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marissapaul · 1 year

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1/6 day 12: Pop Culture & Spiritual Feminism

our last day! it's only fitting that we end with an anzaluda reading. i enjoyed the discussion of fear in the interview we read today. specifically, the way that fear has been drilled into people growing up today. fear that if we don't or can't work that we won't be able to live anymore, fear that modern medicine has become inaccessible, fear that there is nothing we can do to escape capitalism. yet, as always, we are given actionable feedback. for it is possible to overcome that fear, it is possible to subvert capitalism, maybe not in its entirety, but in important and meaningful ways. from our readings earlier this semester talking about the economic shift to capitalism and the idea that capitalism necessitated a managerial class that was going to be willing to exploit others around them. i grew up with parents who were willing to do just that. and they spent my teenage years training me to do the same to those around me. but as i have wound my way through college and academia i have been able to find the root of those fears that my parents had instilled in me about not making enough money, not being in a lucrative enough career, etc. and now that i understand the economic system i live in, i know what place i want to occupy within or rather, outside of it.

i know that macklemore has an iffy reputation for it was certainly unfair and racially-motivated that he won the grammy over kendrick lamar, but i generally feel that macklemore has been aware of his privilege throughout his career, even if he continues to benefit from being white in a historically black profession. this song is all about unpacking his role as a white rapper and what it means to be privileged. there is one line in particular that goes "but the one thing the american dream fails to mention is i was many steps ahead to begin with" that quote has stuck with me even as i have grown past his liberal politics into leftism and liberationist politics. because that line is true of me as well. i may not have my mom's money anymore, but that doesn't change the fact that i did grow up with it, i went to a nice school, i have a jeep wrangler which is a vehicle that is commonly recognized as a marker of middle/upper-middle class status, and even though i am living paycheck to paycheck now, i have a college education and in four months i will have a masters degree. i may be queer and autistic but above all of that i am white and i grew up rich and that has set me many steps ahead. as i have become aware of my place in the world and how it actually functions and the ways in which the neat and orderly life of the suburbs is only predicated upon the suffering of others, this lyric stays in my mind to both ward away fear, and to remind me that even in my current situation where i am living off of a TA stipend, i have been given so many resources that have put me far ahead of those who weren't able to access those same resources and education that i have been gifted with. i refuse to be a part of that managerial class that abuses the people around me when i will always be far closer to poverty than i will be to the mounds of wealth that capitalism seeks to hoard for like fifty people out of a billion. i refuse to lead with anything other than love and empathy. and for that i have lost the financial support of my parents, but i am no longer afraid of not making enough money to live as they lived. for i do not want to live anywhere near the life they live. the world i envision is a fundamentally and drastically different one from the false comfort they enjoy.

the anzaluda interview also offered some solid closing insights on herbal medicines, this quote from page 224 in particular stood out to me, "if you take medicine for example, the man is always putting down herbal remedies because they're too available to everybody. because if you find out you can heal yourself on your own, without him, he's out of the job" that is such a powerful quote. and it wasn't until this class that i could appreciate the fullness of it. i grew up in and around the medical field (my first two years in college i was doing pre-med to be a pediatrician, and i grew up in and worked in a pediatric practice in houston, which is a city that is lauded for its medical facilities) and while i have found myself unpacking the white supremacist structures i grew up with over these past few years, this was one aspect of my childhood that i had yet to reckon with. so i am really thankful that we have repeatedly taken a look at alternative forms of healing including herbal remedies. i grew up hearing so much about the marvels of modern medicine, as if the people we have been studying haven't been healing each other for hundreds and thousands of years. of course, advancements have been made, but they remain inaccessible to the working class and so what advancements have really been made? healing through white institutions has only grown more and more inaccessible. even just having a baby in a hospital has become a truly tremendous expenditure. so of course people are turning to alternative medicines. medicines that the highly processed medicines we buy at the grocery store are based on, which is all predicated on stealing from indigenous healing knowledge. i am always trying to deconstruct what i grew up with, and i have the large swaths filled in, i am just now on a journey to deconstruct all the little pieces that may not show up in my daily life. i am thankful that this is a piece of that journey that we were able to look at in depth this semester.

there were two quotes from the forewords we read that stood out to me. the first is "I have heard from people that the book has helped change some minds (and hopefully hearts as well), but it has changed no one more than the women who contributed to its existence. It has changed my life so fundamentally…” and this is really how i feel about my thesis. all around me and throughout the past two years i have heard again and again that everybody hates their thesis, and that this is just a stepping stone to the "good" scholarship that you might create ten, fifteen years in the future. but i refuse to think that way about my thesis. i love my thesis. and while i hope that it might be useful to me, it has been useful me and to those that have worked on it with me and for that i am thankful. it has helped me and my friends work through our gender and sexuality and the ways we think about building community, it has introduced one of my advisors, dr. johnson, to transness in a depth that he hasn't studied before, i hope that dr. skidmore has been able to learn from me in the process of mentoring me, i know that she is proud of me and happy that i am here and so at the very least i have that aspect. there are so many people who have contributed to the creation of my thesis, all of whom have been changed by it and for that i am thankful no matter what happens and no matter how many or few people read it or draw strength from it. i, and those around me have benefitted from it and for that i love my thesis and look upon it with kind eyes and a kind heart.

the second quote is, "And yet to act is not enough. Many of us are learning to sit perfectly still, to sense the presence of the Soul and commune with Her. We are beginning to realize that we are not wholly at the mercy of circumstance, nor are our lives completely out of our hands." i think this is a really powerful statement for academics. we get so good at dissecting things and understanding why things shake out the way they do and the historical context of it and etc. etc. but we have to learn to be still. who knows if i will make a field-changing intervention, what i do know is that i am now able to sit still. i am able to commune with my soul and understand her without trying to logic and rationalize her thoughts. i may not make a lot of money, but i am far happier than my mom has ever allowed herself to be. for i grew up in the same economic system, but i have learned to sit still and from sitting still i have gained an optimism that i might live differently and outside of the constraints of capitalism and white supremacists structures. i will certainly always be less financially well-off than her. but i have my soul when she sold hers long ago so she might enjoy the luxuries of hoarded capital. if there is one thing that i have learned from history it is that history has not been a linear march towards liberation and progressivism. things ebb and flow, but people like me have always lived and loved and it is from them that i draw strength to live queerly. i live in a state that actively targets trans folks, yet i am not entirely a victim of circumstance. i have agency. i can live with love, kindness, and empathy and that is perhaps the most radical thing i might do in this life.

i hope that one day my mother can learn to sit still.

#Spotify

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hocusbogus · 1 year

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Learning about Basquiat

His videos were recommended to me by YouTube, and I did ignore it a few times that it did pop up, I admit it. I’ve been watching “great art explained” and short documentaries about artists like Yayoi Kusama or writers like Haruki Murakami because I was curious about their motivation as artists and their path. Then I started to get recommended other great artists and writers or creatives.

I was familiar with Basquiat’s work, and I knew of his history of being a young prodigy artist whose life was cut too short, and he was in the 27 Club (if you don’t know what that is, you can google it). When I finally clicked the videos about him I was so glad that I did.

His way of working and thought process resonated with me, more than any other artists that I’ve watched documentaries on. Not at all am I comparing myself to Basquiat, but more on how a lot of us creatives are often similar yet different. Let me talk about his motivation for art, how he “works” on his art, and which parts resonated with me.

He was a young black chap, who grew up in a middle-class immigrant (on his dad side) household in which his parents had great traditional expectations of him growing up. The mom supported his passion for art whereas the dad was apprehensive, as most parents of that generation do but because Basquiat was so sure of his drive, motivation, and purpose, he had to go out to the world and made his voice heard.

He was a poet, he was a visual artist and he was a human first and foremost, so he had to tell the world about the human experience through the lens of a Black American guy in the 80s. When in high school, Basquiat was described by his sisters as someone who doesn’t excel in a traditional sense. But he read a lot, adored writers, and he drew. Those were his intelligence but it wasn’t something that was celebrated in a traditional education system during the 70s in America (or perhaps up to today, all over the world).

As an artist, there was just that drive, the purpose that made him believed in his role in the world so much that he had to pursue it and he did. It wasn’t an easy path for him, he started as a “graffiti artist” with his good friend Al Diaz and were known under the pseudonym SAMO, however, this was a title that he disliked, mainly because it forced him into a box and attached him to “negative traits” as it did to “Grafitti” at the time, it was a vice. It was what was expected of him from society at large as a black artist, to be rough and a menace. To him, graffiti was just a medium for his art to be seen, it was just a format for him to express.

He faced so much racism up to the day he died. He was a black man in a white-dominated industry, as it was in that era. He wanted to represent Blackness in the 80s of America, he wanted to open up people’s visions and perceptions towards Blacks. He had a purpose.

Blacks were viewed as uneducated, poor, and criminal, especially where he grew up (Brooklyn). Meanwhile, Basquiat was middle-class, educated, creative, well-read, and artistic. Those things can exist simultaneously not just in the Black community but in all communities, so when you have the time and talent to use your voice to bring forward a cause, you should, because not everyone has the privilege to do so. Basquiat was educated in art history, self-educated but very well-versed. He has all the criteria to make it in the art industry and even when he did, the stereotype and racism still haunted his daily life.

I admire him this much for his drive and purpose, I strive to have a purpose and I may not have realized it as young as when I was 17, or maybe I did but I’ve suppressed it to conform to society’s “normal” path. I could read 12 books a day when I was in primary school leading up to high school, I started writing poems when I was 7, I’ve found a notebook many years ago at my childhood home, it was a notebook when I was 7-9 years old and it contained all my writings. I kept diaries and journaled all my thoughts when I grew into my teenagehood. I wrote a full novel when I was 12. These have never seen the light of day, and I don’t even know if I still have them back home because I’ve gotten into a habit of throwing everything away and I developed a detachment to physical items just so that I won’t be like my parents who are hoarders. What was the purpose of all that? Nobody was reading my writing and I didn’t have the need to want others to but I had to express myself, I love to let my imagination run free, I borrow ideas and grew them. That was what Basquiat did as well, he referenced amazing writings in his art, he was known to mix formats of painting, poems, science (anatomy), and symbolism (crown, copyright symbol, skull) in his art and he admitted that he borrowed inspiration from others and digest it in his way. It’s not about originality and being the first person who thought of something, but it was also about putting it together from your lens, your pov is what’s unique sometimes and not the subject matter.

His sisters also told a story about how Basquiat often received complaints from his teachers that he wouldn’t pay attention in class. He was distracted and occupied. His sisters said it was because he had too much intelligence in his head that the education system was slowing him down and wasn’t stimulating him enough (I’ve rephrased). What I believe was, creative people, cannot strive in a traditional education system environment as their stimulus and motivation are different.

This reminded me of my teacher’s comments on me since I was young (I was diagnosed with ADD as a kid, but they say it will go away when I grow up, and ADD/ADHD was a taboo in our society in the 90s and was not properly managed). My teachers always told my parents that I was distracted in class and I would be twirling my hair, or staring outside, but I often would still be able to complete my homework and do well in my exams. I don’t remember that I was doing it, but I do have glimpses of memories where nothing else in class ever really excites me that much. I was not good in school, even though I was in the “best” class, but I was not the “smart” one. I never got nor maintained straight A’s and it used to matter so much to me in the past because society convinced me that it was.

I only had two Aces throughout my highschool years, and those were in languages, English and Malay. I love writing essays, people would borrow my essays to read just because. I would submit more titles of writings to my teachers than what was required, even when they asked us to pick one out of five, I would write all five.

These are all in writing because we weren't allowed to type when we were in high school, I’m not sure whether kids these days type their assignments in high school.

That was the only thing that I was known for, writing. I’m very good at it. So that’s what I always focused on despite constantly living in this imposter syndrome mode where I feel like I am not a good enough writer, I persisted and continued.

I was a writer since I was 7, this was my passion and identity and I never stopped. Not till I reached adulthood and “life” bogged me down I stopped writing when I was 24, but that’s a story for another time, this is about Basquiat.

Basquiat loved to consume media while he was creating art, he would be reading and painting at the same time with the radio and TV on. He said that was the best way for him to work. This was the second part that resonated with me the most. I am not sure whether it is a symptom of ADHD but I cannot work without “distractions”, I would listen to music while I write, and work. I just cannot be productive or get my creative juices going without multitasking, and allowing my brain wave to be interrupted by beats and lyrics, and the smell of food or a documentary playing in the background, there is just no way. I cannot work in “silence”, it was not stimulating enough for me. I am sure there is a psychological explanation for this or even a scientific one, but for Basquiat and I, that was just how our brain works and we embraced it.

I love learning the fact that a Black artist from the 80s in Brooklyn, New York shares so many similarities with me, this gives me hope in sharing my stories and my views because there will be at least one person who will resonate with it and feel heard. I am here for you, whoever you are, maybe 20 years or 70 years into the future when you see this, this is for you.

#basquiat #art #personal

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rileychester · 2 years

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I do think Colin has an arrogance about him when it comes to Marina that annoys me

Yes, I think Marina is not happy in her new life, though considering what she has been through, not so surprising.

She lost the love of her life suddenly, everyone in the ton knows her children were born out of wedlock sorta, she is known as a fallen women of sorts, and she has just had twins. On top of that, she is married to a man she does not love. Even though Phillip is kind, caring, and good to her and her children in every way. Marina loved George and still does and she is grieving the lost of him.

Phillip is kind and good to her, but he is not his brother and he will never be. Nor do I believe Phillip loves Marina, but he knows how important Marina was to George and Phillip would never abandon family. Marina and the twins are his family and he will always protect them. For Marina and Phillip is a marriage of convivence, both being there for each other as they have both lost George a person they both loved.

I do think that Colin thinks in many ways that Marina would have been better off married to him. At least that is the feeling I got. Sure they would had fun together and I do think she cared for him, but I doubt she ever loved him. He was fun, kind, sweet, and funny. But her heart still belonged to George. Who knows Marina might have grown to love Colin on his own as she might even love Philip one day. But I always thought that Marina felt Colin was more a friend and a solution to her many problems.

Even if she married him after the exposes of the truth, she would still have all the same problems that she has now. Sure she would have the Bridgerton name behind her, but that would not change the fact that everyone knows her children were conceived on the wrong side of the blanket. Sure Colin would be a loving and supportive husband, but that would not change the fact that he is not George the man I believe she’s still in love with.

Colin is also a third son, he does not really have that much to offer for her children other than love and fatherly love. Which is wonderful and I’m sure that Colin would be an amazing father to the twins. But as a third son, he doesn’t have the funds or privileges that Anthony does.

Where with Phillip, he would clearly make sure that Oliver would be his heir and inherited his family’s estate that should be Oliver by right being he’s George’s son and Amanda would have a proper dowery and introduced to proper society. Also since Phillip grew up with George and is part of the Crane family, Phillip can fill in all sorts of things about George and the Crane family that Marina might not know. He can give the twins a part of their father in his own way. Phillip stepped up and claimed them as his own family, showing the ton that he does not care how they came into being and has welcome them under the protection of his family name. Plus the show has shown that Phillip is good with the children and cares for them.

In many ways I think that Marina’s marriage to Colin would have been similar to her marriage to Phillip. Simply because she didn’t love either of them, they are both more her friends than anything else. They both would have been good fathers to her children and taken care of the whole family. I also think Marina is grieving her lost love and the lost life they would had together if George had lived. She probably also has some postpartum depression like she did in the books. Marriage to Colin would not instantly change any of that I don’t think. He would not have been her white knight that I think he fancies himself. I always thought their relationship, he was always the one with more feeling than Marina. She cared for him, but it was not a whirlwind romance as he thinks on her part. Colin is not the hero to Marina’s story that he fancies himself. He’s more a supporting side friend character.

#marina crane #phillip crane #bridgerton #colin bridgerton

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moonlightchess · 3 years

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Let me talk to you about my mixed race (half black, half white) experience.

I have features and hair that suggest "black" if you know what mixed people are, which honestly a lot of people don't considering how many times a day I hear, "Okay, but what are you?" from whiypepo who are confused about my paper-pale skin, broad nose, narrow hooded eyes, thick lips and afro. It truly seems to throw them for a loop, I can't tell you how many confused, curious stares I get at parties or shopping or wherever. I felt so brutally visible, judged, freakish, because I never felt comfortable claiming the black experience despite my father being full-blooded west African (Senegal). I do have white skin, and I didn't want to appropriate that, because if you truly have no fucking idea what mixed people look like AND I've got the 'fro relaxed or whatever, you MIGHT mistake me for completely white.

At the same time, the white experience has been equally as denied to me, because literally anyone with eyeballs can clock me as mixed. I grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood of rich kids after my father died, and adolescence was a nightmarish swirling hellhole of weird glances and eye rolls from kids at school who told me I needed to "get my nose fixed," and hearing nervous, "Oh, she's so exotic-looking, how lovely!" from white mothers at childrens' birthday parties. I remember with a powerful clarity the time my best friend's mother was helping me put a costume hat on when we were around 10 and she exclaimed, "Oh! Your hair is so soft, I thought it would be so coarse but it's not that bad!"

Feeling so entirely unmoored and unwanted is so painful for a kid who is already struggling with the insecurities of growing up, all the bullying that already accompanies it, and so I made my decision. I couldn't change the color of my skin enough to join my black community, so maybe hiding was better. Relax the hair. Save money for a nose job. Are there doctors out there who do the opposite of lip fillers?

I felt so deeply ashamed on both sides. Ashamed of my face, my hair, being visibly and invisibly black, but at the same time any time I tried to just say I was white I'd get dubious glances and insistences of "white and....?" The kids at school would laugh at my "ghetto" name - my beautiful name that my father gave me before he died because it meant something to him - because this was the 90s and it was long before the great awakening. They'd throw things at me in the cafeteria and yell, "That's Shaniqua Blanca!" when substitute teachers asked for my name. (My name's not Shaniqua, but that was the only stereotypically "black" name they knew).

Then I got a job at Starbucks with a mean girl and when I tried to tell her, with a kind of desperate need for her to validate my attempts to hide, "most people just think I'm white," she rolled her eyes and said, "I figured you were black. You look black, just albino or whatever. But with dark hair and eyes." In that moment, the shame and fear I felt MADE me feel ashamed of myself, because I didn't want to "look black" but I also didn't want to be ashamed of looking black, being visibly black, because black culture has always been a part of me. My father raised me on motown - to this day I'm hipster-proud of little eight year old me loving Aretha and Chuck and Muddy and Martha and the Vandellas over the popular singers of the day, I was cool. But I was also black, and that was becoming increasingly scary.

I felt ashamed of being ashamed, afraid of being afraid, especially when my beautiful brothers and sisters were out there visibly black and demanding respect when I was too pathetic and weak to do the same. There was no support group for "girls with super white skin but who also look black, "EXOTIC-LOOKING" PRIDE!" I felt so intensely alone, until one day when I attended a poetry reading by a black poet who visited my college and he was inviting discussion with the audience after his reading and I shyly raised my hand and explained that his work spoke to me because I wanted so badly to join the black experience but I felt both too privileged and too afraid. I felt like I hadn't earned that.

He shook his head vehemently and said, "my sister," and that was enough to get the tears running, "you are black. Your experience is already black. You are owed this struggle, this art, this defiance, this beauty, and you are one of us. You earned it every time someone asked you what you "are," you earned it every time someone called you "unique" looking, you earned it when the racist white kids in the schoolyard shunned you and you earned it when you cried over our works of literature, art and music. You earned it through all the cruel jokes, all the isolation, all the love."

I'm weepy even typing this up, because all my life I've felt black without being black, but on that night I felt black. I understood the power of James Brown, "say it loud! I'm black and I'm proud!" So I stopped relaxing my hair even if it lost my job prospects for looking "unprofessional". I stopped telling people my name was a shortened, whitened version of my own. I used my nose job money to fund a vacation to my father's land instead.

None of the issues I've presented here were fixed. I still deal with bullshit every day. But the shame is slowly eroding, because I am so profoundly inspired by the bravery and power in all my black family who don't even have the privilege of trying to hide even if unconvincingly like I once did. A homeless man once approached me to ask for money and he said, "sister! Help a brother out, we have to stick together!" and instead of the panicked shame I once felt, I instead felt seen, loved, known, and I gave him almost fifty bucks, all the cash in my wallet, because he'd taught me something about myself on that day.

I don't have any answers and it's late and honestly I don't even know why I'm writing this other than posterity's sake. I am so grateful that things are changing now, that kids like me might grow up knowing some different experience, and I hope I am among the last generation to feel ashamed, unseen and lost. It was never the white pop anthems of my day that made me feel powerful, it was Aretha and James demanding respect, demanding that the world know how proud they are. I love you, mixed kids. I see you all.

#race #mixed race #personal

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nightswithkookmin · 3 years

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Goldy I never thought I would reach out to any Jikook blog but after your last post I have to. I am an east asian american and trans. I have never spoken on this issue, commented or posted about this. I am a Jikook supporter but sometimes Jikook supporting blogs don't feel like the friendliest place. I want to thank you for changing my opinion on that. It is an insult to BTS to say Jikook don't know they seem gay or that they don't know what gay looks like. It is an insult to fans like me to say it would be OK to do the things they do if they were cisgendered straight men. I personally saw a few people say or dance around this and they got intimidated by big blogs for it. I would never name names because I beleive in free speech and the right of people to express themselves, as long as it isn't hate speech. Supporting lgbt people and making sure they don't feel endangered is MORE IMPORTANT THAN STANNING A KPOP BAND and I say this as a 4 year long bts and Jikook stan. So many people don't want to touch this issue and I understand why.

But thank you for supporting ACTUAL lgbt people as well as bts and showing stubborn people that BTS mean gay rights when they say gay rights.

I don't know why but this Ask made me cry...

I've been reading it over and over for the past two days and each time I feel humbled by it. Thanks so much for sharing this with me.

I think the era of the obsessed 'kids' and '13 year old shippers' in this space is coming to an end. I think it's time for a more nuanced mature conversation on what it means to ship and stan our faves in today's sociopolitical climate.

Let's intellectualize shipping and use it as a vehicle for social change not just pleasure. Sabotaging political hashtags is a start. Trending and donating to BLM is equally important. Fighting for gay rights and recognition is the next step and a natural progression from here- and about damn time!

Gone are the days where celebrities and idols were immune to accountability and personal responsibility. We live in a world where everyone is required to be converstant in and sensitive to social issues. Awareness is woven into our collective consciousness and for some of us we cannot divorce that from our pleasure receptors.

Hate to quote my pastor but, 'As a kid, I spoke, thought and reasoned like a kid. As I grew up, chilee darling, I put my ghetto ways aside. You feel me?' Lol. Yea, my pastor hood like that. Lol.

The fact of the matter is, BTS has a higher mature demographics now. Majority of us grew with them, if not past them. They are not seventeen anymore, Jin is almost thirty, the youngest in the group is past twenty three and majority of their fanbase are breaching Young Adult well into Adulthood and beyond.

We simply cannot view them with the same lens anymore. If we did, we would be infantilizing them if not enabling them.

We ought to be able to have certain conversations that reflect our age, hearts, backgrounds, experience, values and beliefs.

We can't sit behind our television sets and smart phone screens in this day and age and assume BTS sat through a performance like this and did not for a second think about what it meant, why the crowd cheered at certain moments or even understand the impact, message and intent behind it- especially not when Halsey, an openly bisexual woman and advocate for LGBTG rights is an acquaintance of thiers.

I don't know how a fraction of this fandom can assume BTS would have a collaboration of this nature and not know anything about the gay rights discourse or what queer baiting is or not consider how their actions may or may not be contributing to the marginalization of persons as these- to not have agency and personal responsibility or empathy.

JK cannot stan a gay artist such as Troye Sivan and divorce his music from his sexuality because it flows from it. Not when Troye has openly spoken about the struggles he went through as a closeted gay man, coming out and how that affected his mental health.

JK knows what gay is, he is aware of the struggles queer people face on a daily. His decision to cover, license and recommend songs by this artist is a deliberate act coming from a place of being informed on the matter.

Jimin knows. RM knows. Suga knows.

BTS cannot prepare a speech like this while oblivious to the plight of the LGBTQ plus community. I refuse to believe that simply because it's not true. Anyone who says otherwise is a scammer. Lol.

And I think they are intelligent enough to have cognisance of the fact majority of the world view certain aspects of their home culture as problematic and non-progressive and that this same world is watching them and what they do in this space matters.

They are part of the conversation. And it's in their interest to present themselves as queer a queer friendly band and company by distinctifying themselves from these 'traditional' Kpop bands.

I believe they know that being woke gives them a competitive advantage as MCs and advocates for the youth in today's world.

I believe they are aware certain things in their 'fan service culture' doesn't fly in the space they compete in and want to compete in. They are competing and rubbing shoulders with top LGBTQ plus advocates, sharing seats with them at awards, standing next to them- they best to look sharp.

It's obtuse for anyone to fall on the 'culture' rhetoric to excuse certain behaviors of their idols when actual queer people from and within that same culture fight against it.

Most S. koreans I know and have come across complain about their 'culture' and some even harbor strong resentments against this whole fanservice culture.

Holland, an openly gay Idol from South Korea, has equally spoken out against the 'fan service' culture prevalent within Kpop on several occasions and laments how it depoliticizes queerness and affects actual queer people within S.K.

And isn't it funny that the same conservative Christian population who strongly oppose homosexuality in S.K often lead online campaigns against Jikook for 'promoting homosexuality' because of certain fanservice and skinship they do?

If skinship is normal and fanservice is culture, why does conservative S.K keep pushing back against it? It's their culture uno?! Lmho.

Queer south Koreans and conservative Christians hate fanservice culture and yet here we are using their culture to defend it as if it's all black and white. Lmho.

Did they or did they not see South Korean's reactions to this performance by Jikook? The mixed feelings most had about it?

Men can nibble on men's ear but God forbid they toss them in the air and catch em💀

South Koreans are not a monolith. Their culture is nuanced like any culture. It's not static and not clear cut black and white either.

It's one thing to respect other's culture, it's another to perpetuate it in ignorance. Perpetuating their culture and being religious about it does not allow for the dynamism inherent in their culture.

Troye Sivan talked about how he'd stop in the middle of his concerts and performances upon seeing the hyper fangirls in the front row and then think to himself, 'I know they know I'm gay, so why are they still here...'

And this was before he came out.

Jikook know we know they are queer or that we think of them as queer. When Jimin talks about 'those that love me for me' he knows exactly what he is talking about or rather who he is talking to- it's not these hets I'm afraid.

Troye also talked about being privileged because he lived in a rather queer friendly neighborhood where everyone is gay and so he'd always felt safe coming out.

Isn't that what JK is doing?

Now this is a person who's without a doubt had a lot of influence on JK in his early formative years as an Idol right down to his decision to move into a much queer friendly neighborhood of Itaewon.

They know we know. Jikook is gay.

Thankfully, there are reports of a rising number of LGBTQ plus in South Korea, a lot of allies, a lot of queer folks coming out and a lot of companies opening up to working with gay idols and aspiring idols.

It's such a relief but a lot of work still needs to be done and I stand with them on behalf of Jikook and any queer folk in SK.

My sister is helping me reach out to an LGBTQ plus advocate from Seoul for an interview for my blog. If everything goes well, I'd love for her to share her thoughts on queer passing, queer baiting and fan service within Kpop and how that affects LGBTQ youth in South K.

It's a conversation I'm really passionate about and interested in.

I love me some ships, but I also love me some queer advocacy and human rights uno? Lol.

Thing is, I may quit BTS one day, but I can never quit being me. Being human. Always put the human first is my motto.

Oh and I hear people are plotting to cancel me? Chilee. Y'all do that but:

Let it echo.

Signed,

GOLDY

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elliotmateo · 3 years

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My Coming Out Letter

People- I finished my coming out letter! This has come after months of struggling and all, and I'm so, so happy that with this letter, I might have a way forward. I'll post it down here, so that you could maybe use parts of it, or just get inspiration from it for your own letters. I've talked to all the trans guys I know (a grand total of two) and now, all I have to do is give my parents the letter. Everything depends on their reactions.

Dear Dad, Querida Mama.

This letter is very difficult for me to write, but I feel that it is important for me to write it. There is something I have been carrying inside of myself for some time now, and I now feel ready to come to you with it.

A few nights ago, you said that you would love me no matter what. That doesn’t mean support me, and I’m aware of that, but this is who I am, and as much as I wish I could, I can’t change that. I am starting this letter on the third of May, 2021, and I hope to give it to you within the next month. It’s something that I expect to come as not so much a shock, but something that will be difficult for you to understand, and that is okay. That is warranted. I don’t expect you to parade around being happy about it, but I can only ask that you try and understand me, and help me, and most of all, venture forward with an open mind, because the truth is that I need you. You are my parents. I love you.

We should start at the beginning. Roughly a year ago, I made a promise to myself. Even then I knew, but I didn’t want to admit it, I wanted to pretend that my problems weren’t there, I was in denial. I have my faults, but I’ve always been someone you could be proud of, someone you love, and as much as I know that that will always remain, I was and am scared that this will somehow change that. Amidst all that confusion and distress, I made myself a promise, that I will keep. I promised that before the 4th of May 2021 (May the fourth be with you and all), I would start this letter, but only if I was 100% sure. I have arrived at that point, where I know who I am and who I want to be, and I also can’t stay like this, because, simply put, I am in pain. This is the part that I try my best to help you understand what it is to go to school, to live every day. That sounds almost comical. I live in Switzerland. I go to an international school. If I am sick, I can get medical care. I am privileged, and I know that this year, a lot of kids like me writing a similar letter to their parents run the risk of being kicked out, being abused, being killed, even. Those are extreme cases, but I am lucky, and I feel privileged that I am able to share this with you and entertain seemingly realistic thoughts of a future ahead of now, so let me explain.

I might as well come right out with it. I am not a girl. In my head, it’s so plainly obvious to me, and I feel like I’ve never thought of myself as a girl. Looking back at my decisions, it seems like a lot was done to make other people happy, instead of myself. I am not blaming you for occasionally trying to make me wear dresses and other feminine garb, for keeping my hair long, etc. You did what you thought you should do, I assume, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve never really suffered from (in my memory) more than mild discomfort at my appearance, but that really started to worsen as I grew older, eleven, twelve, and now thirteen, when I started to develop more female characteristics, and that’s when this really snowballed. I felt uncomfortable, but I never knew why. I tried to do more feminine things, to pierce my ears, to braid my hair, thinking that I just wanted to be more like the other girls in my class and that I’d soon grow out of it, but that didn’t happen. It got worse. This is around a year ago, when I knew something was off, and now I’ve arrived at the point where I need to do something. I feel like my own life isn’t mine, like every award and accolade, every friend, every teacher I have, know me as someone that I’m not. I feel like it’s getting worse every day, and I struggle to want to start the day and get to school. The clearest way I can describe it is like I’m in a deep well, and above me there’s a ladder that can pull me out, but I can’t reach it. With this letter, I am trying to grasp that first rung, to be able to pull myself up. I hate my appearance, my body, my voice, my height, everything about me that is moderately feminine, and sometimes, it’s really dumb stuff such as my shadow or my clothes fitting wrong. I feel wrong. As I said, it’s been like this for quite some time now, and every day it gets harder to live with myself while having this massive problem hanging over my head. People call me *deadname*, girl, daughter, sister, even *nickname* now hurts to hear. I know it’s hard to understand, but, even I know that it’s not their fault, that they’re not doing it to hurt me, I genuinely find it hard to respond. I hate it. The black and white of it is that I feel male. I see myself as male, but I don’t look male. I am male. I’m transgender.

I know this may be a bit difficult to understand at first, and it may be very new to you, but it is something I have known for some time. I trust you with this information about who I am, and I would like if in return that you start calling me by my chosen name, which is Asher, and using my pronouns, which are he/him, for example: This is my son Asher. He has an unhealthy obsession with chairs!

I plan to come out at school, and my family. I’ve already spoken to another trans man in year 13 who’s graduating this year. His name is Sebastian*, and he came out around the same age I will, and he’s helped me with who to talk to and what they can do. With your consent, I can change my name and email in the system, and depending on the situation and my comfort level, use the male bathrooms. I’d also like to get a masculine haircut, and I’ll start dressing in a way that I feel comfortable in, i.e in male clothing. This is to help me feel more at home in my body as well as the world, and it’s a feeling I hope that you can understand. Regarding the family part, we can talk about the best way to do that and when.

I’m still your child, with the same likes and dislikes – I’ll just be living more authentically as the true me. And I know that you may have some slip-ups calling me *deadname* or using she/her at first, and that is okay. I would just like to know that you are trying your best to learn, understand, and support me. If you do slip up, you don’t have to make a big deal out of it. Correcting yourself is enough for me to see that you care about and respect who I am.

I know you’ve known me all my life as *deadname*. As your daughter. I know that when I was a baby, you were so happy you were having a baby girl. I haven’t changed. I’m still the same person, and I hope that you can begin to see me as your son.

I love you so very much, and I hope that I can have your support throughout my life.

All my love,

Your Son, Asher

*fake name

#lgbtq #lgbtq+#trans #transgender #transboy #ftm #ftm transgender #trans man #coming out #trans coming out #writing

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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

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Hopelessness of Wanting

Part 2 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

remember that request on @raulesparzaconfessions asking for Chilton being evil & angst??? and I said I would never do that to my poor Frederick darling? WELL I DID.

Warnings: Darkfic! NSFW. Noncon (nonconsensual blowjob), doctor-patient sexual abuse, past child sexual abuse, angst, self-loathing Chilton. Part 2 will contain suicidal thinking. This is honestly so melodramatic. I apologize to everyone on my tag list.

1k words

If anyone had been outside women’s wing cell 4B, they would have heard a wet choking sound. If they were among the less jaded of the staff, they might have investigated, but that sort of altruism was quickly extinguished here.

The occupant of this particular cell was named Julianne Barker. From three to fourteen years of age, she was sexually assaulted by first her father, then her brother, and then by dozens of men who paid fifty dollars for the privilege. At fourteen, Julianne picked up her father’s shotgun and shot him, her brother, and two other men in the house point-blank as they slept.

That was how she came to live at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

A blue light flashed rhythmically from inside the cell. The choking noises, slurping and gurgled, seemed to almost follow the rhythm of the lights.

Julianne was a docile patient. Without access to firearms she was harmless, and for the last ten years claimed to have no memory of the violent act at all. Her entire memory and very sense of self was a scrambled mess.

That was why Dr. Frederick Chilton began treating her with hypnotic therapy, to pull those buried memories out of her. It was meant to help her recovery. That was his intent, at the outset.

Wet noises were now accompanied by rustling fabric, audible if one were to stand just outside the door. Shaking breaths grew steadily louder. The brief screech of chair legs on the floor as a hand gripped it for support. A low moan rose above it all, a guttural cry that faltered and trembled in time with the steady, wet sucking. Choking. Slurping.

It was an accident—that was important for you to understand!

Dr. Chilton’s voice cracked as he lost control, his hips driving forward—an unconscious mistake—to be met with gagging, sputtering, as his broken scream echoed off the cell’s bare walls. And then the only noise was panting. The screech of the chair again as he slumped back down upon it and wiped his brow. Finally, he cleared his throat and tucked himself back into his pants. Sat up straight.

In a smooth, authoritative voice, he said, “Waking now. You’re waking in a quiet room. Safe. Calm.”

It was an accident—the first time it happened. Julianne did not only relive her memories when put under hypnosis, but fell into a full regressive dissociative state. Chilton had not been expecting the willowy young woman to suddenly get on her knees and begin unbuckling his pants.

And yet, when he realized that he was alone… that he had sole access to the security tapes and the guards would look the other way… he did not stop her. Neither did he do anything to force her! Never wove his fingers through her yellow hair or bucked into her mouth. Everything she did was her own volition.

That was how he justified it to himself.

Acting out traumatic memories could be therapeutic in many circumstances. It allowed her to take control of her past. It was exposure therapy. At best, he was helping. At worst, she never remembered or knew what was real. Always enjoyed their “sessions.”

That was how he justified it to himself.

He knew it was sick. But what did it matter? He had given up ever finding a real relationship. Hannibal Lecter turned out to be a serial killer. Will Graham was running around Italy chasing him. Neither man ever returned his admiration. Chilton had given up entirely on love, himself, and the dull pretense of morality.

He would never get to fuck the mouth he truly wanted—never see the lips he pretended were parted around his cock anywhere but his imagination.

You would never desire the old, scarred doctor—the autocratic, pompous Dr. Chilton, twice-maimed and hated by his own staff.

Might as well take it where he could.

***

As he opened the door to the cell, his heart leaped into his throat and he barely caught a yelp before it burst in its humiliating high pitch from his mouth.

“Oh! Dr. Chilton! S-sorry, I didn’t know you were in a session!” you stammered.

The perfect lips he had been picturing now parted in surprise. Your eyes shone like the sun. He forgot to breathe. Then the shame of what he’d done came crashing back, and the way you, in your perfection, avoided looking at his face—his scar—pierced him.

“You forgot to check schedules? Again?” he chided, voice cold as the dead thing in his chest.

“No, sir! I mean—”

“It’s fine, Dr. Chilton. You’re the one who’s supposed to be in his office right now, according to your own schedule.” Nurse Clerval strode into the hallway behind you, white sneakers silent on the stone floor.

Your face lit up for your rescuer—that bright, innocent smile that was almost always present (the exception, of course, being when he was around). Clerval had a soft spot for protecting you. All of his staff seemed to. Who could blame them? The newest nurse, like a lost puppy, who hadn’t yet lost your shine as everyone in this dismal place eventually did. It only drove home his own loneliness, and the hopelessness of wanting you.

“How careless of me,” Chilton said before rolling his eyes directly at you. “Fortunate you have friends to speak for you.” He got a twisted pleasure from watching your smile fall again.

It was the best he could do, he thought as he limped away, the tension on his abdominal scar acting up. If he couldn’t have your light for himself, he could at least stomp some of it out so it wasn’t taunting him all the time.

He knew that was no justification, but what did it matter?

He was filth. The only reason he survived Miriam Lass’s bullet was to suffer more on this Earth—he knew that was the truth, because he didn’t deserve to be spared. It wasn’t a miracle. It was justice.

He simply hadn’t suffered enough yet.

You were everything he was not, thrown in his face to torment him. Always so kind, and full of life—a sunflower standing tall above a garden of thorny roses. Loved by all. And he coveted you for himself. Needed you like rain. But beautiful creatures always turned their faces toward the light. You would never cast an eye down to him—the thorniest vine whose petals had all been stripped away, never to bloom again. He was lost in a place of shadows you would never see.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags: @beccabarba / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31 / @stormtrooperofficerbrowneyes / @barbasimp / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemadxxhouse

Just ask if you wanna be added (or taken off after being exposed to whatever this was XD)

#frederick chilton #Frederick Chilton x reader #this will be a short series (was going to be a oneshot but I wrote this much & was like... post.)#dark fic #I don't think Freddy would actually do this??#but I also don't... not... think that he might #my writing

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fanfictionwritingoddity · 3 years

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𝙎𝙪𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙈𝙤𝙤𝙣

( 𝙽𝚎𝚓𝚒 𝙷𝚢𝚞𝚞𝚐𝚊 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 )

Neji Hyuuga was always so traditional. You supposed it was a trait deriving from being a part of one of the great ninja clans. Even when you met him at the tender age of thirteen, his behavior had been nothing short of disciplined. Back then you thought he was an uptight asshole who needed to be knocked down a few notches. You were sure he knew this, but still, the ever stoic until snarky boy had made no comment on it.

After a year of your team and Guy’s team collaborating, you began to learn more about Neji. His character developed in your mind from that of a stuck-up jackass to... someone else. Lonely, filled with a longing to be free, with a pinch of anger. Your mind had swirled and twisted, attempting to make sense of the boy who grew on you so quickly.

Trapped. Neji was trapped. Sealed into a fate he had no choice in from birth. He was lonely. Friends had never come easy, but he wasn’t even sure if there was a point in making them. Cracks began to form in his perfectly crafted persona, inklings of emotion you thought you would never find leaking through.

He reminded you of the moon. So adored and appreciated by all of the stars around him but still so, so alone. The Hyuuga had a unique glow, one of a kind in its nature, coveted and abused. Like the moon, Neji was jealous of those who could so easily find partnership in their surroundings.

So, you released those petty pent up feelings. You had been kind to him in the past year, sure, but there was always the underlying aggression that you had done your best to suppress. The next two years spent within the presence of your fellow ninja were different. You began to understand everything about him. The things that made Neji tick, the traits he had inherited, and his formation as a person.

To him, you were the sun. A girl with an ethereal shine that flowed through every fiber of her being. Shining on each and every person you interacted with, Neji felt undeserving of such a privilege. The boy felt that your kindness and tolerance was better wasted on some other pitiful case, his having been closed since his first breath in this world.

He knew that you had started off hating him. Most people did. Everyone who ever laid eyes on the brown haired male passed judgement before he could even meet their gaze. Carefully creating his character the way that he did was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it allowed him the solitude he forced himself to crave. On the other, it pushed away any chance at finding companionship.

Except for you.

You had given him another chance. As if you had x-ray vision, you had been able to see right through Neji’s terrible excuse for a defense. And instead of laughing, instead of continuing to feel any sort of disdain for him, you gave him a clean slate. Your change in behavior coaxed the Hyuuga to begin to open up. Like a flower just beginning to bloom, petal by petal and word by word, you learned more of the boy who was oh so traditional.

And you fell. Hard.

You couldn’t help yourself. Neji’s words had a way of inching themselves into your heart and settling, comfortably making their home there. His rare words of support and gentle encouragement tattooed themselves in your mind, leaving a trail of butterflies in their wake. Sixteen now, these feelings were becoming much more prominent in your life, affecting your day to day tasks when paired up with Neji. You hoped he didn’t notice, but the realization that he most likely did was daunting in nature.

Of course Neji noticed.

How could he not? Your face heated and heart sped up whenever he was close to you, your knees just slightly beginning to shake and your eyes straining to look anywhere but him. For some odd reason, your adoration towards him made him feel... happy? Unused to these emotions himself, he had done much research on what could have caused them to arise.

Neji Hyuuga was in love with you.

Your existence brought color to a world that he had sworn would always be grayscale in tone. The boy had learned more about himself from you than he could’ve ever hoped to learn anywhere else. He learned that his favorite color was the shade of your hair and his favorite sound was the chime of your giggle. The weather he loved most was when it was slightly breezy but warm, because you always seemed to enjoy those days more than others.

It was a breezy summer night when he had chosen to confess the feelings that had been eating away at him for a year. Now that he thought about it, Neji was sure they had been there before, but only recently had he given them a name.

You had been invited out to the field by Neji, assuming it was for some late night training. A gentle breeze tickled the tree leaves, touching your cheek softly as it danced by. Crickets chirped their greetings and conversations, fireflies beginning to blink in the distance. The moon was full tonight, you observed. Not a cloud was in sight, and the stars had just began to peek their way through the twilight blanketing the sky.

Warmth blossomed in your chest as you remembered the days when the two of you would train all evening, only to pass out in the tall grass under the landscape of the night. You thought for a moment, wondering if you had understood how enamored you were with the Hyuuga at that point in time. Gravel crunched under your feet as you approached the field.

It seemed Neji had arrived first. His white, lavender tinted orbs were trained on the sky above. Taking a second to stare at the man, you swore if you squinted you could see the outline of the boy he used to be, so closed off and silent. Sensing you, Neji tilted his head your direction and traced his gaze to your face.

You waved, a smile on your lips as you made your way over to him. The long grass tickled your legs, wrapping around them as if to try and halt you in your pursuit. Small dots of black flashed in the undergrowth as crickets leapt away from your steps.

“The moon is beautiful tonight.”

Carefully chosen words left your mouth, eyes trained on the glowing orb. Neji didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. You knew by the way he followed your gaze and by the slight upturn of his lips that he agreed. For a moment, everything was tranquil and quiet. The sky reveled in your undivided attention, twinkling and shining with all of its might.

“Y/N, what exactly are we?”

Blinking in surprise, blood began to rush to your cheeks. Bravery was necessary for your answer, and it took a bit to muster it all up. You turned to the man beside you, heart speeding in your chest as you responded.

“What.. do you want us to be?”

Neji seemed taken aback by your question, as if he had expected for you to be the one with the answer. Red crept to the tips of his ears and his cheeks. His throat suddenly felt dry, parched by the heat of confrontation of years of feelings.

“I would like to court you. I.. I mean. I would like.. for you.. to be my girlfriend.”

His answer was awkward, eyes glancing to the side as they swept over everything except your face. You knew he was trying, and your stomach twisted with butterflies. The confession was everything you had hoped for and more. You wished the young girl that had been so off-put by the Hyuuga’s presence could see you now, nearly combusting over his feelings.

“I would like that. A lot.”

With those words, you moved forward, pressing a kiss against Neji’s lips. He kissed back instantly, as if your moves had been premeditated. It felt like fire and ice had clashed, but instead of creating destruction, something new and amazing had been made. The kiss was sloppy, inexperienced and filled with unknown passion and feelings, but it was perfect.

And it was yours.

#x reader #reader insert #naruto #naruto x reader #neji hyuuga x reader #naruto imagines #naruto fluff #fluff #drabble

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postmodernmulticoloredcloak · 4 years

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Fantasies, dreams and desires, ideas of normalcy and fears of difference. A slightly queer reading of 15x14

Mrs Butters is a delightful character who is built to parallel so many things in the show. She occupies perfectly the semantic sphere that the narrative has crafted around Dean’s desires; also, you know, cake.

We could talk for days about the significance of food and drink in Supernatural. One of the biggest themes that run through the entire show is hunger (or thirst) and food is very often a symbol for an emotional need of sorts. Supernatural draws a lot folklore, and human stories have always used symbologies that put together food, desire, love, sex, family, goodness and darkness and all those human experiences.

We have discussed the shit out of every instance of food in the show, analyzed parallels to other stories and fairytales, scrutinized queer-codings and subtexts, got called nasty names by impolite people accusing us of saying that a slice of baked good means Dean likes sitting on dicks. So, yeah, I’m not gonna start explaining everything from the beginning. Let’s jump to the parallels.

- The comfort food. Motherhood, hugs, and the past that can never return: the ideal of childhood and the 50s fantasy

We’ve already talked about how Mrs Butters functions as a parallel to Mary and a symbol of the ideal motherhood that both Mary and Dean struggled with. In Dark Side Of The Moon, we see a memory from Dean’s childhood, where we learn that Mary would cut off the crusts off his sandwiches. Mrs Butters also says that she cut the crusts off, establishing a direct parallel to Dean’s ideal of childhood and child-parent relationship. Or, we should say, as both Mary’s and Dean’s ideals of a child-parent relationship, because we know that Mary set up her life with John and the kids as an elaborate “scene” according to her idea-slash-fantasy of the perfect safe life.

She strugged with that, because her ideal life could never match with reality - she had loose ends from hunting to deal with, she at some level liked having those loose ends to deal with because as much as she hated the hunting life and craved for safety and “normalcy” that was still something she was in her element doing, probably more than the perfect housewife role. Of course when she came back she attempted to recreate the scene but quickly discovered that it was impossible and dropped all attempts to do so, embracing the opposite, or at least what she perceived as the opposite (having a pretty dualistic view of hunting life-domestic life where they cannot be reconciled).

Dean, on the other hand, started out with a similar dualistic view, figuring that he’d always belong to the hunting world and could never have the domestic, “normal” thing at all, embracing his “freakness” as opposed to the concept of normalcy represented by civilians, by the middle class, by the suburbs, by the apple pie, white fence life (insert heavy queer subtext here). And yet there was always an ambiguity with him (again, he’s never one-or-the-other, he’s always both), because, while on the surface he embraces this rebellious, devil-may-care persona, that’s not quite what he is as a full individual. He grew up essentially a housewife from a very early age, has a very caregiving personality, and thrives in taking care of others.

Dean is both Mrs Butters and Mary, where the difference between him and Mary is that Mary couldn’t (didn’t have the time, support, resources?) reconcile parts of her that Dean instead was able to (and in fact recently helped her with: before dying, she’d reached a pretty healthy balance of living her own life as a hunter and having a warm relationship with her sons, at least as healthy as it can get in that kind of circumstances).

Another important parallel to Dark Side Of The Moon, borrowed by Scoobynatural, is the nightgown that feels like being wrapped in hugs: we are reminded of Dean’s “I wuv hugz” from when he was a kid, a symbol for his early life of affection and safety that he lost with his mother. Childhood hugs, comfort food, loving gestures like cutting off the crusts are all symbols of a past that cannot return.

On a level, from a “coming-of-age story” perspective, childhood, with its innocence and perception that adults will always keep us safe, is obviously something that everyone needs to accept as something that belongs to the past and cannot return, to embrace instead the responsibilities and risks of adulthood in a healthy way. In a sense, Dean needs to go through all these steps - acknowledging that his mother was a flawed person, that in fact both of his parents were flawed people who made mistakes but he can forgive them for his own sake in order to be able to let go of trauma and carry on... - to become a healthy adult able to be a good parent to his own child.

(There’s also the cholesterol thing - Mrs Butters chastizes Dean for his diet, but we know that there’s a depth to Dean’s diet, not only his extreme appreciation of food due to experiencing food scarcity and insecurity as a child, but also the memory of his mother’s comfort food, such as the “Winchester surprise”, a monstrosity of meat and cheese. While the “meat man” persona would appear on the surface as a sterotypical masculinity thing, it has layers, in a typical Dean fashion... not coincidentally, in the latest episode he calls himself the meat man while wearing an apron that we’re told he’s very fond of, painting him, again, in a mixture of different meanings, masculinity and femininity, fatherhood and motherhood, devil-may-care attitude and caregiver attitude.)

On another level, a more political level, there’s the 50s fantasy element. We all know the significance of the idealization of the post-war period as the “good ol’ times” in American culture, and it’s an ideal that Mary definitely drew from when she built her perfect life with her family. Mrs Butters represents this in a very literal way, being literally from 1958 when she “froze” herself, and acts as a very stereotyped governess for a bunch of men that feel like they are above housework, what is considered women’s work. Dean initially comments “how progressive”, knowing exactly how bullshit these conversative ideals are, but then appreciates the comforts of the perfect caretaker.

In fact, Dean’s “giving in” to the comforts of a governess makes me think of that famous feminist manifesto “I want a wife” by Judy Syfers... because housework is very much Dean’s work in the bunker. It’s interesting that Mrs Butters immediately comments negatively on the cleanness of the bunker and their clothes: we know that Dean cleans and washes, and, while it’s likely that he cannot keep everything super perfect like a governess would because he’s busy doing many other things, it’s a way Mrs Butters uses to establish roles that she knows and is comfortable with. She is used to being the one who does “feminine” work while the Men of Letters have absolutely zero skills in that regard, and doesn’t really even stop to question if that’s the case with the men in front of her.

Anyway, let’s go back to the 50s fantasy. The show has repeatedly made commentaries on the vacuity of it. Peace Of Mind is the most obvious instance, but there’s plenty of subtext in the show that deals with that typically American aspect. Just like the childhood aspect, the narrative tells us that the “good ol’ times” are also an idealized thing that cannot return (if it ever existed, because Dean’s childhood was built on a fantasy, and the “good ol’ times” are also a fantasy, because the real 50s were horrible for anyone who didn’t swim in privilege). Mrs Butters cannot stay, the 50s fantasy-slash-childhood fantasy cannot last, and Dean embraces his role as an adult-slash-modern housemaker. Blah blah gender, blah blah cake. (Yeah, sorry, but you can fill in the blanks.)

- The contaminated drink. Poison and weakness from the forbidden sexual desire to the forbidden family domesticity

Aaaand now the second branch of parallels that Mrs Butters pinged on my radar, which sends us in an even more queer-subtext-heavy territory. We’re going to talk about the smoothies and the tomato juice. Yes, I know, the smoothies are given to Jack, not Dean, but symbolically Dean and Jack share the same semantic area; both are given a magically conjured drink, and both end up locked away waiting to be killed. For this analysis, they basically overlap.

Let’s start with the tomato juice. I don’t think that it’s a coincidence that Dean is given something that visually reminds of the blood the vampires drink. The tomato juice is a stand-in for blood, and blood in relation to vampirism has a long history of subtext in the show that connects to sexuality, sex, sexual fears and contamination. While vampires are not necessarily always invested of those meanings every single time they appear in the three-hundred-whatever episodes of the show, their main symbology is connected to sex and sexual fears, as vampires do in modern western literature, after all.

You’re probably going to think, wait, what? What has Mrs Butters got to do with sexual fears? Yeah, I know, it sounds weird, but hear me out.

The tomato juice - a stand-in for blood, with a vampire reference - parallels Mrs Butters (who represents trauma, remember) to 6x05 Live Free Or TwiHard. Sexual assault, blood, contamination via the poisoning liquid.

Next to the tomato juice there’s the smoothie. It’s a poison in disguise, a contaminated drink that makes Jack weak. We have, in fact, a pattern of Dean being given contaminated drinks that place him under another’s power. Not just the vampire’s blood, but also Jeremy from 3x10 Dream A Little Dream Of Me, who offers Dean a beer through which he connects him to his dreams. There’s Nick the siren from 4x14 Sex And Violence, who contaminates Dean through the flask. The venom in the siren’s saliva parallels straight to the gorgon Noah in 14x14 Ouroboros, and I don’t have to start explaining what all those things represent, right? (I have written posts about these things, it would be nice if tumblr didn’t suck and showed them to me when I go look for them.)

(Oh, there’s also Crowley’s human blood addiction, which is not, as one might expect, a parallel to Sam’s demon blood addition, but Dean’s First Blade/Mark Of Cain issue, and the First Blade/Mark Of Cain arc is all imbued by the queer subtext of the Dean-Crowley-Castiel triangle.)

Basically, Mrs Butters is inserted in a history of queer subtext, although it appears as obvious that Mrs Butters hardly represents homosexual desire, unless we go a pretty stretchy route of her occupying Cas’ space in the Dean-Sam-Cas-Jack family (I mean, that’s true, but it’s not simply that). It is also true that Mrs Butters represents Cuthbert Sinclair, and here the radar pings, because Cuthbert Sinclair is totally inside the pattern! He wanted to make Dean part of his collection just like the vampire in 6x05 wanted to make Dean part of his pack, with supernatural means of exorting control over Dean and heavy heavy rapey tones. (I know we don’t like to talk about this, but the show does play with incest subtext, John mirrors are often rapey.)

So, we have all this semantic area of poison, weakness and submission to external control painted in overtones of sexual assault and sexual fears especially in relation to homosexual desire. (I am NOT linking homosexual desire to sexual assult, nor the show is, it’s a wide and volatile semantic area where the common denominator is fear, fear of being hurt FOR being different sexually, it’s about vulnerability because of being different. It’s a horror narrative, guys, remember, queer fear is a recurrent theme in the genre. Dracula was about the horror of what happened to Oscar Wilde, we’re running in circles.)

Now, what kind of fear is explored in 15x14? Well, the episode is about the fear of losing family. The plot is about Dean’s feelings towards Jack after he killed Mary. Dean doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to lose Cas soon also because of Jack. Mary and Cas are both very noisy absences in the episode, and we know that Dean is going to suffer something horrific again that will shatter his family again. This goes past the fears regarding forbidden sexual desire: we’re in the territory of forbidden familial desire, so to speak, Dean’s craving for a domestic peace with his family.

Jack is both the culmination of Dean’s process of family-building, as the son figure of the family, and the element of destruction of that family-building. Not a coincidence Jack’s birthday was referenced, as Jack’s birth coincided with Cas’ death and Mary’s supposed death or at least separation. Now Jack has supposedly killed Mary (or is it a inter-universe separation again? @drsilverfish’s theory always pops up, and we keep getting reminded of other universes - the telescope is broken...) and we know that Cas’ ultimate death hangs above us.

We’re always running in a spiral, Dean’s relationship with Mary, Dean’s relationship with Cas, Dean’s relationship with motherhood and gender roles, Dean’s relationship with sexuality. There’s a big picture of mirrors in the semantic area of fantasies, idealizations, desires and dreams. I hope I managed to make this post make sense, but I’m always open to requests of clarification or elaboration. Thanks for reading!

#my spn thoughts #spn meta #spn 15x14 #queer subtext #dean and femininity #dean and masculinity #dean and food #dean and mary #dean and childhood #dean and sexuality #dean and family #spn

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romillys · 3 years

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hi everyone! so glad this is back!

romilly ‘mila’ van der woodsen was spotted in the fashion district adorning the jimmy choo thyra 100 jewel-embellished suede heeled sandals , with some airpod pros on . they’re most likely listening to blinding lights - acoustic by victoria voss . you may know them as romillys or as that casimere jollette lookalike . their twenty fourth birthday just passed . while living in the upper east side , they’ve gained a bit of a reputation . they’re known to be defensive but on the other hand hard-working . wonder if they’ll be the next person to hit the headlines . ( cis woman / she/her + elle / 23 / she/her )

* character questionaire .

01. if you have three words to describe yourself , what are they ?

focused, daring, confident.

02 . what is your favourite alcoholic drink ?

it’s definitely wine. i used to only drink white but i’ve become really fond of red. my grandpa gave me a bottle of 1982 latour for my twenty first birthday and that was easily the most impressed i’ve ever been with wine. i’m not going to be basic and say dom perignon.

03 . what is your favourite season and why ?

i’ve always loved winter because of the associations of ballet and the performances of the nutcracker. it’s always help a special place in my heart and i continue to feel the same after all these years. plus, i love the parties and dressing up, feel like i can go more glam with more diamonds and sparkles than in the summer.

04 . what’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done ?

it would have to be when i drunkenly booked a vacation to dubai for myself and a few friends after a wine and movie night. i spent a ridiculous amount but the trip was fun and i can safely say my friends and i still talk about it.

* character biography .

the only grand daughter of olivier van der woodsen, romilly would grow up surrounded by luxury olivier was the founder and controlling shareholder of woodsen enterprises, a company has investments in various industries including auto parts, energy, metals, rail cars, casinos, food packaging, real estate, and home fashion. it was more than enough for him to provide for his son and daughter-in-law and now his grand-daughter. like her parents before her, romilly was born into privileged and lived comfortably in an upper east side penthouse where she was waited on by endless nannies and housekeepers. her father was involved in the family business, hoping to be handed olivier’s shares one day but the other showed no sign of willingly stepping down any time soon; her mother a self-absorbed socialite that had her own ideas of how to dominate society meant that childcare did not land with either of them.

her parents were difficult to communicate with and this lead to many nannies leaving just when romilly had started to become attached. they were the closest thing to love that she had received but as they left constantly she would grow up with a great sense of inadequacy. they weren’t in love and it seemed the both of them only valued their own sucesses, not each others. as she grew up, she would become her grandfather’s favourite and it would leave both her parents with green eyes...

romilly always liked dancing and had a special connection with music. every time she heard it she wanted to move. she was too young to understand it but she had natural musicality. when they realised that it was harder for the help to stay, they pushed her onto olivier with the hope that she’d be a distraction to pressure him into taking a step back. The man, although one of the most powerful people in New York City, did have a soft spot for his granddaughter. he was the one that saw potential in her dancing as a child. he was quick to enroll her when she was six and everything else followed.

from that moment on, she would only look forward to dance and seeing her grandfather. he was the only one who understood her passion and was the one encouraging her at every stage. however, her parents were quick to criticise performances or her facial expressions when performing. no matter how hrd she tried, it wasn’t enough to impress them. she started distancing from them after that, only talking to her grandpa and looking to him when she needed emotional sport.

being accepted into the summer intensive programme for the school of american ballet was a game changer for her. she made good friends and loved breathing dance and being surrounded by people who had the same passion. she attended the same intensive two years running and her place there just felt right. the next year, she was enrolled as a full time student at the school of american ballet and moved into halls. it was a freedom she never had before and felt like it was her very first chance to have a real sense of community and support.

romilly worked extremely hard and was definitely one who focused on her success; that had seeped its way through from her parents. she was one of the lucky ones to become an apprentice at new york city ballet and the staff definitely took note. her skill level had almost been at prodigy level and she always maintained a ‘can-do’ attitute. she wouldn’t simply bend into the background.

this year, she became one of the youngest principal dancers in the company and it was the best day of her life. she had become a successful professional ballerina. she has also assisted with some choreography as her creativity has blossomed over the years. now her parents wanted to be proud of her and they did make an effort to see her, although it felt really strained from their side. they had ulterior motives but she wasn’t sure what.

romilly was hit hardest after the announcement of the death of olivier van der woodsen, her grandpa who she had loved so much. after the loss and added pressure, her personality has somewhat shifted. she’s out a lot more in clubs now, making out with people and deciding to lessen her control over herself. besides, she’s now a billionaire in her own right but can even comprehend how much money she actually has. she is more defensive and snaps at her co-workers a lot more. she’s secretive and does keep most things to herself. she’s embarrassed that she’s involved in family disputes over money that she never asked for and now worried that stories are leaking on the internet about her and have the ability to tarnish her image in the ballet world. she feels like if she doesn’t fix it soon, she’ll be on her way out of the company. still, she doesn’t help herself and continues to party and drink a lot more than she should do which leads to easily avoidable drunken stumbles that hurt her...

* extras .

profile:

Full Name: romilly annabeth van der woodsen

Nickname(s): mila, tiny dancer, ro

Age: twenty four

Date of Birth: december 19, 1996

Hometown: new york city, new york

Current Location: new york city, new york

Ethnicity: white

Nationality: american

Gender: cis woman

Pronouns: she/her

Orientation: bi romantic & bi sexual

Religion: none

Political Affiliation: none

Occupation: principal ballerina at new york city ballet

Living Arrangements: upper east side penthouse previously owned by olivier van der woodsen

Language(s) Spoken: english, french, chinese

Hair Colour: blonde

Eye Colour: blue

Height: 5′4″

Build: slender

Tattoos: none

Piercings: ears

aesthetics

a fully stocked wine cabinet, diamante earrings, chanel pumps, silk crop tops, crystal embellished stilettos, a pile of pointe shoes discarded in the corner of the main room, marble flooring, roof to floor windows, bobby pins gathering at the bottom of her purse, quickly applying glitter eyeshadow with her fingers, a collection of nude palettes and diamante earrings, deleting emails without reading them, golden chandeliers, rejected calls from parents, tops with puffed sleeves, berets, nineties colored purses, twenty hour days and booking trips aborad while under the influence.

#wealthyhq:intro #death tw

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jyndor · 3 years

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You know, the conversation about sea shanties is just another chapter in what seems like the endless story of people of color, in particular black and indigenous people, telling us to learn the history of the things we like and white people hearing that it means we have to lock those things away forever and burn our books and stamp on our records. As if that isn’t what white people have done to black and indigenous stories, to black and indigenous cultures, to black and indigenous arts, wealth, etc for centuries. As if that is what the people of color who are educating us on the things we like are actually advocating for. News flash: part of the history of oppressors is fearing the tables turning, when that is never been the goal of civil rights and social justice movements. Ever.

So fun fact: I grew up loving good ol’ classic rock n’ roll. My first concert was the Allman Brothers Band, which is one of the most interesting rock bands of all time imo. I really love a good southern twangy jam, the way the guitars sing, the bluesy sunny vibe. Ramblin’ Man? Jessica? Simple Man? Carry On Wayward Son? Hotel California? Perfect fucking driving music if you ask me.

If you know anything about southern rock, you know the iconography - the Confederate Flag is everywhere, in the crowds, for many bands it’s in the album covers and the photoshoots, etc. You know what you get when you wade in the Southern rock water*.

The lyrics from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama have been parsed and interpreted in all kinds of ways -

In Birmingham they love the governor (boo-boo-boo) Now we all did what we could do Now Watergate does not bother me Does your conscience bother you?

And yeah, you could read this as ironic or satirical. In fact, that’s what guitarist and co-writer Gary Rossington says according to NPR -

"A lot of people believed in segregation and all that. We didn't. We put the 'boo, boo, boo' there saying, 'We don't like Wallace,' " Rossington said. But he also added that there were "a lot of different interpretations. I'm sure if you asked the other guys who are not with us anymore and are up in rock and roll heaven, they have their story of how it came about."

And yeah, maybe they didn’t like George Wallace or Nixon. Sure. Whatever. I could buy it, actually. Because this song actually is indicative of how many privileged people feel when they perceive being called out, even if the criticism isn’t about them. Call it wjhat you want - white fragility, white liberal sensitivity, etc. This song was written in response to Neil Young’s Southern Man, which goes:

Southern man, better keep your head Don't forget what your good book said Southern change gonna come at last Now your crosses are burning fast

Southern man I saw cotton and I saw black Tall white mansions and little shacks Southern man, when will you pay them back? I heard screamin' and bullwhips cracking How long? How long? How?

Yeah, writer Ronnie Van Zant was so bothered by Neil Young talking about l*nchings, abject sl*very and reparations in Southern Man, a song that isn’t even about them or Alabama in particular, that he wrote Sweet Home Alabama.

Well I heard Mister Young sing about her Well I heard ol' Neil put her down Well I hope Neil Young will remember A southern man don't need him around anyhow

Sweet home Alabama Where the skies are so blue Sweet home Alabama Lord I'm comin' home to you

So ironically, even though Neil Young was just talking to racists in the US South, someone who ostensibly didn’t agree with segregation took that song as a personal attack because he liked “southern culture” and his home state of Alabama, despite its flaws.

But Young never says that the South is irredeemable. He just says white southerners need to come to terms with their history (and yes make reparations). In fact, according to NPR he has some issues with his lyrics. “I didn't like my words when I wrote them. They are accusatory and condescending.” I don’t agree. It needs to be said.

So Van Zant and the Skynyrd guys heard a criticism of white Southern racism and at BEST thought, “well that’s an unfair portrayal of me, a southern white man.” Van Zant can’t answer this question for himself since he died in a plane crash with two other band members and their manager in 1977.

In my opinion, knowing how white people can be when confronted with the reality of racism, this feels a lot like every other time a well-meaning white person (myself included) has said, “but not all white people.”

Not all Southern whites supported segregation at the time, but most did - and all white people benefit from the legacy of sl*very. I might not be a descendant of people who enslaved others, my ancestors might have come here as refugees, but after they fled Ireland for New York, they threw black people under the bus for whiteness.

Rock is a genre that owes everything to Black musicians - to blues and spirituals and gospel and yes, Black work songs. Black history is in the DNA of rock music. That I grew up thinking it was white music is mortifying to be honest.

But I don’t really like Sweet Home Alabama and I never have. It’s kind of just meh to me. Not a big loss.

And that takes me to the Allman Brothers Band. As far as I am aware, ABB (through many, many iterations - this is another band plagued by tragedy) has never been cool with racism. According to Vulture:

The Allmans respected not just black art but black players; as kids, Gregg and Duane got lessons from an older black guitarist their mother once refused to allow into her home, and later, they caught hell having Jaimoe and bassist Lamar Williams in their ranks in their adopted home state of Georgia. “If a musician could play, we didn’t look at his skin color,” Gregg wrote in his 2012 memoir My Cross to Bear.

“Nobody around here had seen guys who looked like them,” soul food legend and friend of the band Mama Louise Hudson said in Alan Paul’s 2014 oral history One Way Out: The Inside History of the Allman Brothers Band. “A lot of the white folk around here did not approve of them long-haired boys, or of them always having a black guy with them.” Southern rock occupied a peculiar axis of Mason-Dixon pride and reverence to blues and soul veterans who were hampered and harangued by the politics of the South. Gregg always pushed back. He didn’t placate audiences’ blind patriotism and racism the way Charlie Daniels and Hank Williams Jr. have. Last year, he spoke out against North Carolina’s transphobic “bathroom bill,” and when asked about the confederate flag in 2015, he told Radio.com, “If people are gonna look at that flag and think of it as representing slavery, then I say burn every one of them.”

And that is great.

But.

Whipping Post. Written by white ally Gregg Allman, bluesy and wild and passionate on a level that is hard to imagine, this is... one of the greatest songs I have ever heard. And it also makes me wonder if it’s maybe belittling a part of slavery.

My friends tell me, that I've been such a fool But I had to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you I drown myself in sorrow as I look at what you've done But nothing seemed to change, the bad times stayed the same, And I can't run Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel Like I been tied to the whippin' post Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'.

Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve researched it, I’ve used google. There isn’t a lot the internet has to say about this song that isn’t “this song fucking slaps man!!!” Maybe part of it is the larger context - Allman was staunchly against racism and was taught by a Black guitarist and played with Black musicians and loved Black music. A white man comparing an emotionally abusive relationship with being whipped might feel different without that context.

(Whipping posts being used for people besides enslaved Black people does not mean Allman wasn’t referencing what Black American slaves experienced, so don’t even go there. I know. The Romans also had slaves. It’s different.)

But if some people of color on the internet critique this song someday, the appropriate response is not to act as if “hey here is where this comes from, please be mindful about historical context and get educated” means “never listen to that devil song again,” folks.

It’s about learning our histories so we can do better in the future. Not canceling entire genres of music. Some things are best left in the past but mostly it’s just about understanding what the things we love mean. And these things are more than their aesthetics.

*I also really, really love African American work songs. Always have.

#cait uses her musical knowledge for once #work songs #sea shanties #this discourse is like one side saying read a book or wikipedia and the other side thinking they are being burned at the stake #history #southern rock #music #racism #colonialism #slavery tw #lynching tw #neil young was right he shouldn't have back tracked #but he's also canadian so like fix your glass house honey

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hopetofantasy · 3 years

Text

‘HUMO’s big youth survey - Politics, society and religion’ - With Nora Dari (part 2)

- TW: racism, neo-nazism, extreme right, police brutality, white privilege, ethnic profiling, Black Lives Matter - DONE PLAYING Tom Van Grieken and Dries Van Langenhove are second and fifth in the list of popular politicians. Vlaams Belang surpasses NV-A as the most popular party. Do you get their success with the youth? Céleste Cockmartin: “I’ve got a simple explanation for that: Vlaams Belang uses young language.” Nora Dari: “They’re on TikTok!” Bouba Kalala: “Politicians talk on tv like they’re the smartest people in the world. But when Tom Van Grieken sits down at ‘Terzake’, it’ll give you the impression that he talks like a normal person. Like he doesn’t read the answers from a sheet of paper, even though he also prepares everything.” Céleste Cockmartin: “It’s a shame other parties don’t do the same. Then the results of the survey would’ve been completely different. I can’t believe young people who vote for Vlaams Belang, really support their positions. You can spot it in the survey: they’ve got a more positive perspective regarding immigrants than a few years ago and before the activism. So they’re contradicting themselves.” Bouba Kalala: “They’re tired of all the bullshit. Even when they don’t agree with all the positions, they simply want someone to listen and not treat them as a small children. They’re taking advantage of that.”

Do your friends vote for the party? Bouba Kalala: “Not anymore, but I’ve seen old friends pose with Dries Van Langenhove on photos. Others might show off their SS-tattoo on social media and I’d run into them afterwards, at the Brussels Northern Station, in army uniform and with a machine gun in hand. (= The army still patrols some train stations in Belgium, as a safety measure to terrorism attacks). A very uncomfortable reunion (*laughs*). I grew up between sick racists.” Nora Dari: “That’s bad.” Bouba Kalala: “They saw me as the good black guy: ‘You’re not like that’. But they kept using the n-word constantly. I'd keep my mouth shut. My sister and I were the only black children at the primary school in Wolvertem. I saw a lot of racist stuff as a child.” Céleste Cockmartin: “Did you even realize it back then?” Bouba Kalala: “Yes, but the urge to fit in, was too big. I kept quiet, but now, I’m no longer silent. If my friends start a story with: ‘And then I ran into a black guy...’, I’ll object: ‘Is the color of their skin really relevant to the story?’. Then they’ll apologize immediately. I’ve got a different friend group than before.” Why did you stop being silent? Bouba Kalala: “Because of the Black Lives Matter movement. Something was always stuck inside me. I was obsessed with the Yellow Vests - a movement that finally dared to rise up against their government. When I saw these people protest on the street, after the murder of George Floyd - not one, but two, three, four days - I was done with letting people walk all over me. I’d been looking for a long time for something I could give my life to, and now I found it. Done playing, done with injustice. Black Lives Matter isn’t solely about black people. It’s about people with a disability, a different sexuality, the muslims, who are still treated badly in Belgium, everyone who doesn’t have a voice.” Were you witness to the riots that happened after the Black Lives Matter-protest on the 7th of June? Bouba Kalala: “Yes. After the protest we drove home. When I saw what happened, I got out of the car: ‘Sorry, mom, I’ll take the bus’. I didn’t touch or break anything, but I had to see it with my own eyes. I didn’t want to hear the version of the media. I talked to these young people too: ‘You do know they’ll use this against you?’. Their response was: ‘We can protest obediently, but they’ll won’t listen to us anyways. Maybe they do now.” (*stops abruptly*) Sorry, I’m starting to rant, but it was one of the craziest days of my life. When I talk about it, I still feel the adrenaline flowing in my body.” Nora Dari: “I get emotional when I hear you talk about it. It’s deeply rooted within society to be an ass to anyone who’s different.” That’s what young people seem to realize too: 4 out of 10 are convinced the police use more force against a minority. Nora Dari: “I never feel safe near cops. You can’t fool me that there are just some bad apples. My little brother, who’s the sweetest 16-year-old in the world, doesn’t do anything wrong, just loves gaming all the time. But at least once a month he comes home with the message: “I’ve been pat down again”. I get angry, but it doesn’t bother him anymore. The indifference makes it even worse.” Have you got experience with ethnic profiling, Bouba? Bouba Kalala: “I was stopped by cops yesterday. While one officer started to talk to me, the other pulled the door open and sat down right next to me. ‘You have any narcotics with you?’ I couldn't resist answering: ‘Yes, cigarettes and a RedBull.’ He then searched the whole car. Very intimidating. By the way, I think it's not just about racism, but also abuse of power. But it is striking, that out of all my friends, I’m the only one who has ever gotten a cop in his car. All my friends are white.” Céleste Cockmartin: “I would love to live in a world where something like that doesn’t happen, a world where everyone gets equal opportunities.” Even if you had to relinquish some of your privileges? Céleste Cockmartin: “Yes. I want to contribute. I talk to friends who claim they support the Black Lives Matter-movement, but at the same time think that too much fuss is being made. If we don’t rise up to the streets, a lot of things will remain the same. I’d rather let those who are involved, speak their truths. I’ll support them from the sidelines. Though, I’ll admit: I’m constantly making mistakes, when I talk about it. (*To Bouba and Nora*) Hey, you can point this out to me?” Bouba Kalala: “No one should have to hold back out of fear of saying something wrong. It’s a sensitive subject, but no one will blame you if your message is well-intentioned. And I don't even want to think in terms of privileges. Please take every opportunity you get. All we ask is that we get the same ones.” 41 percent of youngsters think schools should pay more attention to the colonial past. Céleste Cockmartin: “I’ve got a lot of German friends: they are taught the history of WWII, year after year. We should follow their lead.” Should the statues of Leopold II be removed? 34 percent says ‘no’. Céleste Cockmartin: “I’m certainly not against removing them, but for me it’s not necessary. You could mention (on a plaque) what that man has done.” Bouba Kalala: “You’re right, you know. But if those statues aren't gone within a year, I'll take them down myself.” You’ve got Congolese roots. Bouba Kalala: “My mom is Belgian and my dad is Congolese, but they got divorced early on and I’ve ignored that part of my roots for a long time. Until now. I was shocked when that discussion happened and people suddenly recoiled: ‘We’re not going to remove these statues, are we?’. Was I naive to think that we’re all opposed to what happened back then? Please don't tell me Leopold II has done a lot of good for this country.” Nora Dari: “Why would keep something like that, when you know it hurts so many people? You don't see a statue of Khadhafi anywhere, do you?” When I hear you all like this, you’re certainly the generation of action. Nora Dari: “I hope so. It would be bad if we would stay quiet, right now. If we stood still, with everything that is happening - racism, climate, corona - then we’re just cowards.”

#wtfock #wtfam #part 2 of 3 #nora dari

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clintbartonswife · 4 years

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you don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier, Yennefer x Triss Summary: Yennefer talks to the bard, and Geralt talks to Roach, then gets told off and apologies (kind of) to Jaskier. Notes: mentions of injury, recovery, self-doubt, ptsd masterlist || part one || part two || part three || part five

“I think he’d like to talk to you”

Geralt was dragged out of his thoughts by Ciri, the girl standing in the doorway, a small frown on her face. The weak smell of salt hung around her, the scent betraying the recently shed tears.

“Why were you crying?” he asked instead, not wanting to talk about Jaskier just yet.

Ciri huffed a laugh, “Nothing bad. Jaskier and I were just talking and it reminded me of home”

Geralt hummed, awkwardly opening his arms, silently offering comfort. A smile grew on the princess’ face, the girl accepting the hug happily. As she stepped into his arms he could smell Jaskier’s subtle scent amongst hers. The Witcher repressed a smile, the thought of Jaskier comforting his child surprise creating a warm feeling in his chest.

“I can tell he’s scared” she eventually mumbled, cheek resting against his shoulder, “I think he would feel better knowing you’re here to protect us”

“I’m not so sure he wants to see me after...”

He trailed off, throat tightening at the thought of the mountain.

“He didn't tell them anything” Ciri said, pulling back from the hug, eyes blazing with confidence, “If he hated you he wouldn’t have resisted and lived through all of that torture to protect you - to protect us”

Geralt nodded wordlessly, a small spark of hope flaring deep in his gut.

“I better get to Yen, but please go and talk to him”

“I will, just … later”

Ciri nodded, a soft look on her face, and left the room, leaving Geralt to his thoughts once again.

Sighing, the Witcher stood up, making his way outside and to the stables, greeting Roach with a tired smile.

“Hey there girl,” he said, hand resting gently on her nose, “sorry I didn't come to check on you last night. Everything was still up in the air about Jaskier”

Roach snorted, bumping her muzzle against his chest lightly, pushing a small laugh out of the man.

“Yes, yes, he’s fine now. He needs to rest for a few more days and then we’ll be able to move”

Another snort, this time accompanied with a heavier hit.

“Yes, I need to ask him. I will... just not right now”

The bard hummed absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He still hadn't left the bed, almost scared of feeling the weakness in his body as he tried to stay standing. Not to mention the mirror he could see in the corner of the room.

Maybe it was narcissistic of him, but Jaskier was terrified to take the first look in the mirror. He knew that his body was tarnished; he could see the residual bruises on his chest and stomach and the whipping scars on his back ached every time he moved. He didn't want to think about what his face looked like.

‘Little birdy, so pretty. Without your looks, what are you?’

His shaking hands never reached his face, too scared to check the damage. Without his good looks, his career as a bard was almost certainly finished.

He shivered as thoughts of returning to Lettenhove crossed his mind, his father’s disapproving glare breaking him down to the bare bones of his being, reverting him back to the ghost that once roamed the manor’s halls.

“Well you look positively ghastly”

Jaskier startled, hissing in pain at the agony that rippled up his back, wincing as he manoeuvred himself into a sitting position.

“Ah, hello witch. I had a feeling I could feel your bad vibes permeating these walls”

Yennefer moved towards him, looking as intimidating as ever.

“I see you haven't lost your spirit” she commented, looking at him with thinly veiled pity in her violet eyes, “I’m surprised you haven't tried to escape yet”

The bard scoffed, gesturing vaguely at his body, “I couldn't even if I tried”

She hummed thoughtfully, eyes wandering around the room, letting the silence stew uncomfortably.

Jaskier sighed, breaking it as she wanted him to, “I guess I owe you my thanks, I doubt the Witcher could’ve found another sorceress that would help him without your assistance”

“So he’s the Witcher now, is he?”

“Well he certainly isn't mine, and last I was told he wanted nothing to do with me. I assume that includes losing first name privilege” Jaskier frowned, finally finding the courage to meet her eyes, “I thought you’d be happy - me not following you two around like a … what was it you called me? Oh, right, a lost puppy”

Now it was time for Yennefer to frown, stepping closer to the bard, “We traded barbs, yes, but that never meant that I wanted you gone”

Jaskier huffed in disbelief, “Be careful there, dear witch. You almost sound like you care about my wellbeing”

Yen’s silence was damning.

“If it’s any consolation” Jaskier offered, breaking another bout of unsteady silence, “I never hated you. In fact -” he broke of, a weak laugh escaping his lips, “I rather admired you”

Yennefer’s lips tipped into a small smile, the expression softer than anything he had ever seen aimed at him. He knew what it was, an acceptance of the unspoken apology, and even a mutual respect.

As she turned to leave, she glanced at the mirror, “You’re going to have to look at some point” she stated, the straightforwardness oddly comforting, “but no matter what you see, you have four people who are here to support you. This is not the end, bard”

She left before he could reply, his throat closed as unwanted tears rushed to his eyes.

“For Melitele’s sake, talk to the bard”

Geralt tensed, hand continuing his stroking of Roach’s nose as he purposefully avoided Yen’s gaze, “He doesn't want to see me”

The sorceress let out an aggravated sigh, stepping into the stable, “He thinks that you hate him”

Geralt’s hand faltered, “What?”

“His head is messy, and none of it is positive right now Geralt”

Geralt whirled around to face her, exasperation clear in his features, “Yen - what have I said about reading minds -”

“I know! But I was in the room for a solid five minutes without him noticing, and he was just staring at the ceiling, looking like he was giving up. I had to check that he wasn't thinking of doing anything stupid”

The implication sent a chill deep into Geralt’s chest, the Witcher taking a menacing step towards her, “Jaskier would never do that”

She scoffed angrily, “Oh please Geralt, don't try that posturing bullshit with me. He’s just been tortured. It’s a perfectly reasonable mindset to be in - not that he is. Jaskier... he’s struggling and he needs a friend”

A growl built in Geralt’s chest, the man beginning to pace, “Why do you want to help him all of a sudden. I remember you trying to get me to leave him behind on more than one occasion”

Yen’s frown deepened, the witch crossing her arms defiantly, “I don't wish death on him. If I did, why would I have helped you save him? Why would I have healed him?”

Geralt stood silently, his eyes averted to the ground.

“Get your shit together” she spat, leaving the stables in a flash of black velvet.

He stood there for what seemed like hours, unmoving until Roach shoved him towards the doors of the stable.

“Okay, okay, I get it”

Jaskier stayed staring at the door for a long time, the scent of lilac and gooseberries feeling oddly calming. Before he could tail dive about the implications of that, a flash of white in his peripheral vision caused his body to tense.

“May I come in?”

The familiar cadence of Geralt’s voice sent almost imperceptible shivers down Jaskier’s spine, the bard nodding his silent assent.

At his signal, Geralt stepped into the room, his imposing figure seemingly looming over him even from the other side of the room.

“I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me”

Jaskier huffed a laugh, finally moving his head to face the man, “I think you’ve got that the wrong way around, Witcher. If I remember rightly it was you that wished to never see me again”

Jaskier watched with barely repressed shock as a slight flinch flashed across the Witcher’s face at the harshness of his words, “What I said on the mountain...”

He trailed off, at a loss for words, eyes looking lost.

Refusing to take pity on his old friend, Jaskier moved so he was sat up straighter, clearing his throat purposefully.

“Which part? The bit where you blamed all of your recent life choices on me, or the part where you wished for life to take me off of your hands? Or perhaps do you mean when you called me a shit shoveller?” The bard’s voice stayed level, the words eerily devoid of emotion.

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, before looking directly into Geralt’ eyes, “I tried my hardest to be a friend to you. I gave you the best years of my life - twenty two years travelling by your side - and what do I get in return? Tossed aside like I was nothing more than a stone stuck in the heel of your shoe”

“Jaskier-”

“No. I am talking now, Witcher. I tried taking myself off of your hands. I stayed away from you, travelled in the opposite direction whenever I heard news of your whereabouts. And when they caught me -” his voice cracks then, the emotion finally breaking through the façade, “I stayed loyal to you. I would’ve happily died, I thought I had in all honesty, and granted your wish because the thought of hurting you is worse than death”

Geralt stepped forward, chest clenching with the unspoken confession lying between the bard’s words. He halted as Jaskier lifted a hand, a clear sign that he wanted space.

“You may have never called me a friend, Geralt of Rivia, but you were my everything” He took another steadying breath, “When I am healed enough I will take my leave, I know when I’m not wanted and I would hate to get between you and your witch once again”

The thought of Jaskier leaving sent a sharp spike of fear through Geralt’s body, his throat clenching as words of protest bubbled.

In the end, it was the look of utter defeat on Jaskier’s face that set the words in motion, the walls that Geralt kept up coming crumbling down at his feet as he began to attempt to fix what was broken.

“Jaskier, you’re not my friend -”

“Oh thank you so much for that, really that’s lovely to hear -”

Geralt shook his head desperately, moving to kneel at the side of the bed, looking into his eyes pleadingly, “No - you’re not my friend. You were always so much more to me than that and I -”

He cut himself off, a frustrated noise escaping him as he searched for the right words, his hands stressing through his hair, tangling a section into a big knot.

“I - You - It was always just me and Roach, but then you came along and it was different. You looked at me and didn't smell of fear - you trusted me - and I -”

A light touch to his left hand had Geralt looking back up, the bard watching him with tears in his eyes. He stayed silent as he gently guided Geralt’s hands away from his hair, tutting at the tangled mess he made.

“You never were good with words, were you, Wolf”

The sound of the nickname leaving Jaskier’s lips was like a switch, his body relaxing, eyes finally locking with his.

An understanding passed between the two men, hands lightly entwined.

“I didn't need words with you” Geralt confessed quietly, hoping Jaskier would understand what he was trying to say.

Jaskier smiled, a small hesitant smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Yes, I suppose you didn't”

They sat there like that for a few minutes, letting the familiar touch soothe old wounds. The silence was nice, comfortable in a way that Geralt had only ever felt with Jaskier.

“I hope you know I haven't fully forgiven you yet” the bard eventually said, “I’m expecting a full apology one of these days”

Geralt nodded solemnly, bringing their entwined hands against his chest, “You deserve nothing less”

The tentative smile returned, a flash of the old Jaskier returning to his eyes, a depth of mischief returning and pushing out the emptiness that had clouded the once bright blue iris’.

_____________________________________________________________

@kittynannygaming @fillingless-piee @nanazlovese @anotherunoriginal @baron-von-wilderpants @whumpeeee @mazydog @rainwaterapothecary

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revisionaryhistory · 3 years

Text

Three Days ~82

~*~Emma~*~

I awoke to see Sebastian laying on his side, leaning onto his elbow, with his head propped up on his hand. Diffuse sunlight filled the room and clearly showed me his face. He didn’t look sleepy. His face was relaxed with the slightest smile. Who knows how long he'd been watching me sleep. That thought made me smile.

He jerked his head up a little, "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I like seeing you when I wake up and knowing you'll be the last person I see before I fall asleep. And I'm excited about everything in between."

"The Louvre, dinner on the Seine, cabaret. Fun day."

I shook my head with a frown, "No, not what we're doing. I'm excited to spend the day with you." Sebastian closed his eyes, smiled a little wider, and took a few breaths. I knew what he was doing. He was taking in my words, feeling them, believing them. Before he opened his eyes, I moved closer to kiss him. "Je t'aime."

"I know that one." His fingers ran through my hair, smoothing the morning disarray. "In how many languages can you tell me you love me?"

I gasped and held my mouth open, "Just three, but now I have a goal."

"Crazy girlfriend."

I rolled on top of him, "Just about you." I did exactly what you’re supposed to do when you're naked in bed laying on top of a naked man.

I tickled him.

Our tickle fight lasted until we were laughing so hard it was hard to breathe. That and when Sebastian pinned my hands to the bed. "Je veux te faire l 'amour." He kissed me and pressed his erection closer between my legs. "I have a good memory too."

I don't know how it gets better than this. Waking up in Paris, with a gorgeous man watching me sleep, making love, then sitting on the terrace in big fluffy robes having coffee and croissants.

The guide at The Louvre was knowledgeable but a little stuffy. We spent much of the tour hanging back with another couple laughing inappropriately. The museum was incredible and we stayed around after the tour to revisit areas and check out some places not included. Sebastian liked items where I was mesmerized by the vibrant colors of the paintings. Lunch today would become our go-to. Pick up something near to and find a spot to sit in the park. Food and people watching was always a good time.

We headed back to the hotel to fool around before dressing for dinner. On the boat, we were seated by the window. We headed to the upper deck with a glass of wine for sunset. Last night's sunset view was unforgettable for many reasons. Tonight's was more beautiful with the lights of the city and bridges. It was romantic in a more refined way. Last night was casual clothes sneaking kisses in the dark. Tonight was dressed up, high heels, and elegant stemware. Kisses weren't as sneaky in the wide open space. The food was delicious. We started with duck foie gras and Scottish salmon. My main was scallops with sweet potato risotto and seaweed cream. Sebastian promised to save me from the seaweed if it triggered me. He went for a filet of beef, pea pudding, and veal gravy. The aroma from the fresh bread with the cheese course was mouth watering. Sebastian enjoyed my excitement and took more pictures of me eating cheese than anything else except drinking wine. For dessert, we decided one decadent and one fresh. A white chocolate raspberry lychee sphere and lemon basil tart. I nearly had to stab Sebastian with a fork for hogging all the sphere. The return trip was dark. Only the lights of the city and running lights illuminated to boat.

The night included a visit to a cabaret. That the Moulin Rouge was more touristy led us to the Crazy Horse. Still famous, but not the most sought after. We'd been told the Moulin Rouge was over the top and Crazy Horse more subtle. That may be true, but one important detail was left out. The dancers at the Crazy Horse were often naked. Sexy dance numbers, visual effects, and vibrant light shows. At times the lights were the only clothes. Darkness was used strategically as was glow in the dark body paint. What I noticed was all the women were in Louboutin, which lead me to believe the lingerie was expensive as well. There was a part with a very good looking man stripping. It was more funny than sexy. The combination of erotic dance and risqué humor kept both of us entertained

We talked about our favorite parts on the ride back to the hotel. Sebastian opened the door, letting me walk by into the hotel, "Is it wrong that I asked where the lingerie was from?"

"I wondered, but didn't think to ask. I loved the black bodysuit with all the straps."

"So did I."

Imagine my shocked face. You'd have to imagine because I wasn’t making that face. I waited until we were in the room to ask, "Did you find out where this shop is?"

He pulled his phone out and went to maps. A slow smile formed, "About two blocks. Across from Dior."

I folded my legs under me and sat on the couch. "Fun."

He sat next to me. He was fiddling with the bottom hem of his shirt. He was nervous. "Are you running up a crazy credit card bill to amuse me?"

What a sweety. My recent shopping habits didn’t match my teacher salary. I guess we were going to have this conversation. "My grandfather has it set up where his stock dividends are split between the grandchildren. It's paid out quarterly and there's no way to know how much, so I've never factored it into my budget. It goes into a savings account. I have a rule that it's only for fun. I took Angie and Eli with me to Hawaii. After a horrible start to the year, Malory and I went to Key West." I grimaced, "I don't remember much of that trip. And if I want to go shopping I can. I do appreciate your concern." I leaned over and kissed him. "There is a trust fund, but I can't touch that until I'm thirty. That's partly why it was important to go off on my own. I grew up with money, so when Jimmy said I couldn't take care of myself I needed to prove it to myself, even though I know it wasn’t completely on my own."

Sebastian interrupted, "Don't diminish what you’ve done. You started over in a new place where you knew no one or even where to grocery shop. You've got a Master's and accepted into a Doctoral program. Anyone who thinks you can't take care of yourself is wrong."

This fierce defense was very attractive. Money can be embarrassing. I realize I'm privileged, and I try not to behave like a trust fund baby. I would never go shopping as I had with anyone but Angie. I know it was a splurge.

“I just wanted to check.” I wanted to ask what if I had been, but he kept going, and I didn’t feel the need to stop him. “Back to the fun stuff. Is it bad form to buy you a gift that's really for me?"

"For my birthday or Christmas, yes. Otherwise, no. I'm not sure that sexy lingerie that gets you hard isn't as much a benefit to me as it is you."

"You realize you in sweatpants and a t-shirt gets me hard. You in a bathrobe. You in a potato sack."

"I wonder who that says more about?" We laughed and I laid across him, counting on him to support me. "It does make us both lucky."

"Oh, don't I know it."

We spent the next day touring Versailles Palace. We jumped off the tour to explore as soon as we hit the outskirts of the city. When we were out of interesting places we jumped on the metro until we saw something new to explore. Dinner was at this Ping Pong cafe. The food was delicious and fortified us for the play to come. I am just as competitive playing ping pong with my boyfriend as I am on a volleyball court. There was a lot of trash talking. What made it more fun was how truly awful we both were. Neither was sure of the rules so we argued over and made them up as we went. In the end, I lost due to a combination of unsuccessful attempts at cheating and Sebastian being slightly less awful than me. Our overly dramatic antics did amuse nearby patrons and when Sebastian was recognized he was gracious in conversation and signing autographs. We made it to the Pont Alexandre III bridge just as the sun set. It was ornate and a beautiful end to the day.

Next up was a day of museums and checking out wherever in between. We met up with a guide in the afternoon for a walking tour of Art Nouveauarchitecture. On our way back to the hotel we passed by the lingerie shop. A quick discussion later we decided not to go in. It would ruin some of the fun if the other knew what we bought. I also decided I needed to find some sexy underwear for him. I checked; he'd wear them. Dinner was my responsibility tonight. I found a rooftop restaurant with a great wine list and an even better view.

Tuesday, the day before the fashion shows, was the day I was looking most forward to. It was an early start and long trip to Mont Saint Michel. Claire had hired us a car and we napped most of the trip. The town is a tidal island and when the tide comes in it covers the causeway, only cutting off access for about an hour, but still. We parked at the tourism office and took off our shoes for the half mile walk over the mudflats. It didn’t look like a dangerous trek, but apparently, quicksand was real here.

We weren't far into our walk when Sebastian asked, "Is this Hogwarts?"

Our guide laughed, "No, but yes. The movie was not filmed here but as you will see much of the architecture is similar and the street does resemble Diagon Alley."

Sebastian looked at me, "Did you know?"

I shook my head, "I love gothic architecture and castles. Versailles was incredible, but this is a hundred times better. Stonework, stained glass, the high pointed arches." I grabbed onto his arm, bouncing on my toes. "I'm so excited. This is surreal." I held my hand out toward the Abbey. "Look at this, I mean, look at this."

He was smiling at me, "Should take you home to Romania. Lots of castles."

"Don't tease me." I let go of him and walk to stand in a small puddle. The water was cool and the sand squished between my toes. I felt like I was in the bubble from my favorite guided meditation. I put my arms out with my shoes dangling off my fingers and twirled. I stopped facing Sebastian. He had his phone out, pointed at me. "What are you taking pictures of?"

"You." He laughed, "With a castle island thingy in the background."

I heard the guide say, "Your mademoiselle is much more beautiful than the background."

Sebastian nodded, "That she is."

I walked back to them and reached for his hand. He handed his phone to our guide to take a couple of pictures before we headed on.

I was in absolute heaven. Even more so when I saw Sebastian as in awe as I was with the narrow cobblestone streets and stairways that appeared out of nowhere. Our guide had stories and let us lead, only giving direction if we were missing something. He took the lead when we approached the Abbey and guided us through spaces as tiny as closets and large as cathedrals. The arches along the walkway did look like a scene off the bridge in Hogwarts.

Our guide left us at the end of the Abbey tour and after lunch, we walked the ramparts and worked our way around looking at everything and nothing. Talking and laughing.

It wasn’t long into the ride back that I realized my thighs were aching. "What is it with Paris and stairs?"

"There's a fuck ton of them." Sebastian smirked and leaned in to kiss the side of my neck. "I will be happy to massage your thighs when we get back."

"Stretch them out?"

"Definitely."

We both retreated into our phones for a while. Neither had paid attention to them since we got here. The return trip was good for nudging each other to show a picture we took. I texted my chosen family and sent pictures. Sebastian was doing the same thing. He showed me responses on his group chat.

Charles ~ You took her to Paris? Chace ~ You can't take a woman to Paris for a first vacation Will ~ Go big or go home Toby ~ That's it. I need to meet her. Charles ~ Find a date and take the last bedroom in the villa. Toby ~ Chace, wanna go to an island with me? Chace ~ Do I have to put out? Toby ~ What do you think? Will ~ Who has the lube? Chace ~ I bet there's some in Paris.

I'd lowered my phone while I read his. Sebastian pointed to my screen, "What is that?"

"It's that app we made the list on the train."

"You need to send me the list."

"I can do better than that. Can I have your phone?" He handed it over and I went into the app store, installed, and signed into the app under my user name. "Now you can see, edit, add." I kept typing while he looked around. There was more than a sexual to do list. I was currently adding to a notebook called "Moments".

"Can I add to this?" Sebastian was in the same notebook.

"Sure." I bit my lip, "I had a thought. You can say it's stupid or you don't want to."

He put his hand on my leg, "What?"

"I was thinking since we're going to be apart for a while, we could write to each other. Not like texts talking about our day. I'd write things I want you to remember or know. When I'm missing you, I could write a couple of sentences to you or go read what you've written to me. Not any expectation of how often. Just a place for sweet things, sexy things."

I'd gotten the idea while thinking about distance and time zones and insecurity. Perusing old texts is good, but a one-stop place for just love notes is better.

"I love it." He brought me to him and met me for a kiss. "Is this for me or you?"

I had no problem with him knowing I was planning for our time apart. "You saw my love notes from high school. I love them. Texts get lost in a hundred other texts. We can even copy texts over. Pictures. You keep a gratitude journal. This is similar."

"Did you make that up?"

I shrugged, "I doubt it." I showed him how to navigate and create new notebooks. Our first notebook was "Sex To Do" We'd done that together. The one I’d been in, "Moments”, was short form memories. "Holding hands for nine hours with food and conversation.", "Waking in Paris to see you watching me sleep”, "Me showing you architecture", "You showing me artifacts".

Sebastian immediately knew something he wanted to add, I showed him how to create space between limes so he could insert his words. He was going to write in burgundy and me in navy blue. He created a notebook for longer things. He liked to write and wanted a place for more words.

I waited until he’d gotten down a thought before showing him what I'd been most excited for. "Things for Sebastian." I’d already started.

· Te iubesc, Sebasti-an

· I was so lucky to find a lost boy in a grocery store

· You always make me feel cherished and safe

"This one is for battling insecurities. You can read my words and know what you mean to me. You've said you struggle with distance, insecurity, feeling emotionally cut off. I thought this might help keep a connection."

"You've made a security journal."

I thought a moment, "I guess. We've hit a couple of bumps and worked through them. I hoped this may help keep it away over distance."

I watched him switch notebooks and read what I'd written. "Anything I write shows up for you?"

"Yes, once the app refreshes.”

Sebastian looked over with the softest smile I'd ever seen on him. "I love you." The softest kiss followed. "I tell you I'm looking for the perfect moment to kiss you and you create it. I tell you I have confidence issues and you tell me everyone hears that voice. I have a panic attack and you push me to take care of myself. I lay out my anxieties, overthinking, insecurity, and history of shutting women out and you don’t even blink. Now you come up with this way to stay connected with old-fashioned love notes." He bobbed his head back and forth. "More or less." He kissed me. "You want me to feel safe and loved."

I took a deep breath, "Partly." I was telling him my plan to battle his stuff so it was only fair I let him in on mine.

He looked at me questioningly.

"I've never been away from some I love for six weeks. I'm going to miss you and it's going to be hard. This is for me too." I am not going to cry.

His hand went under my hair to my neck, "Are you about to cry?"

"I'm trying not to, but the chance of tears Friday about noon is one hundred percent."

I let him pull me close enough to kiss, "I better get busy." He retreated to his side of the seat, stretching out a leg over my lap, and turning where I couldn't see what he was typing on his phone.

"You realize the whole point is I can see what you write."

"Don't refresh yet. I don't think we should tell each other when we add stuff."

I nodded my agreement.

He stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth like he was thinking. He typed a bit then looked over, "If I miss you in the middle of the night, I can write you and it will be there when you wake up. I don’t know which I’m looking more forward to. Writing or reading.”

I didn’t either.

#sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x ofc #marvel actor fanfiction #three days

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