#navel-gazing artist crap

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

Thinking abt things...

Say you have characters from a mythological or ancient source. like Grendel and his mother. ...specifically, Grendel and his mother. These are figures that are monstrous, eat human flesh etc etc. Across recent-ish history (1400s-present), they've been racialized by white authors along various lines, usually being heavily black-coded and fitting very well into that DEEPLY RACIST narrative. They also exist in a field (anglo-saxon studies) that is VERY White Supremacist, even/especially in academia.

now here's me. a white author. I've been writing these characters (in terms of analyses, original stories, putting them in fanfics/fanwork, etc) for a few years. I'd originally made the conscious choice to have them both be white, primarily as a conscious denial of the existing (negative)racialization of these characters, but also because I do not feel that I, as a white author, could or should attempt to portray characters like this through a racialized lens. I've seen other white authors that I otherwise respect try to do Grendel & his mother this way- and hooooo boy did it make me uncomfortable. great critical acclaim from the community but i felt like i wanted to squirm out of my skin. y i p e s. good message, pLEASE DONT WRITE THAT YOU'RE A WHITE WOMAN WHO HAS NEVER EXPERIENCED ANY OF THIS

however... the more I look at these characters and this field as a whole, the less comfortable I am discounting/ignoring the presence of race here. like its ridiculous, and harmful, and racist not to. there's plenty of writing abt it.

however, I also worry about the implications of me, a white creator, making the decision (even just re: my own work) that these characters/narratives "aren't meant for white people anymore". far from being reparative/restorative justice, I feel like I'm veering very far into assigning these monstrous figures to black/BIPOC authors "because they have more of a right to use/understand that narrative than we (white ppl) do"... and that's. also probably very racist. I think.

the closest thing I've gotten to a conclusion here is that racialized AND nonracialized/non-BIPOC-centric depictions of Grendel and His Mother are both okay, good and maybe even (assuming the non-racialized ones still have SOME kind of message or story to tell) necessary. It's harmful to deny race around these characters or try to write them "color-blindly". It's also (though this I'm less sure about) harmful as a white author to "give up" these characters due to some percieved (read: stereotyped) idea that they're more "needed" in nonwhite communities.

...however.... where does that balance leave me, a white author who wants to write about, cosplay, make fic about, and generally love these characters?

I'm not sure I can like them anymore-

but again that feels like overthinking in the most problematic way possible.

I would genuinely love feedback/critique here bc I'm just going around in circles on this....

#Grendel #folklore studies #narrative analysis #critical race theory #academia #yeah kinda shading Maria Dahvana Headley for this #certain parts of The Mere Wife just make me....ewwwww #tw racism #white guilt #if we're being honest #critique #self critique #self reflection #trying to b conscious of my art's implicit biases and motives #probably overthinking it to the point that its now Worse #ive done that kind of over-course-correcting-til-it-loops-back-to-being-racist before #so ik i have to watch out for that trend in my worldview #navel-gazing artist crap #not even getting INTO my constantly projecting these characters onto the main cast of Notably Pretty Fucking Racist Show SUPERNATURAL #figure out the Actual Broad Societal Context before even starting to poke at that

[adoptedadventures]

How Artists Say ‘I love you’.

Stick and Terry had been together for a couple months now. Both were happy with each other, but their individual anxieties sometimes got in the way of talking to each other properly. When one would try to express affection, it would usually end with the attempt being very awkward and the other trying to hard not to giggle before both of them would burst out laughing. It was all good fun, but sometimes this was the situation when Stick was trying to be serious, but Terry’s giggles were just too contagious. Stick tried to think of a better way.    An idea came to him when Terry came to the house with writing on his arm. Stick had asked what the words were for. Terry said that they were a way for him to remember stuff, as the ink stayed on for two or three days. Stick thought that this could be a way for him to tell Terry that he loved him without having to say a word. But it couldn’t be on Terry’s arm or hand; no, that was too boring. They were artists; he had to be more creative. Though he decided on the place, he knew there had to be a moment for it, so he waited.    One day, Terry seemed to have had a really bad day at school. He didn’t talk during the walk to the house. He didn’t even say hello to anyone as he just threw down his bag, kicked off his flip-flops, and went downstairs to be alone. Perhaps this was the time to express affection? Stick knew how to cheer Terry up in these situations, but his stomach fluttered with anxiety. He shook his head, grabbed a pen from his bag, and walked downstairs.    “Terry?” he called. Terry was curled up against the ottoman, mulling over everything. “Hey, what’s wrong?”    “It’s nothing,” he murmured, avoiding Stick’s gaze. Stick gave him a concerned look, took a breath, and sat down in front of Terry, taking one of his ankles and putting his foot in a headlock. “Stick, what are you…?” He sounded so down, barely having energy to pull away or resist.    Stick pulled the cap of the pen off with his teeth, spit it to the side, and pressed the tip to the ball of Terry’s bare foot. Terry instantly squeaked and curled his toes. He started giggling uncontrollably when Stick started to drag the pen along his skin, writing. Stick tried to hold back a smile, but failed as Terry’s giggles quickly turned to full laughter when Stick finished the first letter and moved down to Terry’s arch—the most ticklish spot. Stick tried to write as neatly as possible, but Terry’s shaking and toe-curling was making it very difficult.    “Hey, stop messing me up,” Stick whined.    “What are you doing?!” Terry squealed with laughter.    “Nothing,” Stick said with a giggle as he kept writing along Terry’s arch. Terry’s laughter increased to hysterics as Stick wrote. Terry tried so hard not to kick out at him, but, he could admit, it felt good to laugh after such a lousy day. Stick finally finished his writing. He lifted the pen away from Terry’s foot, allowing Terry to breathe a little. Stick put the pen behind his ear and then spidered his fingers along Terry’s arch, just for a little extra laughter. Terry squeaked and squirmed, finally yanking his foot away.    “W-what the hell, Stick?” he demanded, trying to keep the giggles out of his voice. Stick turned to face him as Terry tried to look mad.    “Look,” Stick pointed to Terry’s foot. Terry tilted his foot up as much as he could. His face softened when he read the simple words scrawled across his sole: “I love you”. Terry blushed a bit and looked up at Stick. Stick was looking at his knees, blushing himself.    “You coulda just told me that,” Terry said.    “That’s boring,” Stick said with a shrug. “Besides, you obviously had a bad day so… I guess I just wanted to show my love without talking about it, cuz I mess up my words and then I—“    “You start doing that adorable babbling?” Terry finished. Stick blushed for a moment.    “Y-yeah. That.” Terry smiled and leaned forward, touching his forehead to Stick’s. A small smile came to Terry’s face. “What?”    “I just got an idea. Don’t move,” Terry said, his eyes sparkling. He got up and ran upstairs. Stick rolled his eyes with a smile. He tried to space out while he waited, but was interrupted by his stomach gurgling. He covered it with his arm and mentally told it to shut up. It growled at him. Terry returned with something behind his back. Stick was about to ask, but Terry bounded up to him and playfully pushed him on his back, straddling his hips.    “Terry, what th—“ When Terry pulled a paintbrush and a small bottle of purple paint from behind his back, Stick’s eyes widened.    “You don’t mind if I borrow these, do ya?” Terry asked cheerfully. Stick was about to say more, but Terry pulled up Stick’s shirt, exposing his small stomach. He uncapped the paint, dipping the brush in. Stick started to shake with anticipation; he knew what was coming. He supported himself with his elbows so he could see what Terry was doing.    “Terry, no,” he whined. Terry just gave him a mischievous look. Stick felt the cold paint touch his skin and he shuddered, giggling under his breath. Though he wasn’t as ticklish as Terry, his stomach was still extremely sensitive, especially to light touches. Terry knew this all too well. He smiled as Stick giggled and as his little stomach shivered. Terry couldn’t help but giggle when Stick’s laughter increased as the paintbrush teasingly circled his navel.    “Terry, oh my god,” Stick whined in between laughter. Terry only raised an eyebrow as he kept painting, only pausing to refill the brush. When he was done, he leaned back and examined his work.    “Done!” he declared proudly. Stick took a breath before looking at his stomach. Terry, too, had written “I love you”. Stick blushed and smiled, his face slightly falling when he saw Terry’s odd look.    “What is it?”    “Your tum looks smaller…” Terry mumbled, his eyes trained to Stick’s stomach. Oh great, he noticed. His look turned suspicious. “I don’t remember you eating lunch at school today.”    “School lunch is gross,” Stick argued. “I just didn’t feel like getting poisoned today.” Terry’s eyes narrowed, Stick swallowed, and his stomach gurgled. Fuck.    “I think there’s something you’re not telling me,” Terry said, his smile growing more dangerous. He held the paintbrush teasing over Stick’s navel as Stick squirmed nervously.    “I swear, I’m eating,” Stick squeaked.    “Doesn’t look like it to me,” Terry said. “You’ve skipped meals before…” He raised an eyebrow. “Just admit it.”    “Admit it?” Stick muttered nervously.    “Looks like we’ll have to play this game.”    “What ga—“Stick couldn’t finish because Terry put the paintbrush to Stick’s stomach, flicking the brush around as Stick instantly burst into laughter.    “Kitcha-kitcha-koo. Are you gonna tell me what’s going on now? Are you skipping meals? Huh, Stick?” Terry teasingly sang, inching the brush close to Stick’s navel. Stick squirmed and shook his head. “Alrighty then.” Stick’s laughter jumped up a volume notch when Terry moved the brush into Stick’s navel, making tiny circles and tickling like crazy.    “You’ve been skipping meals again, haven’t you?” Terry asked over Stick’s laughter.    “Nononono I swear! N-Not the belly button, please!!” Stick managed to squeal as he shook with laughter.    “I don’t believe you,” Terry sang. He started tickling Stick’s side with his free hand, Stick’s squirming and squeals increasing. “Tell me the truth and I’ll stop.”    “I-It’s the truth!”    “Are you suuure? Last chance, sweetheart.” Terry slowly leaned his head down, readying to blow a raspberry as he kept skittering his fingers along Stick’s sensitive skin. Stick squealed in fear when he saw this move.    “YES, YES, I SWEAR! PLEASE DON’T RASPBERRY ME!” he screamed frantically, yelping as he felt Terry’s hair brush against him. But instead of tickling Stick to death, Terry just gently kissed his stomach and sat up, stopping his assault. Relive flooded Stick as he took a huge breath, flopping on his back. Terry drew shapes on his pant leg as Stick got his breath back.    “So…if you’re really not skipping meals, what’s going on?” Terry asked, shuffling off Stick’s legs and helping him sit up.    “I’m eating,” Stick hesitated as he sat with Terry. “The food just doesn’t stay.”    “What do you mean? Why?” Terry asked nervously.    “It doesn’t stay because I throw it back up.”    “Stick!” Terry yelped. “You’re not becoming uh, what’s the word?”    “Bulimic.”    “Yeah! Bulimic. You’re not becoming that, are you?”    “No. Well, sort of.” Stick looked down at his hands, trying to ignore Terry’s worry. Terry scooted closer to Stick, taking his hand. “It’s just with bigger meals like if we go out for dinner or something like that. I feel really sick when I eat like that and throwing up is the only way for me to feel better.”    “That’s really not good for you,” he said, putting a hand on Stick’s stomach and gently rubbing it with his thumb.    “I know,” Stick said sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”    “It’s really okay. I mean, I think your tum is an adorable size,” Terry replied. Stick blushed at the comment, looking down at Terry’s hand. “But you still need to take care of yourself. You know, for nutrition and all that crap.”    “My metabolism won’t help me gain anything.”    “I’m not saying you have to gain weight. Just, make sure you eat at least a little bit.”    “Thanks for understanding,” Stick said with a sigh, putting his head on Terry’s shoulder. “I’ll try my best."    “That’s all I want,” Terry said with a smile, gently kissing Stick’s head as he held him close. “I love you, Stick.”    “I love you too, Terry…”    Exhausted from the entire day, the two quickly fell asleep in each other’s arms.

{Pre-epilogue}   

#still cute tho #they were so young #cute #stick #terry #sterry #pre-epilogue #story #pictures #ticklish #tickling #tickle #ticklish feet #ticklish belly #ticklish belly button #i love you #boyfriends #gay

[herrlovesyou]

Hell hath no Fury: Like a medic scorned prt. 3

(I can't remember if I posted part two but here is part three. Also im doing this via mobile so sorry for crap format. For more of this fic check out my deviant art page: fang5532) *GORE, BLOOD, VIOLENCE, etc.* Medic stared at the dark ceiling of the enemies infirmary, this would not be his cage any longer. Taking a deep breath the medic rotated his right wrist wincing as the thick leather strap rubbed his already worn skin. Manipulating his hand, one by one he dislocated most of his joints in his hand. Grunting in discomfort he slipped his now mushy deformed hand through the loop of his bindings having to force his wrist out of place as well. Heaving several heavy breaths he held his hand up watching as he popped most of everything back into it's proper place. "Gott...," He growled in a strained pain as he struggled to undo the strap across his other wrist with his mangled hand. Finally getting it off he quickly fixed his dislocated digits squinting around the room as he unlaced the last few straps and slowly sat up wheezing as his ribs crunched in his chest. The pain made him dizzy. The scalpel glinting in the light on one of the tables lured his gaze and the doctors jaw locked, now they were on his playing field. Staggering on a broken leg, he made it to the table and scooped up the tiny blade in his fist, his thumb pressed against it's stem as he wielded it like a dagger. A metal door shutting made medic jump but he quickly hobbled just behind the double doors of the infirmary, holding his breath as one opened and the Blu Scout stepped in looking around. Medics teeth grit together for a second before he lunged wrapping a black and blue and around Scouts throat who gagged and clawed trying to get free, "Gaaghf!" "Shhh shhh," The doctor whispered through bared teeth his blue eyes narrowed on the terrified Scout's face. Medic held up the scalpel in his free hand whistling the same familiar tune that he had been mocked with and the Scout's eyes grew huge, "NO. No..Ghagh- pleath- ." The Doctor gave an unsympathetic sneer and in one fluid motion, slammed the blade into the boy's throat causing blood to spurt out onto Medic's bare chest and face, which was twisted in a sadistic yet self satisfying grin. Scout choked, blood gargling in his throat as he laid on the floor and Medics jaw worked as he looked towards the door; Freedom was whispering to him. Clenching the blood soaked utensil in his large hand he painfully began the slow trek up the stairs out of the basement based clinic. He would live... Those words played over and over in his head. His breathing was ragged and ripped from his throat in short gasp, like a fish out of water as he staggered down the hallway with one shoulder on the wall for support. Spotting the doors to the outer garage, his relief hurried him onward. But that relief was quickly cut short as a shadow emerged from his right side, slamming into his jaw. "Where do you think you are going?" Their Soldier growled as Medic toppled over hitting the cement floor hard making pain rip through his entire being. Rolling in agony the German turned to brandish his tiny weapon, but he was empty handed. The Solly grinned looking over his shoulder as their Spy emerged out of the darkness into the fluorescent glow of the emergency light. The spy lit a cigarette slowly, " It 'as been so long since I 'ave had a captive attempt to flee." Medic wheezed strained as he shakily rose to his feet, taking two tries. "Sie werden nicht... Käfig mir.." The doctor spat breathlessly and the Soldier stepped forward again. Medic tensed ready for a brutish attack but it was the Spy who struck first with a swift, well aimed kick to his chest. If the doctor's collar bone was fractured before, then it was indeed broken now. He was sent backwards slamming hard into the wall, all of the air knocked from his lungs. Gasping loudly in shrieking intakes of air, Medic clenched his teeth trying to brace himself as Spy straightened his tie smugly, "What's wrong docteur, 'ave you gone weak in the - knees?!" The Spy snarled the last part landing another kick, but this time in the medics broken leg making him collapse to the floor shrieking in unbearable gut wrenching torment. Spotting the the friendly glint of silver out of the corner of his eyes, the doctor chuckled looking down at the ground. The Spy and Soldier looked between each other confused, Spy exhaling a stream of smoke out of his nostrils as if he were some ancient fire breathing creature. "WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT, WET NURSE?" Soldier barked stomping over in front of Medics slumped figure who's chuckling had turned into a maniacal cackling. The Soldier quickly wrapped his thick calloused hands around the Germans throat, but Medics face hardened. His lips pulled back in a feral snarl as he shoved the scalpel into the Soldiers navel and ripped it upwards. There was shocked silence from the two BLUs and Medic snatched the scalpel even further up, the blade scrapping along the sternum bone. The thin scalpel was so sharp that it sliced through every layer of skin, adipose and muscle exposing the inner organs below which had begun to spill out into the medic's lap. The Blu Spy watched in disgust and horror as the medic pushed the soldiers body off of him and lurched sluggishly to his feet, the dark expression on the doctor's face meaning for intense pain to befall him. "Ver are ze paperz going?" Medic asked in a dark mimicking way. Spy sneered, but Medic stepped forward making him swallow unsure. "Ver are ze paperz, Herr Spy?" He asked again in a insane sing song voice that made even the hardened French man back away a bit. "You 'ave gone mad!" The deception artist spoke in a whisper, with shake of his head. The good doctor chuckled and inched ever closer to the ghost of a man humming that ever familiar tune. "Nein, I am just a man who haz been mistreated...look at me, Herr." The French mans eyes looked over the bruised and broken doctor, the blood old and fresh coating his skin. Medic caught the Spy by the throat roughly, "So...Ver..are..die Papiere?" Medic sneered digging the scalpel into the corner of Spy's eye making him jerk and squeal in pain. Grinning from ear to ear, the doctor sliced the mans eye clear out, "Oops." He said almost giggling before his grin turned into a wolves bared teeth again, "It seems.. zat I have missed von..." Spy begged and screamed loudly despite the large hand squeezing the oxygen from his airway, nearly crushing his trachea. The physician hummed through his unhinged and upturned lips as the second eye was cleanly removed from the socket. After fifteen minutes, medic stepped back dropping the lifeless spy and looked at his maroon colored hands without remorse before staggering towards the exit. He made it to the sliding garage door and yanked on the lever causing the door to roll upwards with a tired groan of thin metal. The cool night air hit his skin like a tidal wave and his eyes stared up at the stars above. They were blurry but damn, if they weren't still beautiful. Tears stung his blue eyes but he quickly wiped them away and focused them on his base in the distance.. He was almost home free.

#tf2 fanfiction #tf2 pyro #tf2 spy #tf2 demoman #tf2 scout #tf2 medic #heavymedic #tf2 heavy #heavy x medic #team fortress 2