feyre has many skills and hobbies! She paints, teaches, reads. She's passionate about trade and her work as High Lady. She's redone the entire Night Court budget and was vital in the development of the treaty with Vallahan! She posesses many different skills! Is there any skill you think she's good at or would have that's not explicitly in the books? Do you see her trying to learn anything new? How will she continue growing as a painter? As a teacher? As a High Lady?

Sunday 3/24: FREE DAY!

Reminder, there is no obligation to do both prompts or hit both prompts in your post! Your post does not have to even match the prompts at all. All prompts are there to stimulate your thinking about Feyre and provide options for things you could possibly create!

Let us know if you have any questions!

[leeknowsintrusivethots]

Marked By Him

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Pairings: Vampire!Lee Know/OC, Vampire!Bangchan/OC (suprise!!!!) Summary: Vampyres dominate the entertainment world with their otherworldly beauty and talent. It’s a world you must be born into, but a few lucky ones are Marked. Stripped from her home and everything she knows, Minji’s Marking means that she has to rely on the Devil himself, Lee Minho, to be her mentor. He’s cute and sweet to the public, but behind closed doors the monster comes out to play. Content: Angst, Slow burn, lotsa plot, eventual smut, vampires, dark themes, original characters, first person perspective, general 18+ content, alternate idol universe, asshole Lee Know, surprise love triangle, discussion of blood, discussions of death, depictions of violence, sexual tension, petnames/kitten, WC: 3164 Minors do not interact. Do not repost my content to other websites, this includes translations. Notes: Mother, may I trust the government? No. Never. Always question authority.

My heart was set on drastic action. If there was some Earth shattering plot going on with the Association at the detriment of Marks, it would be in my interest in self preservation to jump ship. I had to get out before the ship capsized and the captains revealed themselves and their true colors.

But what was I even running from?

Every person in my life who could help me seemed intent on letting me sink or find out how to swim on my own. Maeri was human. Our conversations consisted of talks about schedules, food, our hometowns, and what idols we hoped to one day interact with. Yoojin was more connected, but she never spoke of the Association. I knew it was a part of the front she put up to protect my feelings, but she never even seemed to take notice I was Marked. I was usually grateful for it, but the only other two people in my life who were connected enough to inform me were brick walls with secrets encased in cement. 

My lack of insight was only compounded by facts of science. As a Mark, I was reliant on the same people who seemed to endanger me for survival. Without the contact of a fully fledged Vampyre, I would die. 

Ordinary Vampyres existed. They were regular citizens working run-of-the-mill jobs with families and taxes to pay. They rarely advertised that they were Vampyres in the yellow pages. Tracking one down would be a feat of modern communications technology, but getting one to take in stray Mark would be a battle of life and death. It was not plausible, and it was potentially more dangerous than simply accepting my fate at JYP. 

Maybe it was the Vampyric hormones running rampant in my system, but the battle of wits and instinct was taking a toll. I didn’t know whether I was scared, sad, or angry. A small part of what rational thought was left told me I was probably overreacting, regardless. The only proof I had of anything was based on my own wild speculation and the cryptic hints of two near strangers. They were beautiful strangers, but strangers still. I didn’t really know them, so why should I trust anything they said when they weren’t even saying much?

My brain was simmering with sudden anger. 

Bangchan was forgivable. He owed me nothing. He was not tied to me nor obliged to help me. He was kind, but I had no right to even expect that from him.

Lee Minho was a different beast. I didn’t know how he was assigned to be my Mentor. He could have volunteered or been randomly drafted by the company for all I knew, but it didn’t change the fact that he was my Mentor. 

The stupid informational packets the Association handed out to new Marks and their families made Mentors out to be the angelic saviors of poor young adults thrown into an unfamiliar and scary world. They were supposed to be wise leaders who could teach and guide Marks to have a more comfortable adjustment into Vampyrism: the Dumbledores of the Vampyric world. The pamphlets had even stated the bond between Mark and Mentor was something so special that it went beyond the roles of student and teacher. It could even transcend typical human relations such as friendship and family.

Instead of a guiding angel, I had gotten a trickster demon with a penchant for confusion and misery. He had no intention of helping me - he didn’t even seem to care if I lived or died. Thoughts of his apathy spurred my fury. It was a blind rage, but one with intent. 

One second I was simmering in anger at the countertop where Bangchan had left me, and the next I was boiling in vitriol at my usual seat in Conference Room Zero. I hardly remembered my angry walk and elevator ride, but the wait will forever be burned into my memory. The magical looking baubles and books that normally occupied my wait didn’t even register on my radar. I felt like I was feeling everything and nothing at the same time. My mind flashed with images of violence and terror that should be reserved for nightmares. 

The subject of every single image: Lee Minho. 

One second he was looming above my bloody and desecrated corpse with a grin of manic evil. The next we had switched places and I became the murderer. Then his mouth was at my neck, draining me of my life’s essence with ecstasy all over his face. Then I was draining him in pure, blissful rapture. It was a brutal back and forth between predator and prey.

It was a confusing, twisted, endless barrage that fueled the primal rage coursing through my veins and mixing with adrenaline. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want fate to make me another unknown statistic in a long list of Marks that didn’t make the Change. 

Become the predator. It was a thought. It was unbidden, and unfamiliar. It had my adrenaline in overdrive. 

When the conference room door opened, all I saw was red. 

I spent my life hearing about tragedies that happened to others in the news. They often spoke of out-of-body experiences: they knew what was happening but it didn’t feel as if it were happening to them. I never thought to experience the phenomenon myself, but I knew what I was doing. I could see my body lunge from the cushiony chair with a speed I didn’t know I was capable of. I could see Lee Minho’s beautiful face turn from mild annoyance to shock. I couldn’t feel him, but I could see my body collide with his, slamming the heavy door shut as we collided. 

I was out of control, and I didn’t know how to stop it. 

“Minji!” Lee Minho called out. It wasn’t his usual sardonic, laissez-faire tone. It was authoritative. It had my mind compelling my body to stop with fervor. I was internally begging. I didn’t want whatever was happening to happen, but I was not a master of myself at that moment. 

Violence. Rage. Aggression. 

Devour him. Tear into his pretty neck. Feed. Murder. 

“Dammit, Minji,” Minho grunted from below me. I was straddling him, my knees to either side of his waist and my head bending to the smooth crook that gracefully fell off to his shoulders. It was so beautiful, clear, and pristine. Vampyres had heartbeats, contrary to common belief. They were simply much more faint than humans, but I could see his. It was all I could see. It was the source of his life, and the monster inside of me wanted to claim it.

There was a scuffle. Limbs twisting, entangling. His hands were on me, fighting back against my instincts even as I was helpless to control them. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to. I had one clear, and singular goal: to taste, consume, and destroy. 

Instincts were often at odds with logic. I was a new Mark, and Minho was a full, grown Vampyre. He was stronger. Had I been capable of thought, I would have known that. I would have never attacked him in the first place, and I would have certainly stopped when he switched our positions. I was on my back, chest heaving under him and body still fighting despite the odds not being in my favor. My hands clawed at him, scraping against the fabric of the shirt covering his chest. He was quick to incapacitate them, clasping both in each of his own and holding them above my head as his face hovered inches from mine. 

I still struggled against his hold - the fight coursing through me like an addictive drug. Nothing could stop it - stop me - until the length of one of his thighs pushed between mine to better pin me to the ground. The sound that escaped my mouth was animalistic. Want replaced rage. 

“Minho-” I started. I didn’t know what I would say. I didn’t even know who I was. Everything was a mess of emotion - all in shades of red. It was the first and only lesson Lee Minho had taught me: rage and desire were two sides of the same coin. 

“It’s happening sooner than we thought,” he mused. He said it out loud, but he didn’t appear to be speaking to me. His focus was on the Mark above my eyes. 

“Minho,” I whined his name again as he shifted obliviously above me. The movement had his thigh pressing further into my clothed sex. The excitement from the fight had transferred easily into a much different excitement, but I was slowly regaining control of myself and mortification and horror were becoming prominent. 

It took him all but a second to catch on. His eyes trailed down to mine, then to my lips, and further until he took stock of the way our bodies pressed together. I could feel him shift again, and I gasped in response. With brain and body mostly in unison again, I resisted the powerful urge to move my hips against him, seeking more of the delicious pressure he was teasing me with. 

“You’re doing it on purpose now,” I grunted in annoyance.

“Doing what?” He asked with wide, innocent eyes. 

“Please,” I whimpered when he did it again. My hands were still trapped by his - my entire body held captive by him. I was begging, but I didn’t know if it was for release or pleasure. 

“I think I like you better like this. You’re much sweeter,” he mocked with his familiar smirk curving his soft lips. I hated it, but I still felt it all the way to the tips of my toes. 

“You’re an asshole,” I grunted in frustration.

“I’m an asshole? You just attacked me,” he stated calmly. 

At the reminder of my inexplicable actions, my mood sobered. Something was happening to me. I didn’t understand it, and I could not control it. “Why? Why did I do that?”

The world was turning upside down again. Lee Minho’s expression softened. The teasing light in his eyes extinguished. The smirk on his lips fell flat. There was pity written all over his face - pity aimed in my direction. 

“Don’t do that,” I snapped at his change in demeanor. “I don’t want your sympathy. Just explain. Help me learn to control whatever is happening.”

“You can’t.” He was moving, climbing off me and freeing me from him. He stood above me, almost hesitant, before dropping into his usual chair with a concerning lack of his normal grace. I scrambled to my feet on my own, but I didn’t sit. I was too emotional. If I sat, I was afraid I would crumble. 

“Why not?” I demanded. I could feel myself working into a frenzy, spinning out of control all over again. Is this what life would be like from now on? “I can’t handle it, Minho. I came here with intent, but not to murder. I just wanted answers: that’s all. I swear it, but-”

“But then emotion took over, and you became its slave,” he helpfully supplied. He was studying me intently. Watching my reaction to his statement like it was the most important thing in the world. “You wanted to kill me, drain me.”

“Yes. How did you-”

“That's how -” he cut me off before halting himself. He weighed his next words before continuing. “That’s how I’ve heard it described: like a monster lurking in your subconscious.”

“It doesn’t happen to full Vampyres?” I asked curiously. 

“Sort of. You feel the urges: feed, kill, fuck,” he spoke softly despite the crassness of his statement. I would be lying if I said such dirty words coming from such a beautiful face didn’t affect me, but I fought against it. This was the most information he had offered yet, and I would not waste the opportunity. “It’s in our nature, but not to that extent. Marks feel it more.”

“It’s not my nature. I’m not violent. I cry when characters die in shows, even the supporting cast!” I insisted with a strange desire to prove my morals to myself. 

“Whatever you were before, forget it. Trying to fight it only makes it worse. It's instinct - it can be misguided, but it’s not usually wrong.” His words felt like ice water being dumped over my head. It was uncomfortable, and chilling.

“Minho!” I exclaimed in exasperation. “I just tried to kill you.”

“But you didn’t,” he replied easily. Maybe a complete lack of care for the sanctity of life was a staple of his personality. He shrugged off a murder attempt on his life with barely a thought given to it. 

“But I tried! How is that not wrong? What if I try to murder someone who isn’t as strong as you?” I asked in horror. Maeri came to mind - her face bright and sweet. What if I lost control during one of our spats and tried to murder her? She didn’t have Vampyric strength. I would succeed. 

“Why did you try to kill me, Minji?” Minho broke into my panic. He leveled me with his intense stare again. 

“I was confused. There’s so much I don’t know, and you won’t tell me anything. It made me angry, and admittedly scared.”

“Anger. Fear. Self preservation. These are not negative things. One day, they may even save your life,” he guided gently. His sudden willingness to help me had me reeling with conflict yet again. He was cold - sometimes even mean - but he held a certain softness that he tried to hide. I had only gotten brief glimpses, but I could see it. Maybe his beautiful but cruel face was a mask after all. 

“Would killing you save me?” I asked. My voice was dripping with sarcasm, almost venomous. That in of itself was instinct - self preservation. Cold Minho would kill me. Soft Minho would unravel my entire world before ending in homicide. 

“No. Your demise might be a bit more abrupt without me around.” He stood as he spoke, never letting his gaze drop mine. I was becoming accustomed to his searching and often condescending looks, but as he got closer, I became increasingly more frustrated. He was intent, focused. I might have daydreamed many times about him looking at me like that but under very different circumstances. 

“Come here,” he crooned as he took my hands into his colder ones. Without giving me a chance to protest, he tugged me along until we stood in front of an old, standing mirror. He stood behind me, nudging my attention to my reflection with the command, “Look.”

I didn’t need his guidance to find out what he wanted me to look at. It was obvious, and it chilled me to the depths of my soul. The outline of a crescent moon that had once graced the skin of my forehead was no more. The shape was still there, but it was filled with a dark purple that was even more ostentatious than before. Surrounding it were fainter, more delicate lines that swirled from the core of the moon to my temples. 

“What the fuck,” I gasped in shock.

“Don’t worry,” Minho cajoled from behind me. His hand had dropped mine only for him to grip my waist lightly with both. He stared at me in the mirror, watching my reflection with curious eyes over my shoulder. “It’s supposed to do that. It’s actually a good thing.”

“Why is it good?”

“I didn’t think it would happen so fast, but it’s a sign of the Change advancing. Your chances of death have decreased by…” He trailed off, squinting his eyes in exaggerated thought. “Two percent?”

“Joy,” I grumbled out, earning the rumble of a chuckle that I could feel at my back. 

“The Change itself can kill you, Minji. It’s fairly common, actually. Your book covers it briefly, but the Mark expanding is a sign that your body is adjusting,” he informed me. 

“Just another ugly truth that the Association doesn’t want to share?”

“Good, Kitten,” he praised, using the infamous pet name he called me at our first meeting. I felt my toes curl in my sneakers. The Change was a confusing beast, but Lee Minho was worse. “You’re finally catching on.”

“Minho,” I called to him suddenly, seriously. I held his gaze in the mirror feeling bolder and more brave with the glass acting as a barrier. “Is the Association a threat?”

“Government entities are always a threat when absolute power is placed in their hands.”

“You’re being vague again. I want a proper answer.” My words were hard, unfaltering. I was determined to know. I couldn’t protect myself if I didn’t know what I was protecting myself from. 

“That was a proper answer. The Association has absolute power in the Vampryic world and close ties with human governments,” he supplied. 

“That doesn’t explain how they are a threat to Marks - to me,” I insisted. 

I saw it before it happened. His face closed off, his mocking grin marring his features as his eyes hardened to dark crystals. Then his hands left me as he stepped out of my range. Lee Minho had put his mask back on. 

“I never said they were,” he refuted nonchalantly. “Our time is up for tonight.”

“You-”

“A last word of advice,” he called as he headed for the door. He turned back around to face me with his lithe fingers on the knob. His words were more ice water being dumped over me, drowning me in cold and misery. “All of us, you included, have a part to play. It’s how the system works. They say dance, and we do. They want us to sing and look pretty, so we do that too. Sometimes the strings break.”

His gaze dropped mine for just a fraction of a second. He was faltering, and for that moment, I saw it: uncertainty, maybe even fear. Why would Lee Minho be scared of anything? Before I could ponder it, he was continuing. 

“When they break, we marionettes get a moment of reprieve to think. Just a moment, because if you stop dancing for too long they will notice. What do you think happens if we ruin the performance?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t even sure I knew how to. He was back to his cryptic warnings - confusing and tormenting me all in one. 

“Dance, Kitten. Know your place and dance within the lines they’ve defined or you will be dealt with.”

“What is my place?” I all but screamed. I was getting frustrated again, the anger building back up to mix with fear. If I had learned anything from the night, it was that those two emotions were a dangerous combination that could combust with devastating consequences. 

All I got in response was a mocking smirk as Lee Minho left me without proper answers once again. 

[psychopomp-recital]

hi I just wanted to ask: what drew you to death magic specifically? and, if your comfortable, how do you deal with grief (both yours and others) by being a death witch? (plz don't feel obligated to answer if it's too invasive /gen)

Oh not too invasive at all! Thank you for being so polite, this response is very long I’m sorry you asked a rather deep question 🩵 CONTENT WARNING IN TAGS

What drew me onto this path?

TLDR; I have always been surrounded death and it has been an ever present part of my life. I hated the idea that when someone died they were gone forever that’s it. Because regardless if you believe in spirits, I hope we can all agree that we’re all collections of the ancestors who make up our bodies & the ancestors who make up our personalities, we are who we are because of those passed on. And I can all but hope that someday someone will remember me and my stories the same way I remember these folks.

I want to be a good ancestor someday.

THE LONG ANSWER

I was raised in the Southern United States. The culture of this area is that surrounded in death. Everywhere you go there is haunted places and cemeteries. There’s also a strong sense of family there, this feeling that everyone is woven and interconnected.

I was raised Mormon and by a folk magical family who taught me the importance of ancestor work. I understood that these folks are part of me, by blood or otherwise they have made me who I am.

I was raised holding hands with my ancestors chronic illness. I looked it in the face everyday. Haunted by the idea that someday my body would rot away the same way I saw theirs rot, reminded everyday that illness could rip my mother from me without warning.

I eventually realized I could continue to ignore death, pray I have time on this earth to do what I want to do and run from it. Or I could embrace its role in my life and welcome it like an old friend.

I found comfort in the idea that I could help those who have passed on. The families who never got to say goodbye now had an opportunity to at least send the message. I could do my part to calm the fear these folks feel when they slip further into deaths grasp. I found a purpose for the pain I was experiencing.

If I could learn all I can while I’m alive, perhaps when I die I’ll be able to leave behind my knowledge and someone can keep this practice going. In that way, they keep me alive too.

I heard you die twice, once when they bury you in the grave And the second time is the last time that somebody mentions your name.

How do I handle the grief of others and the personal grief I experience?

I think I actually made a post on this! I’ll link it below!

But honestly it just comes down to boundaries, and being kind to yourself. It’s okay to cry and be upset and miss those lost to us. It’s okay to mourn for the dead you work with. YOU ARE STILL HUMAN. Don’t loose sight of that.

Also if you check out #MyPsychopompJournal you’ll see some entries on grief and my raw experiences with it. The one below in particular is a pretty good example;

Let me know if you are interested in a more in depth post about how I handle grief personally because I don’t want to ramble more than I already have!

ASK MY ANYTHING ASKS ARE OPEN!

[mandsleanan]

Text under cut.

No one regrets having a child, or so it’s said. I’ve heard this logic often, usually after I’m asked if I have children, then, when I say I don’t, if I plan to. I tend to evade the question, as I find that the truth—I have no plans to be a parent—is likely to invite swift dissent. I’ll be told I’ll change my mind, that I’m wrong, and that while I’ll regret not having a child, people don’t regret the obverse. Close family, acquaintances, and total strangers have said this for years; I let it slide, knowing that, at the very least, the last part is a fiction.

It is, unsurprisingly, a challenge to get solid data on the number of parents who regret having children. In 1975, the popular advice columnist Ann Landers asked her readers if, given the chance to do it all over again, they’d have children. Seventy percent said they wouldn’t; this result, though, came from a group of self-selecting respondents. “The hurt, angry and disenchanted” are more inclined to write back than contented people, as Landers observed in a follow-up 1976 column. But in 2013, a Gallup poll asked Americans 45 and older how many kids they’d have if they could go back in time. Seven percent of the respondents with children said zero. And in 2023, a study estimated that up to 5% to 14% of parents in so-called developed countries, including the United States, regret their decision to have children.

These studies align with what I've found in my personal life: While most parents don’t regret having kids, some do. Perhaps in part because I’ve written publicly about choosing not to have children, I’ve had people, especially mothers, confide in me about parental regret, and frequently enough I’ve lost count.

Most of the time—whether I hear it in passing, quickly, from a stranger at a literary event, or late at night from a beloved friend—this kind of revelation arises from a place of anguish. Some of these parents talk about feeling utterly alone, like villains past all imagining. Several have noted that, afraid of being judged, they decline to be candid with their own therapists. If asked what I think, I reply that, from what I’m hearing, they’re not alone. Not at all. I hope it helps; I’m told, at times, it does. It’s a physic to which I’ve devoted my life: asked why I write, I often respond that books, words have provided vital fellowship during spells of harsh isolation, when I thought that solitude and its attendant, life-torquing evils—shame, guilt, the pain of exile—might kill me.

Meanwhile, I’m so often advised that I’ll be a parent that, though I’m sure I won’t, I still prod at this ghost self, trying on its shape, asking what I’d do if I felt obliged to adopt this spectral, alternate life as mine. For here’s the next question people tend to broach if I indicate I don’t plan on having kids: what does my husband think? I find this odd, a little prying—do people think I didn’t discuss this topic with him, at length, long before we pledged to share a life?—but the question also rings the alarm bell of one of my own great fears. If I respond with the truth, that he feels exactly as I do, here’s the usual follow-up: but what if he changes his mind?

I have friends who long for kids, and I know the need to be potent, inarguable, as primal as my desire to go without. I’ve seen parent friends’ faces open with love as they watch their small children sing to living-room karaoke, the adults radiating joy as laughing tots carol and bop. Should my husband’s mind change, I can picture the rift that would open wide, dividing us. Either I’d deprive him of what he needs, or I’d give in, birthing a child I don’t want. Or, and this prospect is painful enough that it hurts to type the words, our lives would have to diverge. No bridge of compromise can quite traverse the rift: as King Solomon knew, there are no half-children.

This fear is so salient that I turned it into a pivotal tension in my upcoming novel, Exhibit: a celebrated photographer and her husband agreed they both don’t want children, but he wakes up one day realizing he does, and powerfully so. She’s certain she ought not be a parent; he’s pining for a child; they love each other very much. Short on joint paths forward, they have no idea what to do next.

Parental regret springs from a range of origins, not all having to do with privation of choice or means. In and before a post-Dobbs U.S., people have given birth against their will. The cost of raising a child runs high; for parents lacking funds and support, dire hardship can result. It’s a lack far too typical in the U.S., where there’s no federally mandated paid parental leave, and families are often priced out of childcare. But this regret isn’t a phenomenon limited to people in grave financial straits, nor to those forced into parenting. Other parents, all through the world, also wish they’d elected otherwise.

In recent months, as I waited for the publication of the novel I worked on for nine years, I kept returning to the plight I’d explored: I hadn’t yet finished wondering what I might do, how I’d live, if. And though I’d heard a range of chronicles of parental regret, as have other friends without kids, the stories were related one-on-one, in private. It’s a taboo subject, one made all the more difficult, punitive, by the ubiquitous belief that people who feel as they do either can’t or ought not exist.

I’ve also thought about the isolating effect of silence, and what it can cost to live in hiding. I wanted to talk with parents who, if they could go back in time, might make different choices—and who’d also agree to be quoted. It was, again unsurprisingly, hard to find people willing to speak with me on the record about parental regret. I promised to alter the names of each parent I interviewed for this piece. Even so, people were skittish.

“I don't think that everyone is made for children,” says Helen, a high school teacher in her 40s. And telling people that their purpose is to reproduce is destructive, she adds. It’s what she heard growing up: though Helen wanted to take Latin in high school, her mother forced her to enroll in home economics instead. “I don't think I ever decided to have kids. I was pretty much just told that that's what you do. That's what girls are for,” Helen says.

As a result, Helen makes sure to tell her students that having children is an option, one that might not be right for them. She says the same thing to her kids, both girls. “I think that people need to know that just being themselves is enough,” she says.

At this point, half an hour into a phone call, Helen has cried, briefly, a couple of times. Now, I’m the one tearing up. I tell Helen I grew up in a predominantly Christian Korean American community. The primacy of having kids is built into the Korean language: I knew most Korean adults only as “the mother of x” or “the father of y.” I might have felt less strange if I’d had a Helen at my high school. While I didn’t quite, at any point, decide against being a parent—I didn’t have to, since I had no inkling of the urge in the first place—I also never heard it said that there might be an alternative.

“And if you thought there was any other way to live, there's something wrong with you,” Helen says.

I ask what she’d do if she had more time to herself. “I would write. I would take walks,” she replies. “I enjoyed writing academic papers. I enjoyed writing them for my master's.” It used to upset her when classes were too easy. Given the chance, she would think for hours without interruption. She’d take up further studies.

And if she could inhabit the person she was before she became a parent? “I would have stopped that pregnancy before it happened.” But that’s the part Helen’s never said to her daughters, who, after all, didn’t ask to be born. She’s hell-bent on raising them well, not taking out any regrets on the girls. “I love them. I just don't love the choice I made.”

Each parent I talk to points out this dividing line: it’s possible to have strong, lasting regrets about a life choice while ferociously loving—and caring for—the fruit of that decision. Paul, a Canadian father of young boys, notes that though he could write a book on everything he resents having lost as a result of becoming a parent, he also would do anything for his kids. Paul’s boys are the loves of his life. Still, overall, fathering has been detrimental to his well-being.

“My body is constantly on standby, waiting for the next disaster,” Paul says. “As an introvert, I also deeply resent having no private time.” He’s fatigued and never at ease, finding all aspects of child-rearing to be stressful. It’s not a problem that would be resolved if he had more caretaking support. “I do have help with the kids from family, and I know if I asked for more help, I'd get it,” he tells me, but he often refuses help because he believes that, as a father, it's his job to take on the brunt of tasks that attend parenting.

Instead, what Paul lacks, in terms of support, is people with whom he can be honest. “I don't have anyone to talk to about parental regret,” he says. He wishes he had more spaces where parents aren't publicly shamed for feeling trapped or stifled. And though he’d felt ambivalent about becoming a father, and it was his husband who first decided he wanted a child, he hasn’t let this initial split in longing drive them apart. With his husband, as with the other people in his life, he's quiet about his regret: “As much as I might feel his desire to be a parent has led me to my decision, that decision was also my own.”

People have asked how I learned that not having kids might be an option. I live in San Francisco, where I’m hardly the only person with no kids—out of the major U.S. cities, San Francisco has the smallest percentage of children—but even so, for some people, having kids can feel so fated that they talk about not having imagined otherwise.

One friend who’s asked this question has told me she felt regret during the first years of her child’s life, but that, as her child got older, the rue left. For other parents, though, the regret proves lasting. Robin, who has adult offspring in their 40s, says that, to this day, if she could reverse time, she would “certainly not have a baby ever, not under any circumstances.” She notes that she’d had no notion of what being a parent can entail. Having grown up in an affluent, cheerful family, she was glad to have children with her husband, figuring that “it all just looked like a romantic, happy road.”

Instead, after electing to be a stay-at-home mother, Robin found herself in what she calls “the domestic gulag,” a life that consisted of being “a chauffeur and an arranger and an appointment setter and a social secretary and a party planner and a chef and a meal planner and a budgeter” and “an emergency nurse and a night nurse and a psychologist and a confidant.”

Robin also, like the other parents I spoke to, felt responsible for raising her children well, teaching them how to lead “good, honorable, happy” lives, striving to instill and model integrity and kindness. It was a daily, 20-year effort all the more crushing since, each morning, waking up, she’d recall the day’s to-do list and know that she didn’t want to do any of it.

Replying to my questions, Robin keeps having to pause to take phone calls from a nurse caring for her ill, elderly aunt. There’s no one else in Robin’s family who’ll fill the role, she says, so it’s up to her to look after her aunt’s well-being. I’m conscious that I’m telling you this because I’m alive to what at least some readers will think about Helen, Paul, and Robin: that the act of admitting to regret ipso facto convicts them as bad, unfit parents. As, that is, evil people. They know it, too, and are as afraid of being recognized as they are intent on telling people what they’re living through—hoping, with a fervor I recognize from my bygone life as an evangelical Christian, to prevent others’ misery.

Hoping to ease others’ solitude, too. Online forums aside, there are almost no spaces where a parent can discuss regret. Some of this is for good reason—no child should have to hear that they’re regretted—but what other human experience is there about which one will probably be judged a monster for having any regret at all?

One problem is that our culture wants just one kind of story about parenting, and it’s a story of “pure joy,” says Yael Goldstein-Love, a writer and psychotherapist in California whose clinical practice focuses on people who are adapting to parenthood. But, Goldstein-Love says, people often experience grief in the transition to being a parent, grief for the life they might have inhabited otherwise. “Part of what makes the grief unspeakable is that there's always a strand of this regret,” she adds.

While Goldstein-Love hasn’t had patients bring it up, she also has friends who confide in her about parental regret. I mention the alacrity with which people can lunge to say that no parent feels regret, that it’s impossible. I ask if, perhaps, this type of remorse poses an existential threat, belying an ideal picture of what we might be to our own parents. Is this an aspect of why people can be so quick to refute the notion that regret can, and does, happen?

Absolutely, she replies: Most people want to believe that our parents felt nothing but delight about raising us. “They never regretted a moment. They never hated us. And that's bullsh-t.” I ask Goldstein-Love what she’d tell parents who wish they had made another choice.

“To the extent that you can, and this is much easier said than done, try not to feel ashamed of this.” It’s tempting, she explains, to judge how we feel about life experiences, asking ourselves, “Does this make me a good person? Does this make me a bad person? Am I doing this right? Am I doing this wrong?”

But feelings aren’t inherently “truly ugly,” Goldstein-Love says. “They just are.” It’s what people make of their feelings that might be “ugly or not.” Some people don’t find joy in parenting, let alone pure joy, “and that’s also fine.” Regret is not itself a threat to a parent’s love for a child, and it can help to admit, even to oneself, that which might feel unspeakable. “I really would encourage people to realize that you are not alone in this feeling,” she says.

I think of the halting conversations I’ve been having with parents, and the difficulty with which people talk about regret. Few choices are less irreversible than deciding to be a parent: once the child is born, a person is here who didn’t previously exist. But I also wonder who’s being served well by a monolithic idea that no one regrets being a parent. Not these parents; not, as some of the people I’ve spoken with have pointed out, any kids who pick up on parental regret and think it can’t happen, except to them. If more people had the support to make reproductive choices based on their own desires and life situations, and if the monolith were spalled in favor of plural narratives that better reflect the complexities of human experience, what then?

I think of the people who have spoken to me about regret and isolation, including those I haven’t yet mentioned—a mother finishing nursing school in Mississippi, a mother of five in Nebraska, and all the privately confiding parents. One parent asks at the end of our conversation, “What have other parents said? Was it the same thing? Was it the same thing as me?”

[vibratingskull]

Chekmate

Part1

Thrawxf!reader

When you're worried about the final exam, Thrawn may be just the teacher you need. Maybe.

"... And that's how it almost exploded at my face! I wouldn’t have thought a simple mouse droid could be this dangerous. J.C what do you think about this?"

"Mmmmh…"

"(y/n) put down your datapad."

"Fascinating, Eli. A really… Enthralling… Story…"

"(Y/N)!"

"Wh-What?"

You suddenly get back to reality, realising you are in the cafeteria with your datapad almost taped to your face. Eli seems pretty annoyed by you, to let him speak uselessly in the void.

"What are you even reading?"

"I'm just revising our classes for this semester." You answer, getting back at your screen.

He rolls his eyes with a sigh.

"Maker, I thought you would be more fun to be around given your nickname, but you're like Thrawn." He teases. "No, you're even worse than him, he has the decency to stop when it's time to eat."

"I wouldn’t need to do it if I were like Thrawn, believe me." You laugh.

"What would you not need to do if you were like me, exactly?"

You jumped when Thrawn's voice resonated behind your back. One day he will give you a heart attack. He sits next to Eli who tries to make you stop.

"She has been glued to her datapad since last week. Impossible to get her to drop it."

"I don't want to fail the Final Exams, that's all." You start to get irritated, there is no need for drama over such a petty thing.

"Your grades are already good, you don't need to worry about this exam. Come on, shut it down and eat, you didn't touch your plate."

Indeed you haven't touched it yet. The food must be cold by now but you still don't drop your pad. You choose to tease him back instead.

"I didn't know you were an overprotective mother Eli. You are supposed to look after Thrawn, not me you know?"

You both laugh along while Thrawn keeps eating silently without picking up the joke. He must look like an exhausted father forced to supervise some troublesomes teenagers.

"Anyway, I don't simply want good grades, I want the best grades! I'm sure Thrawn will support me on this one."

"I am inclined to agree. To be at your best capacities in any field must be a goal for anyone."

"Ha HA!" You laugh triumphantly at Eli and steal him a bite of his meal as a trophy.

"But Eli is also right to tell you to take a break from your device. You are not doing yourself a favor."

Wait, what?

"Ha HA!" Eli replies back and steals your dessert as revenge.

"In this case, why won't you give me a hand, since you know better." You ask sarcastically while taking back your fruit.

"If this is what you wish, I am happy to oblige." He answers without hesitation.

"Wait, really?" You honestly didn't believe he would accept, you can't say you associated him with philanthropy. "I thought you would keep studying and scrutinize humans through our art." You ask while exaggerating your gesture for a dramatic effect, trying to obtain a reaction from him.

He looks at you in the eyes as he always does, without blinking at your act.

"There is nothing to prevent me doing so while assisting you. We can meet at the library tonight after your chore."

You consider his proposition, you asked this question to irk him but if he is serious about it why not benefit from the situation?

You turn to Eli.

"Is it okay for you Eli? Since you are supposed to assist-"

"I have no problem with this. Go on, work well!" He responded immediately, too happy at the perspective of one or two hours alone without Thrawn to "supervise".

"Well, in this case, I accept your generous offer, Thrawn."

"Very well, let us begin."

At these words, Thrawn snatches the pad out of your hands.

"Hey! What are you doing?!"

"I want you to stop studying during break times." He states while turning off the datapad.

"I can use those times as I want and I want to study!"

You try to take it back but he simply lays the device beside him on the bench, out of your reach. You let out a frustrated grunt.

"Why do you care?!"

"Pauses are scheduled for a reason, Cadet (y/f/n). If you constantly work while you should let your brain recover, you will learn a mixture of irrelevant and useless informations. Forcing yourself is counterproductive, good work comes with good methods." He preaches.

"Oh that's rich coming from you!"

Eli stays silent, careful to not bring himself into the fight. His expressions worried more and more every time you raise your voice.

"Would you care to remind me what we studied at the beginning of the week?" Thrawn inquires with his composed voice.

"Of course, we have seen the Williamson Maneuver for large ships." You respond confidently, crossing your legs.

Judging by his unimpressed expression, you have misplaced your confidence.

"Cadet Vanto, if you please?"

"We studied the Titor hyperdrive model... For large ships." Eli looks at you with "sorry" speld in his eyes.

Damn it! The maneuver lesson was last week, John Titor invented his model of propulsor after to make it easier.

You cross your arms over your chest, displeased by the turn of the conversation. In front of you, however, Thrawn is content with himself.

"Now that the point has been made, eat please. This is not the first time that you neglect to feed yourself, as Eli pointed out."

This is with those casual remarks that you remember he has eyes everywhere, especially on those who are somewhat close to him.

Bless Eli for what he must endure all day long, he surely has it worst.

"Could you give me back my pad?" You ask, exasperated.

"I will return it to you once the noon break is finished."

"Oh come on!"

---------------------------------------------------------

You walk down the corridor in silence, passing by other students going about their daily business.

You're apprehensive of the next hour. It will be the first time you will be alone with Thrawn after your little discussion in the classroom. Even though your relationship is now… let say cordial, the situation is less comfortable than what you’ve anticipated. You know he won’t try anything, but you can’t muffle your inner voice telling you to stay on your guard around him.

As you enter the academic library you are immediately welcomed by the familiar sounds of keyboards and murmurs. Each step you make resound inside. You absorb yourself with the serious and studious atmosphere reigning here. Despite its factory's design and architecture, the library is still the least suffocating room of this Academy. You should try to come more often.

As you're wandering between the bookcases and the desks, you saw Thrawn in an alcove away from the main agitation, comfortably consulting a holobook on who knows what.

He notes your presence and closes the holo as he rose from his seat before you could join him.

"Thank you for arriving on time."

"Did you expect me to be late, sir?"

"I expected to discover it this evening. Please, take a seat."

You sat in front of his previous chair while he brought an old suitcase on the table. The latches are used and dislocated, even the insignia of the Academy graved in the case is passed. He opens it and takes out a demesne.

"Do you play Shah-tezh?" He asks, presenting the board to your eyes.

"I used to, some time ago." You respond, unsure of the meaning of all this. You were pretty sure you agreed on working your classes, not a game evening. "Does Chiss play Shah-tezh?"

"Indeed we do, Cadet (y/f/n). We possess our own version of the game."

"Nice! But what's the point? I thought you would help me to revise."

He finishes placing all the pieces and sits.

"It is part of the processus. We will play a game then we will study the theorics."

Your gaze travels between the board and him.

"You expect me to win a strategic game against you?" You ask, incredulous.

"I do not expect you to win, I expect you to progress. You may start."

After staring at the board you just place your Craft randomly, without conviction. He immediately responds with his Dowager and you realise you don't have much left of your previous games. You add your Beast in the mix before watching him slowly slide his Vizier all across the board.

"Checkmate. Two moves."

You stare at the corridor you opened for him during the game, dumbfounded by your own stupidity. A beginner's mistake.

You wiggles on your seat, out of shame. He doesn't say a thing as he replaces the pawns.

"Let us start again."

He politely invites you to begin the game and you innerly thank him for not bringing you down over… this.

You gather your thoughts and search for an idea. You place your Craft in the exact same position as later and wait for his reaction.

Ho this is a petty idea, but you can’t resist it.

He plays along and does the same with his Dowager. You place yours in the same case of your side of the demesne. He places his Vizier on the left side and you mirror him once again.

He squints at you and you smile back .

"You know you cannot win with this attitude."

"Who says I'm trying to win? I'm trying to learn!"

His eyelid twitches at your insolent answer.

"Very well."

He slides the Dowager of three cases and announces with a cold tone.

"Checkmate."

You sigh and let yourself slouch down your chair. Now you're just fed up and grumpy.

"You're not funny."

"I am not trying to, I am trying to teach you."

"It's a game!"

"It is a strategic game." He corrects you.

You see him place back the pawns again. Is he not down? What does he hope to achieve with all this?

"I don't see how becoming a Shah-tezh master will help me with a Final about theoretical subjects." You muttered.

"It will. You misunderstand my intentions, I will not make you a Shah-tezh champion but I will engrave some ch'af… I mean mechanisms in your brain that will help you think logically and with pragmatisme."

It's the first time you heard him stumble over a word, it's surprising coming from someone who likes to use delicate phrasing. You wonder if it's because Eli is not here to help or because you seem to get under his skin at this moment. Maybe both.

"But I cannot do this alone, I need you to work with me. If you do not want to use my methods, we will simply cease. But if you want to try my way, I will ask for your cooperation, this is not something I can do instead of yourself."

You roll your head and straighten your back. Okay, you will give him a chance, lets try it seriously.

"Alright, I will concentrate. But I really hope it's effective and you're not wasting my time!"

He starts the game this time, and advances his Disciple.

"Patience, (y/f/n). This exercise will come to fruition soon enough."

---------------------------

"Very good. This is much better than our first games." He states calmly.

"I still didn't beat you." You respond disheartened.

After a whole month, you didn’t find a way to break down his defenses, whether it’s in the game or in real life. But you feel like you're getting to know him better, little by little, your relationship is getting more relaxed.

You stretch your body from hand to toes, trying to crack your spine. After an intense dance lesson and two hours on the chair without moving, your body is completely numb. Thrawn raises from his seat with ease and starts to put the pawns away in the box, you feel a pick of jealousy for his physical condition.

"This is not the point of those sessions."

"Yes, but it is my personal challenge." A sly smile grew on your face. "To beat you at your own game, Sire."

"Do you think you can do it?"

"Don't you?" You blink.

He slightly shakes his head, closing the box.

"No, I think not.”

"Well thank you for your honesty, I guess…” You reply with an exaggerated strangled voice.

“There is no use to react in such a way, cadet (y/f/n). It was not an insult.”

“How? Then what was it, lieu-te-nant Thrawn?”

You imitate his posture, bringing your hand together in front of your face with your back and legs straight while scrutinizing him.

"It was a simple observation. From my analysis your talents led somewhere else. You would make an efficient ISB member."

"HA! No. Not even in dreams."

It was a thing to distance yourself from your Drug Lord grandfather and family, it was another to apply to the very organization that seeks them out.

He flashes you a smirk.

"How unfortunate. However if I judge by your recent feat in the storehouse earlier, you are more than capable in thief and infiltration."

"Hey, I did it for you and Eli! Either way you would have looked ridiculous without a proper uniform for the Gala. But if you prefer, I could use my infiltration talents to put them back and leave you to fend for yourself…" You tease.

He glances at you from the side and chuckles. He quickly covers his mouth with his knuckles as if it had escaped him.

You, on the other hand, were expecting a sneaky remark, not a laugh.

It is so unexpected, you are bewildered by how it sounds, so sparkling, so…

Crystalline.

You are not sure how to react, you've never heard him laugh. You thought he didn’t.

Ever.

You realise you have never seen him as a person of his own, but rather this aloof and cryptic alien only here to infiltrate the Empire.

Despite his intelligence, you've subconsciously deprived him of his person…

But this laugh sheds a new light on him. You imagine him smiling and joking along with his peers, maybe his brother or sister.

That's right, he had a life before getting here. He surely had friends, a family, dreams and aspirations, maybe even a spouse… His exile must have deprived him of so much more than his world.

And you, you were prompted to classify him as the stranger one, the Other one, because it made your life easier to keep the view simple and unnuanced.

Gosh, you deserve to be slapped sometimes.

He clears his throat, recovering his composure as quick as he could, but a slight grin remains.

"Come on... Do not be so radical in your threats. One day you may execute them. Let us move on to the theoretical subjects."

You observe him take a seat at your usual terminals in the library, his chest still shaking intermittently with the last laughters.

You like how he sounds, it's refreshing.

And his smile…

So genuine.

You will make an effort to understand him better, maybe you will see more of him.

----------------------

It's weird.

You're weird.

Since your last dance lesson together, you're feeling weird.

You’re hot with sweaty hands, your thoughts are fuzzy, you stutter sometimes when you talk to…

It's happening again!

Get over it, damn it!

You try to concentrate on your screen, but you can't help yourself and look at him from the corner of your eye.

Thrawn is entirely focused on an article on his terminal. Straight and unmoving, his gaze travels on the screen as fast as his brain devours information.

You wonder if you could guess what he is looking at by analysing his posture… Since he doesn't deprive himself to do it to everyone else.

From what you've observed during those two months with him in the library he tends to join his hands in front of him while reading, he will fold them if he's analysing what he's seeing, if he watch a video he will keeps his legs parallel with his arms on them but will cross his limbs if he disagree with anything presented to him.

Currently, one of his arms is crossed over his chest while his other hand is resting on his chin… So he's not analysing, he's investigating.

He doesn't make moves to slide the screen, so not a text, and the shadows casted over his face are still, not a video either.

So he's scrutinizing an image…

You recall seeing some old tapestries on his datascreen earlier this afternoon, he must be studying the subjects further.

You keep observing him as discreetly as you could, gathering as much information as possible.

…

Fascinating how his hands are in comparison to his more muscular stature. With long and tapered fingers which balance out his noble and large palms, they appear elegant and delicate.

Now that you think of it, his hands were surprisingly soft in yours for someone who has trained all his life. Does he follow a routine or is it a Chiss adaptation from their environment?

Go figure.

…

He really has a superb profile…

"Is there something wrong, cadet (y/f/n)? Do you need assistance?" He asks you, out of the blue.

You blink in surprise, realising you were fixing him in complete silence for several seconds. You turn back to your screen confused, clearing your throat to give you composure.

"Nothing Sir, sorry Sir. I was just wondering what could captivate you like that… Sir."

"I am studying the necropolis plan of an early Togruta civilisation. I must admit, their sarcophagus made of cocoon and wax is one of the most intriguing funeral rites I have ever studied."

Because he studied a lot of funeral rites?

Creepy…

"What are you working on, Cadet?" He politely inquires, facing you fully.

"Ho, some battles simulations with randomly generated variables. I'm getting better at those, thanks to your teaching!"

You smile to ease any suspicions but your speech voice is higher than ordinary. You hope your answer satisfies him and give you time to appease the growing fluster in your bowels and mind.

You feel a weird warmth spreading as a mist through your body when he lays his eyes on you.

"Splendid. Let me see your progress."

What!? No.

Nononononononononononono!

He doesn't let you time to protest as he rises from his seat to slip behind you, his hands fold on his back.

Without a word, he observes your tactical and managerial skills in a battle of pixels where your hypothetical fleet must rescue and secure a freighter of explosives against two groups of separatists. A high coefficient subject in the final exam, and you couldn't give a single fuck about what was happening on the screen while he was standing this close behind your back.

You summon all your willpower to focus on your terminal, but your body is so tense it's stiff.

You're running on autopilot, blindly applying the manual's tactics. You try to shake you out of that state, but everytime you look at your screen the reflection of his incandescent eyes gets your attention and you lose track of the battle.

You had to bite your inner cheek to snap off of it and recompose yourself.

At the very moment you're finally concentrating on your simulation, Thrawn intervenes in one of your maneuvers.

"You are fighting two different groups of enemies. They have formerly agreed to form a coalition but they did not pledge allegiance to one another. How can you use those informations against them?"

You hesitate a moment, you thought he would have just watched how you were handling the mission and went back to his own screen.

Your mouth is completely dry when you answer.

"Hmm… I could harass one of their ships, pushing them to make mistakes against their allies and to fight each other?"

You see his reflection nods in approval, and you hear a little smile in his voice.

"Show me."

And like that, everything seemed easier, your muscles relax and you feel a surge of pride. You chide yourself immediately.

Something is definitively off about you. You need to take charge of your behaviour and mind.

But it is so pleasant to hear the warmth in his voice, you could indulge yourself a little.

Just a little.

You suddenly feel his hand on the backrest of your chair, cutting you off guard.

"There is a more efficient way to apply this tactic. Let me demonstrate."

Without further explanation, you feel him bend over your shoulder to grasp your mouse.

You are completely frozen.

He is so close your lips would brush his cheek if you dared turning your head.

Him, however, is stoic and focused as usual. His eyes directed toward the screen, his voice calmly details how to subdue your opponent with less casualty, but you're deaf to his speech.

All his words melt in a dulcet melody, you can feel his warmth reaching and diffusing through your body, all your inspirations are filled with his odor and it's spreading to the depth of your lungs.

You swallow with difficulty as your blood makes your cheeks go crimson.

Granted, you have already been closer than that when you teached him how to dance, but it was in context! Now, this just…

You're suddenly keenly aware of yourself, your sweat, your own odor, your body as flexible as a metal door…

How can he not notice? He prides himself on his abilities to read people and here?

Nothing?!

Is he blind?!

Your toes curl when his arm grazes yours, you keep crossing and uncrossing your legs.

How can he keep talking so mundanely while you were on the verge of spontaneously combusting?

You swear, if nothi-

"Thrawn! Here you are. The librarian told me you had borrowed a holo I could use."

A boy of a different class just passed his head in the alcove, breaking the tension in the air.

Thrawn straightens up, still unaware of your inner turmoil, to help this other student.

"Which holobook do you need?"

While he proceeds to recommend a whole bunch of holos to this guy, who clearly didn’t know what he was up to asking him for help, you seize this occasion to release a breath you didn't realise you were holding.

You feel your blood so furiously batting in your temples you can hear your own heartbeat resonating inside your skull.

You carefully massage your temple while taking long and deep breaths

Slowly your heartbeat slows and you begin to calm.

Good.

A quick glance at Thrawn indicates he's still talking with the other cadet about something you didn't care in the slightest.

You decide to finish all your battles simulations then you will call it a day.

_ _

You stretch your body at full lenght with a deep sight.

It took you longer than what you anticipated, but at least you had time come to your right senses.

This lesson had been… exhausting.

Both mentally and physically.

As you ease the tension in your neck you study the library, coming to the realisation it was dead silent. The usual sounds of footsteps and keyboards are absent and the disparate lights of the buildings are on. No silhouette in sight.

You didn't realise it was so late already!

Why Thrawn didn’t warn you? He must be back to his room by now.

You curse yourself for your negligence. After this joke of a battle simulation he must have lost his patience for the evening and headed back to his quarters with his less embarrassing friend…

… human?

What are we both to him?

You gather your stuff while you torture yourself with questions.

You rise from your seat to leave and stop dead on your tracks.

Thrawn is still here at his terminal, hidden by your own.

He did wait for you.

He is…

… sleeping?

His respiration is steady and calm with his hands folded on his lap, only his head slightly bent forward could be seen as unusual for him.

You carefully approach him, unsure what to do.

On one hand sleeping in this position is bad for the spine, on the other he looks so peaceful. You don't have the heart to disturb him.

After reflection, if you don't wake him yourself the librarians will do it, with less precautions.

You kneel to his side and try to wake him up as gently as possible.

"Sir? Sir. Come on, the library is hardly heated, you will catch a cold."

Really? A cold? For someone who originated from an iceworld?

You silently berate yourself.

His scent slowly reaches your nose once more, making you feel a little fuzzy once again . Under the smell of new leather and Iron, when you focus yourself, you are sure to perceive a familiar fragrance… like a forest after the rain.

You like it.

"Thrawn… Come on, wake up. We are the last one."

You slightly squeeze his shoulder but are only rewarded by silence.

He must be a heavy sleeper. It's funny, you would have bet the opposite.

The thought makes you smile as you study his face in more detail. Even closed, the red glow of his eyes is still perceptible. Your eyes lazily follow the lines of his cheekbones, then his nose before laying on his lips.

You stare at them a few seconds, your imagination running wild.

You wonder… how they feel.

How they taste.

Your mouth waters mildly at this only thought.

They are quite a tantalizing sight… really...

You bite yours with envy as you slowly lean toward him.

They look soft, and… inviting.

You wet your lips to soften them. Only one, like a secret. You close your eyes to savor the instant aND WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING?!

You jump away from him as reality hits you.

What were you thinking?!

Is that you now?!

A girl incapable of controlling herself to the point of taking advantage of a man during his sleep?!

Is that everything your former relationships had taught you?!

REALLY?!

You're so ashamed you abandon the idea of waking him up.

You put your jacket on his shoulder to prevent the hypothetical cold and run off from the library in a mad rush without looking back.

You need to cease these sessions.

…

It's a good thing you didn't look back.

Who knows how to interpret that piercing red sight following you in silence as you escaped?

@exoplorationn, @bluechiss

[beardedmrbean]

Haiti is fast descending into anarchy.

Over the weekend, the violence in the capital Port-au-Prince ramped up once again. Heavily armed gangs attacked the National Palace and set part of the Interior Ministry on fire with petrol bombs.

It comes after a sustained attack on the international airport, which remains closed to all flights - including one carrying Prime Minister Ariel Henry.

He tried to fly back to Haiti from the United States last week, but his plane was refused permission to land. He was then turned away from the neighbouring Dominican Republic too.

Mr Henry is now stuck in Puerto Rico, unable to set foot in the nation he ostensibly leads.

Among those who did manage to get into the stricken Caribbean nation, though, was a group of US military personnel.

Following a request from the US State Department, the Pentagon confirmed it had carried out an operation to, as it put it, "augment the security" of the US embassy in Port-au-Prince and airlift all non-essential staff to safety.

Soon after, the EU said it had evacuated all of its diplomats, fleeing a nation mired in violence and facing its biggest humanitarian crisis since the 2010 earthquake.

Millions of Haitians, however, simply don't have that luxury. They're trapped, no matter how bad things get.

The situation is dire at the State University of Haiti Hospital, known as the general hospital, in downtown Port-au-Prince. There is no sign of any medical staff at all.

A dead body, covered by a sheet and swarming with flies, lies in a bed next to patients waiting in vain for treatment.

Despite the overpowering stench, no-one has come to remove the body. It is rapidly decomposing in the Caribbean heat.

"There are no doctors, they all fled last week," said Philippe a patient who didn't want to give his real name.

"We can't go outside. We hear the explosions and gunfire. So, we must have courage and stay here, we can't go anywhere."

With no prime minister and a government in disarray, the gangs' power over the capital is near absolute.

They control more than 80% of Port-au-Prince and the country's most notorious gang leader, Jimmy "Barbecue" Chérizier has again told the prime minister to resign.

"If Ariel Henry doesn't step down and the international community continues to support him," he said last week, "they will lead us directly to a civil war which will end in genocide."

Meanwhile, the police, outnumbered and demoralised, are struggling to keep looters at bay. The Salomon police station in Port-au-Prince was attacked and burnt out, and charred police vehicles lie outside the still-smouldering building.

US evacuates Haiti embassy staff amid gang violence

Haiti's main port closes as gang violence spirals

Haiti gangs demand PM resign after mass jailbreak

Nevertheless, even in the face of the total collapse of law and order, people must still venture out to make a living.

At a nearby market, several street hawkers told the BBC they had no other option but to leave their homes, even with gunmen roaming the streets.

"I have three kids, and I'm all they have - I'm their mother and their father," said Jocelyn, a market trader who also didn't want to give her real name.

"So, I'm obliged to take to the streets. Yesterday gunmen came here and stole all our money. A lot of vendors lost all their money. But there's no way to stay at home when you have three mouths to feed."

"The anxiety is killing me when I'm in the street," echoed an older woman selling fruit. "I keep thinking what if I get shot dead? Who will take care of my children then? I have no family to support me."

To the west, in one of Haiti's nearest neighbours, Jamaica, the dignitaries, diplomats and heads of state of the Caricom regional group are gathering for an emergency summit.

The instability in Haiti is a problem for the entire Caribbean community, and for Washington too. The idea of a nation of some 11 million people being run by gangs is of huge concern, particularly the potential impact on outward migration during an election year in the US.

It's clear Caricom favours seeing Mr Henry resign as soon as possible, from outside of the country if necessary.

The Biden administration in the US has publicly said the unelected prime minister - who had promised to hold an election in February - should return to Haiti, but only in order to stand down and begin a transition to a new government.

Privately, though, US diplomats are increasingly aware that it might now be impossible for him to return, and that even attempting to do so could further destabilise Haiti.

A UN-backed plan for a Kenyan-led rapid reaction force to tackle the gangs is still far from becoming a reality.

To add to the lawlessness, a week ago, around 4,000 inmates escaped after the gangs attacked the main prison in Port-au-Prince.

Those prisoners are now back on the streets and bolstering the ranks of their gangs.

In the aftermath, the cell doors are now wide open, the facility is virtually abandoned and there are blood stains on the ground after gunmen overpowered the guards.

A prime minister unable to return, violent gangs in control of the capital and dead bodies piling up on the streets: Haiti is currently a nation about as close to a failed state as it's possible to be.

[nordleuchten]

"I love to build castles of happiness and pleasure in France"

One of my absolute favourite letters is this one from La Fayette to his wife Adrienne from January 6, 1778. The army has just begun the encampment at Valley Forge and La Fayette longs for his wife, children, family, friends and home after he made the decision that he, at the current moment, can not in good conscious return to France. He is in a rather bleak mood and writes this rather long letter to his wife. This letter gives great insight not only into his feelings towards his wife and children, but also concerning his relationship with Washington, the state of the Revolution and his position within. He also takes the reader along his reasoning, allowing us to have a better understanding of what words like “honour” and “duty” meant for him personally. Since the letter is longer, allow me to present you some of my favourite passages:

The passages in the brackets are the ones taken out when the letters where published in La Fayette’s Memoirs.

What a date, my dearest, and what a country to be writing from in the month of January! My destiny is strange indeed. In a camp, in the middle of the woods, fifteen hundred leagues from you, I am confined by the winter (when I should have been with you two months ago – when, my dear, all my desires and even good sense obliged me to depart.

*-*-*

Honestly, dear heart, do you think that it would not require very strong reasons to induce me to make this sacrifice? Everything tells me to depart, but honor has told me to remain (…)

*-*-*

You must be aware that it is not for my pleasure that I remain buried in this wretched place, while every possible happiness awaits me in Paris, in the midst of all my friends, and in the arms of a charming wife whom I love more than ever. If you could see for a moment what is in my heart, I would have no need of excuses; and if my feelings affect you ever so little, I dare say that you will be content with the sentiments that I express.

*-*-*

Take advantage of that to write to me, and even though your letter may well arrive long after I have left, write anyway, in case I may be so unfortunate as to be here still, to soften a bit the boredom and sorrow of my exile.)

*-*-*

You should have received by now the letter I sent to you as soon as I heard of your delivery. How happy that event has made me, dear heart! I like to mention it to you in all my letters because I enjoy thinking about it constantly. What a pleasure it will be to embrace my two poor daughters, and have them ask their mother to forgive me. You must not believe that I am so insensitive, dear heart, and at the same time so ridiculous, that the sex of our new child has diminished in the slightest my joy at her birth. We have not become so decrepit that we shall need a miracle to have another child. That one absolutely has to be a boy. For the rest, if one must worry about the family name, I declare that I have decided to live long enough to bear it myself for many years, before I am obliged to bequeath it to another being.

*-*-*

If those ladies do not understand the reasons that force me, despite myself, to remain here (from day to day), they must think me a very ridiculous person, especially since they are able to see my dear heart, that charming wife from whom I separate myself. But that same idea must impress them with a sense that (if I remain, if I sacrifice pleasure to boredom, happiness to sorrow, life in the most amiable company to the dreary life of a savage, if, in short, dear heart, I am far from you instead of being near) it is because I have overwhelming reasons for making that decision.

*-*-*

Several general officers have brought their wives to camp, and I am very envious, not of their wives (who are rather dull), but of the pleasure they have in being able to see them.

*-*-*

I love to build castles of happiness and pleasure in France. You are always a part of them, dear heart, and once we are reunited nothing will separate us again and prevent us from enjoying together both the sweetness of loving each other and the most delightful and tranquil felicity. Farewell, my heart, I truly wish that that arrangement could begin today.

*-*-*

Farewell, farewell, my very dear heart, love me always, and never forget for a moment the unhappy exile who thinks always of you with a new tenderness.

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 1, December 7, 1776–March 30, 1778, Cornell University Press, 1977, pp. 222-226.

[what-if-queen-camilla]

Chapter 32

1st December 1995 - part 2

"After further testing has been undertaken and professionally evaluated in accordance with the latest and newest scientific research, His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales cannot be excluded as and is therefore considered the biological father of Ms Theodora Elizabeth Anne Parker Bowles, born on 4th August 1987. This may not affect the line of succession in any way.", the official announcement from Buckingham Palace read and, somehow, Camilla felt dehumanised, not only on her own, but also on her daughter's behalf. It sounded like a random scientific discovery, completely disregarding the fact that all of this was about an innocent, eight-year-old child who's world had been turned upside down within the blink of an eye only just about a week ago.

"Don't worry, darling, that's just the official announcement.", Charles had tried to prepare her on the phone earlier that morning. "My statement will follow about five minutes later and Granny tells me she's got something to say as well…"

And, this time, the heir to the throne did, indeed, release a statement, breaking with all old traditions and values of "never complain, never explain", completely u-turning his attitude compared to the interview he had given one-and-half years ago, freely and proudly stating:

"I am delighted to officially acknowledge Ms Theodora as my daughter, happily taking on all rights and obligations that paternity brings about. Mrs Camilla Parker Bowles, Ms Theodora's mother, and I, have been knowing each other for over twenty years and she has been my best friend for almost two decades; she has always been the one person who understands, supports and encourages me when nobody else does; and, eventually, after both our marriages to other people had already broken down irrevocably, we realised that we were more than just friends, we fell in love and became a couple and our wonderful, sweet, little daughter is the most beautiful product of the greatest love of my life.

I know that not everybody in this country will approve of this, I am well aware that these revelation will undoubtedly cause controversy - but today I'm not only speaking to you as the future monarch of a country that needs to be guided into the 21st century - today I'm also speaking to you as a father, who loves all of his three wonderful children equally, as a man who just wants to be with the woman he loves - the one woman who's been my strength and stay through some really tough times, who's suffered all different sorts of scrutiny, judgement and humiliation - though the majority of you have never even met her. So, today, I'm kindly asking you - the people of the countries I have always loved so much and of which I - God willing - one day shall have the great honour to be King: have compassion. Together, let us follow the holy commandment of forgiveness, let us 'charity' be more than just a fine word; together, let us create a society in which nobody has to be afraid or feel ashamed or excluded because of whom they love.

As announced by the Palace Office earlier, this will not affect the line of succession in any way. But it will affect my life and those of the people I love, including all of you, but I trust that, together, we can find a way to cope with these things as best as possible, not only for my and my family’s own sake, but for everybody in our society who already is, or might one day find themselves in a similar situation. It might not be ideal, it's not what anyone ever would initially plan or wish for, but it's what happens, in the United Kingdom, across the Commonwealth and, eventually, the whole world. Last but not least, I'd once more like to appeal to your sympathy; sympathy for my three children, their respective mothers, and my partner's children from her first marriage. Be compassionate, be kind. Don't blame them. None of this is any of their fault. I can only hope this will not affect your trust in me and my connection to all of you across our beloved Commonwealth."

He closed his statement with "Your always loyal servant Charles"; he had recorded it himself, his soft, vulnerable voice only further underlining the pain he was feeling on behalf of everybody involved, and listening to him caused Camilla more than just a few tears: it had been broadcasted on the BBC, followed by "Everybody hurts" from R.E.M., (obviously, in order to create the most dramatic atmosphere imaginable), before the moderators started analysing it all "exclusively" in an "exclusive" special, where people from across the country were invited to join via telephone and share their thoughts and opinions; and to her very surprise, apart from a handful of negative comments, the majority of reactions were actually… positive. "I think it's a good move of him to be honest!", one person said, and another one agreed: "He's been very brave and we should appreciate that". Someone else added: "I've never heard him talking so passionately about anything or anyone. It must be real love, and who in their right mind could ever be against that?" And, eventually, before they closed the programme with Phil Collins' "Against all odds", somebody else concluded: "I think he'll be a good King! Just what our country needs." Camilla had been following it all on her own in the guest room at Annabel and Simon's house she was currently living in, only just accompanied by a Gin and Tonic and a few cigarettes to prevent herself from losing it completely; she couldn't deny that it'd done something to her, that she was touched, beyond moved, if she was honest, that she'd never loved him more and wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms, hold him tight and kiss him as if there was no tomorrow…

As if on command, somebody knocked on the door at that very moment. "Yes?", she asked, rushing over to open it. "Milla, here's… a visitor for you…", Annabel explained and, before she could've added something, the door flung open and Camilla was in Charles' arms. "Oh my God, darling!", she sobbed, almost forcefully pressing against him. "That was brilliant. You were brilliant!", she praised him with a teary voice, between desperate kisses and heartbreaking sobbing. "I love you, darling.", she whispered into his ear, a mixture of pride, adoration and lust in her voice. “I love you, too, darling,” Charles replied, his eyes full of love for Camilla. He could easily get lost in her bright blue eyes and her wonderful face, framed by her cheeky blonde curls. It had been quite some time since he’d last seen her so unbothered, almost happy and cheerful. Maybe, after a long, dark winter there’d finally be a wonderful spring and a warming summer for them, filled with sunshine and bees and happiness. Maybe, after all they’d gone through, their time was finally about to come. They both were surely hoping so.

[ammstify]

Persona 4 and "Wants vs Needs"

One thing that I have always loved about the Persona series, in particular Persona 4, is how the various characters and stories of the game represent quite a few interesting writing tactics and representations of life. From hiding your true self from others, to assuming how people truly are based on their outwards appearance, to overcoming your fears in order to improve yourself.

Today though, I'd like to touch upon the writing concept of "wants vs needs", and how it is represented within two particular Social Links in Persona 4 Golden.

NOTE: BIG SPOILERS AHEAD FOR PERSONA 4 GOLDEN

DO NOT READ IF YOU WANT TO PLAY THE GAME FOR YOURSELF

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But what exactly are wants vs needs, you might ask? And how exactly is this connected to a Japanese game about summoning weird, fashionable beings to fight freaky monsters in a TV world?

Well, to start simply, wants are defined as "(to) have a desire to possess or do (something); wish for," whereas needs are defined as "(to) require (something) because it is essential or very important."

The concept of "wants vs needs" is a common dichotomy that is not only shown throughout MANY forms of media (including the Persona series), but is also an important part of our own lives as well. Many of us having vary forms of wants, whether it be to get rich, to be successful, to find the person that loves you. But many of us also have varying forms of needs too, such as paying your bills, having enough food to eat, or taking care of your body.

As such, there are two important examples within the characters and story of Persona 4 Golden, among many others, who represent this dichotomy very well within their social links: Ryotaro Dojima and Nanako Dojima

(Source: RPG Site)

From the very beginning of the game, when the protagonist just meets Dojima at the train station with Nanako, we learn many interesting key facts about him; Dojima is a detective for the local police station in Yasoinaba, who typically works most nights, while being a single father for his daughter Nanako Dojima.

While he does seemingly love and care for his daughter, as the murder investigations begin, he starts to become rather absent throughout the story, with him only appearing every so often at night during the nights where he has no work. And during quite a few of these nights, Dojima is shown to be tired and visibly stressed about the investigations, yet tries to interact with both you and his daughter. But there are also a few nights where he is left in an inebriated state, or even has to leave partway into spending time with Nanako to help with the investigation.

As a young pre-teen, I had originally viewed Dojima as a selfish, neglectful father, who cares more about an investigation than spending time with his young daughter and caring for her. But as I played the game for the first time as an adult and experienced his social link.... My perspective changed dramatically.

As early as May 6th in the game, the player can begin Dojima's social link at nighttime, just a bit after completing Yukiko's dungeon and saving her from the TV World. By now, many players have already interacted quite a bit with Nanako, who we learn a bit about in terms of both her life and her fathers. Nanako is a seven year old girl who throughout most of her day, either stays home alone watching television or walks to school by herself. A few years ago, her mother passed away, and since then her father has been the one to take care of her.

However, due to Dojima's obligations as a police detective, he often is absent from home and is unable to do much around the house other than make coffee and bring home food. This has left Nanako to deal with the duties her mother often would do in the past; Cooking, laundry, cleaning, etc. Over the course of the main story, along with both Nanako and Dojima's social links, we learn that he struggles quite a bit with being a single father, not only due to his disconnection with his young daughter, but also because the fact that he is a detective and often is on the job.

(Source: IGN, "May 8th - Shin Megami Tensei: Persona 4 Golden Guide")

We can see how the investigation has taken a toll upon their relationship, with Dojima struggling with how to talk to Nanako about her others passing, helping with her homework, or even just interacting with her outside of small talk and watching TV. Though, we see that he tries his best nonetheless, such as bringing home little gifts like the platypus t-shirt for Nanako on children's day, or special sushi from Junes during the holidays. Though, as we begin to further develop a social link with Dojima, we begin to learn why he actually struggles quite a bit with being a father.

Years ago he details about how his wife, Chisato, was killed in a hit-and-run accident that has been a cold case for many years, and has tried to solve constantly by himself over these past few years. In some sense, we learn that Dojima actually blames himself for the death of his wife and struggles often to face Nanako, not only because she reminds him of his wife, but also because he feels guilty for not being able to explain how and why his wife, and in turn her mother had died. This situation has caused Dojima to be a bit neglectful unintentionally of Nanako, not allowing himself to really develop a deep relationship with his daughter, and therefore digging burying himself within his own work while trying to chase a case that he may never be able to solve.

Throughout all of Dojima's social link ranks, you discuss about his struggles with his wife's death, and slowly begin to encourage him to try and find a balance between his work life and home life, for Nanako's sake. The want in this situation essentially is Dojima wanting to try and solve the death of his wife, and to learn about why she had died, without realizing that his situation is not what he actually needs.

What Dojima needs at that moment is to actually spend time with his young daughter and give as much love and cares he physically can to her, and show that he truly loves his daughter, because she is all that he has left. Rather than burying himself in his own work, Dojima needs to learn about how he has a situation that he needs to focus on: His own life without his wife and the daughter that relies on him, which we eventually help him learn as he tries to balance both his relationship with his daughter as well as trying to learn and find a way to bring Chisato's killer to justice.

But Dojima is not the only one aware of his unintentional neglect, as Nanako herself also begins to realize and recognize the rift between her and her father. In Rank 4 of Nanako's social link, the young girl begins to question her fathers choices, wondering if the "bad people are more important to" her father than she is. As we reassure her that he's trying to protect her though, she does begin to think about it, yet still seems sad at that possibility. After all, what seven year old girl wouldn't think that if her father wasn't around as often as she was used to?

This is further explored on within Ranks 5 to 8 of her social links as she questions if her father still cares for her and her passed mother, wondering if he will "throw her away" just like she did photos of her mom, or never smile again. During her 6th rank, she even grows anxious about asking her father to sign a school visitation form, and attempts to give to to him in her 7th rank while he's busy on the phone. After he finally looks at it and worries about what to put down, she runs away crying because all the worry and stress had finally affected her.

This pushes both you and Dojima to search for him among many of your friends, and eventually find her alone by the river through Dojima's help. Though, you end up meeting her alone, with Dojima believing you can talk to her better than he can since she's upset with him, and help bring her home. The next rank, you help look for Nanako's survey and end up finding it signed in Dojima's writing, with it saying "Anytime... I'll try," showing that Dojima has begun to try and be there more in his daughters life.

Among it, she also finds a photo of her mother, her father, and herself as a baby, and wonders why her father had stopped smiling. With your comment on him also "being lonely", she realizes that both her and her father were equally suffering from the loss of her mother, and realize that in a way, they both have been suffering.

This same realization comes to Dojima in his later ranks as he realizes how much Nanako means to him, and how you as the protagonist have begun to repair their relationship as a father and daughter. In the end, with both their ranks at a near close, Dojima decides to spend a day with Nanako and you as "a family", eating cake together and admiring how strong his daughter is, realizing how much he loves her. He admits in the past he couldn't even look at is daughter because of how much she reminded him of Chisato, and in turn through your help and his care for you as his nephew, is able to begin anew, balancing both his wants an needs, and Nanako's wants an needs.

(Source: JohneAwesome "Persona 4 Golden - Max Social Link - Justice Arcana (Nanako Dojima)")

In the very end, Dojima, Nanako, and you go and walk by the river just like they used to with Nanako's mother, happily playing in the water and for the first time in a long time, being a happy family. Of course, Dojima in the end is called to go chase some local neerdowell's, but with Nanako's support this time, cheering him on happily as her father goes to bring them to justice!

Now knowing all this, I've come to realize the truth of the situation now as an adult: That Dojima is a flawed man, struggling with the balance of work life and home life, and being a single working father to a wonderful daughter he hardly gets to spend time with, not a selfish deadbeat dad. And that Nanako is a young, empathetic girl, who like her father misses her mom, and learns to help her father find that balance they need in their lives. The relationship of father and daughter in this story, and how the writers of Persona 4 and Persona 4 Golden masterfully weaves the themes of "wants vs needs" into their story, will always remain within my mind as I write, and inspire me each and every time.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this fun little analysis, and take care!

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Day 4- Oakenshield: Prince or Thief?

Today's fic was for 'New Plot Bunny' and I'm actually super excited about this one!

Oakenshield: Prince or Thief?

Rating: T

Warning(s): N/A

Ship: Bagginshield

Words: 2229

Summary: Robin Hood AU; Everyone knows the story: After King Thrain took his best warriors, including Crown Prince Thorin, only to be slain by the orc forces in Khazad-dum, his advisor, Lord Smaug, was placed in charge and all the lands of Erebor suffered. Fortunately, rising past the oppressive tyranny was the one and only Oakenshield, to rob from the rich and give to the poor. In reality though…that’s not quite accurate. For one thing, there are actually two beings claiming to be ‘Oakenshield’ with vastly different objectives, and then there’s the small problem of them not being aware of the other until Bilbo comes across a rather interesting Company of dwarves in Mirkwood.

Bilbo plopped himself on a fallen log somewhere on the outskirts of Mirkwood Forest. His hands crossed over his knees, and his eyes glued to the rolling hills of the Shire just to the west while his mind wandered far away. How could everything go so wrong in such a short amount of time? He was almost too exhausted to cry. No, that fled with his anger as the Sheriffs were physically pulling Bilbo away from his home, and his rotten, evil cousin-in-law. 

Gandalf plopped down beside him, for once having nothing to say as he pulled out both their pipes. He began to bang them against each other, trying to share the last scrap of pipeweed between the two before lighting the ends and handing Bilbo his own. Bilbo didn’t smoke right away. He was too wrung out for even that pleasure.

“Why did this happen, Gandalf?” He asked, his voice rough and thick.

The old wizard took a deep inhale of smoke before blowing it out into a simple ring. The fact that he didn’t transform it into fantastic shapes said more than enough about the state of things. Bilbo finally allowed himself a smoke of his own, matching the ring with one of his own.

“The King and his son never returned from war.” Gandalf stated simply enough.

Bilbo snorted. “The former dying at the latter’s hand is how I heard it the two days I was invited to stay in their prison.”

Gandalf gave him a soft, apologetic look. “I would have gotten there sooner had I known…”

Bilbo waved him off. It certainly wasn’t Gandalf’s fault that he had fled the Shire the moment after his mother’s funeral to wander the world. It also wasn’t his fault he returned to find his properties claimed by Otho and his snake of a wife, Lobelia. No, Gandalf wasn’t to blame for the state of affairs Bilbo returned home to. Bilbo did blame King Thrain though, for leaving for a war Erebor and its surrounding provinces didn’t want. He blamed Prince Thorin, whether he killed his father or not, for not being able to come home and take care of his people. Mostly, he found himself blaming Lord Smaug. Who took over Erebor in the absence of its monarchy. Who seemed to believe taxes and rewarding the rich was more important than seeing to the basic needs of every citizen. Who stripped a land of justice and moral obligations, turning Bilbo into a criminal overnight just because he had the gall to speak the truth.

“Where do we go from here?” Bilbo asked softly.

“Rivendell is and always has been a sanctuary to those in need, and Lord Elrond would welcome you once more into his halls. Regardless of your…current status.”

Bilbo gave him a fond, but exasperated look. “You seem to forget, my friend, that any status of mine you now share. You can’t break someone out of jail and expect not to be labeled an outlaw as well.”

“Oh, I doubt the Shire Sheriffs were all that interested in keeping you there for the long term. Hobbits I find are remarkably resilient beings, and I think the western reaches of our dear kingdom won’t see the aftereffects of Smaug’s rule until later down the road. The capital, however…they spoke of Smaug employing orcs to be his tax collectors and law enforcement. Dale, Esgaroth, and Erebor will all suffer much greater and much quicker.”

Bilbo felt shivers racing down his spine at the thought of those bloodthirsty beasts being anywhere near civilized society. Gandalf was right. Rivendell was outside the reaches of Erebor, and the elves’ magic kept it protected. He should get out while he still could. He tampered out the last bit of ashes collected at the bottom of his pipe as he stood and gave a large stretch. The sun was just beginning to set, drawing his eyes back to the rolling green hills of his home. It’s not like he had anybody to worry after him, not really anyways. He had neighbors, tenants, cousins he would speak to every once in a while. Nobody would really miss him if he disappeared for good. Did that mean that they deserved such a fate as Otho and Lobelia, carrying out the orders for Lord Smaug?

“We can’t go to Rivendell.” He declared. “I don’t know what I can do besides probably get myself killed, but we can’t leave things like this, Gandalf. It’s wrong.”

The old wizard chuckled before slowly pulling himself up as well. He placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulders, his eyes twinkling brightly.

“I hope that you never stop ceasing to amaze me. Your courage may be exactly what the kingdom needs reminded of right now.”

Bilbo snorted. “They need a hero. But sure. A couple of outlaws like ourselves, I’m sure we can work up the muscle for a little poetic justice. After all, a hobbit and a wizard? We’ll just have Smaug quaking in his boots.”

“Let the powers to be hear the name Bilbo Baggins and feel true fear!” Gandalf teased him.

Bilbo laughed as he turned and started to trudge his way into the forest. After all, he was granted the title of Elf-Friend. Surely Thranduil would have no objections to him staying for just a little while. Until he could restock on supplies and have a solid idea of where he was going.

“You know I was thinking about that.” Bilbo mentioned. “What if I used an alias? Something the people could chant and might not give away my…hobbitness quite so much.”

“What did you have in mind?” Gandalf asked.

“Well, the symbol of my house is an acorn. I was thinking maybe ‘Oak Something’. Oak Branch? Oak Protector?”

“Oak Shield?” Gandalf offered.

Bilbo curled his lip and scrunched his nose. “Maybe.”

Gandalf laughed. “Bilbo, my boy, I have found when it comes to epithets, you don’t choose them as much as they choose you.”

***

(Eight months later)

Thorin hacked at the undergrowth of the forest aimlessly listening as Nori continued to rattle on about what he heard at the local tavern. It was all the same in his mind. Smaug bleeding Dale and Esgaroth dry. Azog letting his orcs slay any who try to oppose them. Thieves and outlaws becoming more commonplace every day. It was a sting to Thorin’s pride, but given the circumstances, there wasn’t much he could do about it. At least at the moment.

“So then they got off on the subject of ‘Oakenshield’s Company’ and get this! The lot of them have it in their heads that we rob from the rich to give to the poor now. As if we’re not struggling ourselves.”

The rest of the Company burst into laughter.

“Don’t you know lads, it doesn’t take much coin to lead a resistance.” Gloin guffawed. 

“Aye! Our swords never chip, and our hammers never splinter.” Dwalin roared.

Thorin couldn’t help smirking at how much enjoyment the Company was getting out of this particular rumor. It never fails that after performing a job, their name gains traction amongst the villages. Using the epithet that Thorin had earned during the War in Khazad-dum, ‘Oakenshield’s Company’ were the only ones left to stand against Smaug’s tyranny. Except on days like today. As far as Thorin was concerned, false accounts kept them safe. 

“So we find another orc pack to stop, and everyone’s singing our praises again.” Fili stated.

“Aye! None of this ‘not killing stuff’ either.” Kili tacked on referring to another one of the odd rumors circling about their group.

Thorin smiled at the beaming duo more than grateful he was able to get them out of the castle in time. Dis had known Smaug would see them dead before letting them be a potential threat to his claim to the throne. Dis staying behind to feed him information was still a decision that haunted his every waking moment. Luckily, she seems to be handling herself well, so far. 

They were almost back to their makeshift camp for the night when something out of the ordinary began to register with Thorin. Something he hadn’t realized earlier thanks to the Company’s racket. The forest was quiet. Thorin held up his fist, his other hand clinging to Orcist tightly. Everyone stopped, immediately becoming defensive. The oppressive silence weighing heavier now.

“What do you think it is, Thorin?” Balin whispered.

“I don’t know.” He responded. “Feels like an ambush though.”

An arrow whizzed by his ear, landing a solid ‘thunk’ into the tree behind him. Thorin’s eyes darted the direction it came from, catching a shape gliding along the branches. His lip pulled back in a sneer. Elves. Another came from a different direction, and Thorin rolled out of the way of the perceived attack. Only it wasn’t that at all. He spun around at the cries from his Company as a large rope net triggered by the two arrows hoisted them three feet into the air. The tangle of limbs made it nearly impossible for anyone to grab a weapon to spring themselves free. Seeing the tie that held them aloft, Thorin moved to cut them down only to stop at a knife against his throat.

“Decent reflexes, but not enough, Love. Now be a good dwarf and drop your weapon.”

Every muscle in his body tensed at the idea of a surrender, but knowing there was at least one more out there, Thorin let Orcist fall to the ground. The Company watched the exchange in bafflement, and Thorin didn’t quite understand why until the figure moved in front of him. He blinked in surprise, but his attacker remained the same. It wasn’t an elf at all, but a hobbit!

The hobbit smirked as he produced a length of rope already tied into a set of cuffs. He raised an eyebrow, indicating for Thorin to put it on himself. He felt his jaw grind down at the sting to his pride, but could see little else he could do at the moment. He allowed the hobbit to bind his wrists, and due to the knife still at his throat, let the burglar back him all the way up to the nearest tree. The hobbit threw the end of the line up over the branch. Thorin felt it tighten, pulling his wrists over his head, and when he looked up, he saw a blonde elf securing it. Well, at least his instincts proved true about his accomplice. Once the hobbit was certain of Thorin’s helplessness, did he lower his blade.

“Well you are proving to be a very accommodating captive. Do you do this often?”

“You’d be the first who dare attempt it.” Thorin responded.

“Ah.” The hobbit grinned before leaning in to whisper in Thorin’s ear. “I’ll be sure to take it nice and slow then.”

An uncomfortable heat settled on Thorin’s cheeks before traveling south to pool in his stomach. He wasn’t quite sure of the hobbit’s intentions, until he pulled back holding Thorin’s coin purse. The dwarf glared at him as he shook it next to his ear before placing it in a loop on his belt. The hobbit tipped his green hat towards him.

“A pleasure doing business.”

There was a cry from one of the dwarves, and Thorin craned his neck over the hobbit to see there were now two elves, quickly and efficiently relieving his Company of their valuables. The red headed elf had reached towards Ori’s beads though, and before Thorin could make his threats, the hobbit spoke up.

“Not the beads, my friends! After all, we have no need to dishonor these fine dwarves after all their help today.”

“As you say, Oakenshield.” She replied, bowing her head.

Thorin’s jaw dropped, not sure what surprised him the most. The fact that they were actually going to leave them their beads. The fact that this hobbit was their leader. Or the fact that this was the one who's been using his name! The off-the-wall rumors. It was because of this thief. 

They finished robbing them, and once the hobbit was satisfied, he turned back to Thorin with a bow.

“If it’s any consolation to you, this will be going to five families with young ones in Dale. Once again, thank you for your cooperation. Please enjoy the rest of your stroll through Mirkwood.”

The hobbit latched onto the blonde elf who joined the red haired one in the trees, and just like that they were gone. Thorin struggled against the bonds holding his wrists when a knife, the very one used to threaten him, went slicing through the air, cutting the rope holding him against the tree. He brought his hands down so he could rub his wrists and ponder the most unorthodox bandits he’s ever met.

“Well that could have been worse.” Bofur exclaimed cheerfully, breaching the silence.

A last arrow sliced through the air to hit the rope holding them up as they collapsed in a pile of groans and complaints. Despite everything that happened, Thorin found a smirk pulling at his lips. No matter how angry he wanted to be, he was actually rather impressed by it all. Rob from the rich to give to the poor. Thorin found himself wanting another meeting with this impersonator, and this time…he’d be ready for him.

[female-malice]

According to Liz Hume, the executive director of Alliance for Peacebuilding last year, “When women are part of the peace process, [those peace outcomes] are 35 percent more likely to last beyond 15 years,"

Another study indicated that including women in peacebuilding efforts increases the probability of ending violence by 24% because they

"bring a more comprehensive peace plan to the negotiating table by addressing societal needs rather than solely focusing on what will make the warring parties happy.” 

One of the crucial movements in the peace space in Israel/Palestine now is the historic partnership between Women Wage Peace and Women of the Sun; the latter organization was founded in the summer of 2021, and is comprised of Palestinian women working for peace in the West Bank and Gaza. Women Wage Peace was founded after the Gaza war of 2014, is comprised of Jewish and Arab women who live inside the State of Israel, and has the two primary objectives of 1) Getting Israeli/Palestinian peace negotiations going (and to eventually achieve a "bilaterally acceptable political agreement") and 2) guaranteeing that women are part of the negotiation process

WWP and WotS write in their partnership pact:

After over 100 years of conflict which for the most part was managed by men, Israeli and Palestinian women say “enough”…Our shared goal is what unites us and motivates us to dedication, persistence and determination. The responsibility we feel for the future of our children enables us to move forward despite the difficulties.

In fact, heartbreakingly—only three days before Hamas’ brutal attack on October 7th of this year, Women Wage Peace and Women of the Sun held a joint march from Jerusalem’s Museum of Tolerance to a promenade with a view of the Old City.

Then, Reem Hajajr, a founder of Women of the Sun, said,

“more and more women join the movement, women who want to protect their children and prevent them from being the next victim....We started out as a movement with a few lone women and now we are thousands from the West Bank and Gaza. We no longer take the back seat and are determined to act persistently to end the cycle of bloodshed and to achieve freedom and a just, honorable life for Palestinian and Israeli children.”

She said those words exactly two weeks ago.

And so many wails, so many tears ago.

More tears than can be counted.

One of Women Wage Peace’s founders, Vivian Silver, is one of the 150 or more people that were kidnapped by Hamas, as well. I can’t not mention that. May she and all of the other captives be returned swiftly and safely.

May no other innocent lives be lost. Not one more.

May there be an end to the bloodshed soon.

May this be the last moment of horror before the creation of a new, whole tomorrow for everyone.

May everyone be safe.

Women Wage Peace’s statement on October 15th said, in part:

For 9 years since the end of “Operation Protective Edge”, we, Jewish and Arab mothers have been telling the leadership in Israel – enough! We must turn every stone in order to reach a political solution. This is our obligation for the future of our children. This is our obligation to both Israeli and Palestinian children. They deserve a future of security and freedom, not a future of death, war and destruction. More wars, bombings, assassinations, arrests and a never-ending cycle of bloodshed will not allow us and our children to live here as normal people. All conflicts in the world have been resolved by peace agreements…. Every mother, Jewish and Arab, gives birth to her children to see them grow and flourish and not to bury them. That’s why, even today, amidst the pain and the feeling that the belief in peace has collapsed, we extend a hand in peace to the mothers of Gaza and the West Bank. We mothers, together with women from all over the world, must unite to stop this.

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