#pietas talks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thesherrinfordfacility · 9 months

Note

I was debating whether or not the Omelas theory and Crowley knowing Jesus would be relevant to S3. And then they released that set of pictures with not just Aziraphale as Mary, but Crowley as crucified Jesus: Arguably the ULTIMATE scapegoat. Thus tying my two questions together. Hmmm...

yours is the second ask ive gotten about those photos, anon (and other anon, i promise i will answer you!!!) and frankly i still don't fully know what to make of this!!!✨

i do think omelas is at the very least has or is going to have some general narrative influence or inspiration on GO, even if it's not even directly related to metatron's coffee order... in any case, im glad that it may feature because i remember loving it when i read it years ago! couple of favourite (and potentially relevant?) quotes, because why not:

"Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it."

"But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else."

"Happiness is based on just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive."

as for crowley's part in it; well, im not sure. we know that in GO!canon that crowley essentially replaced the devil (as described in matthew, mark, luke etc.) as the tempter of jesus, in that he showed jesus the kingdoms of the world (ie. the third temptation and representative of tempting jesus into the dereliction of god). so, we could possibly surmise that crowley also tempted him into eating and into essentially killing himself to test god's love (by preventing it).

well, we know crowley has done those first two temptations before, right? even if the context isn't the same, it is aptly mirrored in s2:

but tbh, it could be that crowley never actually tempted jesus in GO!canon with the first two temptations (ie biblical texts misreport it), or that the interactions were not temptations and instead was misconstrued niceness ("his travel opportunities were limited"), or it could be that crowley is just that indeed a knob sometimes and his recount of the third temptation is not strictly accurate in sentiment as he himself reports it (ie. unreliable narrator). personally, id like to think the second option, given the potential link* between crowley and jesus as scapegoats in different but mirroring scenarios.

either way, his depiction as jesus being crucified is intriguing. if we take the imagery that crowley narratively mirrors jesus, we could arrive at the conclusion that crowley himself was a scapegoat. ive discussed the scapegoat thing more in some other posts, and more specifically along the lines of the old testament depiction of the scapegoat origin, but fuck it, let's chat about it again.

however, i have kinda gotten stuck re: that crowley image - if we take the new testament allegory of the scapegoat (ie the crucifixion), then that would suggest to me a couple of narrative points as concerns crowley's fall:

that crowley was blasphemous (potentially true given his comment pre-fall, "if i were in charge...")

that whoever passed his sentence was (if you consider the gospel of mark re: pontius pilate) originally merciful, but bent to the will of 'the people' (👀 at god and metatron)

but may also have refused to pass the sentence directly (if you consider the gospel of matthew) and instead turned crowley over to someone else to be condemned (double 👀 at god and metatron)

crowley may have fallen for a higher purpose - ie: used as the scapegoat (as jesus died to bring humanity back to righteousness/absolve humanity of sin - and would track with omelas), but we ought to consider that other angels fell too

crowley rose again after falling (which, yeah, he did - presumably into the garden of eden - but none of the fallen, as far as we are aware, died?).

none of the above is impossible, but im not entirely convinced. the above to me would strongly suggest that this scenario would better fit lucifer's narrative anyway? or maybe a bit of both? neil has wiped the possibility of crowley having been/being lucifer (rip), and so if lucifer was indeed the first prince of heaven (as neil has confirmed) and fell first to become satan... where would crowley fit in with the above? it almost seems like it's a bit too main-character-ish in that particular part of the hypothetical narrative for this allegory to fit crowley specifically.

this is where instead i feel like the scapegoat story in old testament texts might be a better parallel. leviticus says that god commanded the israelites to once a year perform a ceremony that would symbolise jesus' own later sacrifice. this was in the form of aaron sacrificing a bull as a burnt offering to atone for his own sins, and then to cast a lot on two other goats - one goat would be sacrificed as a sin offering on behalf of the temple (tabernacle), and the other would be spared but cast into the wilderness carrying the sins of the people, never to return. these two goats together represented the sacrifice and atonement for sin, even if only one was killed.

(@everyone, i think ive read the above right, but obviously it's very summarised and therefore may miss out or misinterpret the details; please come and kindly correct me if not!!!)

so we have three potential elements to this; the bull, and the two goats. if we take the bull out of the equation though, just for a minute, we could potentially interpret that the sin-offered goat and the scapegoat are potential lucifer and crowley respectively; that would fit.

the thing for me however is the - i believe - quite widely known point that crowley and aziraphale were originally meant to be the same character in initial drafts of GO. and we know from the pre-fall scene that aziraphale's information on the fate of the stars may have goaded crowley into challenging god, despite his warnings afterwards not to do so.

so - and hear me out - what if crowley was in fact offered up as the sacrificial goat, *the one which died and rose again, and aziraphale were the scapegoat? spared the fall, but cast out of heaven instead to bear the weight of sin, of the fall, on his shoulders? wouldn't that track with his being stationed on earth - cast into the wilderness - where he just so happens to end up meeting crowley again? and wouldn't it also match the symbolism behind aziraphale's own depiction as the virgin mary; being that of purity, faith, and virtue?

this could further cycle back around to omelas, and the condemnation of the child to be kept in squalor and darkness in order to preserve the paradise of the city. this could easily be parallel to crowley - someone who fell but didn't deserve to - and in doing so, staying fallen, maintains that equilibrium in heaven, and to aziraphale being one to walk away from omelas after learning of the child:

"They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas."

certainly, it raises questions about metatron's suggestion to aziraphale that he could restore him to angelic status. did metatron make the offer knowing that crowley would reject it, and therefore keep them both separated? that aziraphale would return to heaven - to omelas - and continue in maintaining its illusion of paradise? bring home the scapegoat and instead wash it of the sins it had previously - and potentially unknowingly, re: memory-wipe theories - carried?

#Big Thoughts that may be utter dogshit and barely arrived at a Point but there we are #im not an expert enough on religious texts to talk about it with any authority so if you want to correct me feel free #but pls be kind about it i did my best #good omens #ask #the fall/the great war spec #pre-fall aziraphale spec #AWCW spec #scapegoat theory #omelas theory #mary/pieta spec

9 notes · View notes

sourkitsch · 2 years

Text

Church from John Singer Sargent’s Triumph of Religion at the Boston Public Library

#this is what I meant to talk about last night but I Did pass the fuck out like I thought I would #sorry for the shitty photo… I thought I could find a better one online but alas #ANYWAY #the composition….#Christ between his mothers legs— a concrete reality of motherhood and of human birth #and the fact that he’s crucified on her knees #it’s the most virgin forward Pieta I’ve ever seen #affirming how important she is to the story that none of this would have ever happened if not for a woman…..#literally made me feel shrimp emotions… I stood in front of it taking notes for like 15 minutes #it’s technically a diptych but .. I don’t want the other half of it on my blog…. uncomfy…#john singer sargent #boston public library #triumph of religion

32 notes · View notes

solcarow · 16 days

Text

#wearing a shirt that has the la pieta w/ jay&bruce + shorts/pants that looks like portgas dee asce’s #gonna call this one the dead brother fit ✌️#i say shorts/pants bc theres a zipper that lets me rip off the lower half of these pants it’s hysterical #solar-talks

1 note · View note

zaddyazula · 5 months

Text

something something paintings in media

#i mean this with like la pieta #i eat that up oooh you wanna put those characters in the same positions as of a painting? devoured #especially with religious symbolism as well #so yummy #zad talks

0 notes

pvnsie · 11 months

Text

screaming crying throwing up bc bink is reading gtn and she’s asking for cool fanart so she can avoid spoilers but all the art i have tagged is a spoiler in one way or another this is killing me

#she NEEDS to see the la pieta fanart bc…#but she doesn’t know she doesn’t even know #kate talks

0 notes

trashbatistrash · 1 year

Text

#no yeah actually #Marcus To’s version does share more similarities to the Ivan the terrible and son painting than pieta #then again the other Jason death pietas aren’t one to one either #🤔#talking to myself

0 notes

chococolte · 10 months

Text

☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip.

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point.

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them.

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer.

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force.

You.

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means.

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his.

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest.

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you.

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort.

You're home, you whisper.

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them.

Childe breaks.

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #sagau #yandere male #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #yandere childe #sagau childe #self aware childe #genshin cult au #cult au childe

3K notes · View notes

diariodeunrincondemi · 7 months

Text

So I can't get over AOT finale and after reading son many opinions, one thing that catches my attention is that it is said that Isayama is a genius for referencing Schindler's List. But the thing is: since the beginning he has been referencing different works of art.

When Eren in his titan form carries the rock on his back in Shiganshina, it is a reference (in design) to Atlas (a titan) carrying the world ball on his back.

When Historia and Eren are in the Reiss chapel, there is a reference to the representations of Jesus crucified and also to the representations of La Pieta (which at the time led me to think of Eren as the redeemer of the Eldians, but in a more twisted way. If the Eldians are the devil, he would sacrifice himself for them to free them from sin).

There are also references to Goya, like Dina devouring Eren's mom is a clear reference to Saturn devouring his son (Goya's most famous paint); but also, if you know Goya's work, you'll probably know his famous aquatint The sleep/dream of reason produces monsters (in spanish we use the word "sueño" for both "sleep" and "dream") which talks about how when humans abandon the reason and only have fantasies, monsters are created. And tbh, there was a moment, I don't know if during the 3rd or 4th season, when I wondered if AOT captured that idea: Eren has dreams, fantasies, but not reason.

And finally, don't forget Plato's Cave myth. What happens in Paradis (the Cave) is the shadow of what's happening in the continent (the outside world). As in this myth, people of Paradis lives in the cave and they only knows that reality, but Paradis reality (it is the shadows) is not the real reality (the outside world).

#attack on titan #media analysis #hajime isayama #thank you isayama #i dont know i love aot so much #ten years journy #eren yeager #eren jaeger #armin arlert #mikasa ackerman #levi ackerman #levi aot #anime and manga #character analysis #overanalyzing #overanalysis #armin my boy

165 notes · View notes

nihoniums-oc-emporium · 1 year

Note

Pietas, how tall are you?

"1 m 90 cm last I checked!"

#niho's ask #pietas talks #ic #she TALL

2 notes · View notes

delicrieux · 4 months

Text

𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 2. summer 1972, august

pairing for this chapter—regulus black x f!lestrange!reader warnings for this chapter—none! word count—2.3k

regulus can get quite mean in the sweltering summer heat.

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | < back | next >

the grandiose patio is lined with wet footprints. yours. and regulus’. the sunshine is too unkind to him – burnt easily, he seems even more miserable in summer. he’s not much fond of water, even if you constantly drag him into the depths of the pool. the chlorine reeks, he had said displeased, trying to swat away his wet hair from his eyes. you had fought, tooth and nail, not to state, you reek. it would’ve obviously been a joke, and sirius would have laughed so merrily at your boundless wit, but regulus would have flushed in embarrassment and confined himself to silence.

you don’t like much when regulus is silent. in fact, you don’t fancy silence at all. father’s silence usually entails bad news, and mother is always silent. your house is too big to retain any noise, and rodolphus is contemplative and rabastan doesn’t take up enough space. with bella here, perhaps things will become more rowdy.

already, she’s turning everything upside down in what she has dubbed ‘the great upheaval.’ the new lady lestange has expensive taste and moody preferences, and so the walls are getting painted, and all sorts of curious trophies and relics from the depths of gringotts are being brought as decorations. she had let you practice explosive magic to knock down a bookcase she believed to be misplaced. you had been very thrilled to help.

now, though, the pleasant buzz of nature is satisfactory. the gardens and the orchard have remained untouched, though the greenhouse has been smashed completely. the remnants of glass glimmer on the sun-sparkled grass, a perfect spot to avoid as the pool beckons your return. not that mother's menagerie had been of much interest to anyone for years. the servants had tended to it, but it remained vacant of visitors, except the rare moments rabastan felt particularly sentimental. all those exotic butterflies spilled into the crisp, open air. it was quite magical. regulus was particularly down that evening.

of course, bella hadn't given much faff for any of it, so you don't dwell. a morning in the sun is a morning in the sun, after all. and, surely, if mother isn't to care for her property, then why should you?

"you recon sister will hire more staff?" you muse aloud. regulus has languidly settled under an olive tree, the leaves framing the thin, half-naked body like an all-too-pale depiction of pieta. his head hangs, the burn-warmed skin glowing, "without me to help she’ll hardly be able to manage all of these household duties."

regulus raises a brow at that, "what have you done exactly to help," the way he says it is half-chiding, half-mocking. as though he thinks that's the way to speak to the owner of the manor, "you blow up bookshelves."

you turn away from his stare, and keep yourself upright against the pool, knees scraping against the pebbles.

"well," you reply with a sniff, "if you had not noticed, she has taken a shine to me."

"shines are used for small jewels."

you hit his leg in a mindless display of violence.

his sharp inhale isn't playful – "what was that for?!"

"that was for talking down to me." you scoff. and his cheeks grow red, but not because you caught him in his error.

his next response is bitter. "i see how it is," the pitch of his voice rising ever-so-slightly, a subtle crack in a violin string, "you grow more pompous every day."

with his legs folded under his chin, arms crossed tightly, his discomfort in his position isn't masked as well as his emotion is. his wide eyes belie an even wider sadness. a hunger, a wanting for the type of affection a mother provides. something you'll never want to think too hard on because you understand, but also have been told by father not to ponder on.

"was that you attempting to speak down to me again?"

"no!" he snaps back, before muttering, "not that you wouldn't deserve it."

your temper has spiked. that isn't fair, what did he know of all that you must put up with! father expects a lot, and yet you are not given enough to do, but your brothers still complain at everything, and then you must put on a smiling face in front of bella, and how rude is he, really, to disrespect you so!

regulus doesn't receive a single hint of a reply from you. if his plan to make you more malleable to conversation wasn't working, he could start something of his own.

"have you made up your mind," the subject switch makes you jump, "about what house?"

oh. he hasn't stopped prodding since the end of june. that's almost cute of him.

"why are you obsessed about this?"

regulus makes a face. "don't try to understand. i just am," he pauses. for once, he regards you carefully, head tilting slightly to one side, "so you have made up your mind."

"slytherin sounds lovely," you admit, as you have been practising this speech in the mirror for a fortnight now. it feels more real coming out of your own mouth and not an apparition's. you could never admit to gryffindor, as your secret would unravel. regulus would spot his brother’s influence, and he would know, with certainty, that you prefer sirius to him. he must know already, but chooses to ignore it, like you chose to ignore all things inconvenient.

regulus stills for a moment. "wonderful," he comments, and resumes the snootiness of his demeanour, but more distant, "i'll definitely be in slytherin,"

yes, clearly, he would suit the snake very well. and he would fit in, like cissy. no matter the apparent fragility to him, it seems to be hiding a will stronger than all of yours combined. his eyes glitter and gleam when the sunlight hits them just right, but their core seems deeper, darker. no cracks or fissures. just an endlessness.

"and so would you," he finishes the sentiment.

"wh- whatever do you mean?!" you cry in his face, startled out of the depths of your musings.

"dear cousin," he simpers, "for how much time must your father spend pontificating on how utterly useless you are before you realise i'm in your same boat."

he may not mean it, but the insult is unbearable. and perhaps there's a sliver of truth that irks you. that your own kin think so lowly of your abilities. but, nonetheless, "behind my back, at least," you sound, "please, regulus, don't say such things to my face!"

he snorts, faintly amused at your ridiculousness, "will it make you feel better if i apologise?"

you huff. your pride has been bruised. he has, as always, thrown you into a sulk, which will be harder and harder to get over now. especially with you sitting a little more self-conscious than you had been ten minutes ago. and really, it had been such a pleasant afternoon. sweltering, and you bask in sunlight like you're famished for it. the rivera had been sweet, always bright and sunny, but england is hardly ever not gloomy. yes, the weather is worth more mental effort than regulus black, you decide. you would rather converse with a house-elf than him. he, yes, is useless, but you have some use, surely.

"think before you speak," you warn, not very menacingly, "honestly, if my life is already doomed, you'll not aid in ruining it any further."

"what life? father dotes on you endlessly. even if you've got not a single brain cell, he still fancies you," he drawls, "really, you're like a pet. a mooncalf. not a thought behind those eyes."

there it is. the nerve that tics. and though he'd spoken in a lazy, pensive drawl, your response is razor-edged and dagger-thorned. you're the blight. the aphids that sully. the plagues of locusts, “so what!" you counter, and you're barely standing on the border, "what is it my trouble? at least my father loves me, which is too much to say of your own."

regulus rises sharply. it is the fastest he's ever moved in all his life. that face would strike a serpent cold, you imagine. "take. that. back." his tone is chillingly even.

but a quick wit has always served you best, "no. not till you're nice to me."

"fine," the sun casts an angry, dark shadow of his figure over the pool. only eleven, yet he might be the most daunting creature you've ever encountered. all long lines, jutting ribs, and pale skin. and those eyes. downturned, forlorn. a regal hazel. the lids are flutter-thick.

the silence that settles is thick with discomfort. you think of your mother’s room at the top floor, how hot she must be with the heavy curtains drawn. it would be good to air it, lest she grows sicker from breathing in all of that old dust. yes, you shall let a servant know as soon as you finish chipping away at regulus’ resolve with your withering glare.

finally, slowly, carefully, "you won't tell mother i upset you, will you?"

"aunt walburga has much to preoccupy her. of course i won't."

he takes this as enough an acquiescence.

you find a part of him has softened. the edges, maybe.

"why should i apologise anyway," he adds, as if by way of an attempt at conversing in your manner, "the truth needs no apology."

his voice, not that of his father's but certainly not the poshest, has something odd about it.

he waits for a few more seconds, in what you gather, is a wait for an excuse to take the blow off of himself. you keep thinking, and these thoughts blunder quickly about. of mother’s room and father’s study, of rabby down in the cellar, of rodolphus prancing around his new wife. of sirius locked in his guest room, all of his muggle trinkets confiscated. sirius would have a laugh if he wasn’t too busy sulking. this impish row would cheer him up.

you've accepted the role now. it feels like a coronation. the signet ring would fit. pretty thing.

"regulus," you start, but can't keep your straight face. his stare bores into you, until the laugh finally escapes.

"you twit!" he accuses you, "i thought you were really angry for a moment! good thing i wouldn't actually worry, with how loose tongued you are. and stupid! to think, everyone always bellows about how pleasant and intelligent you are."

"could hardly be talking of me," you say, feeling not very bitter, but the taste of it is tart on the back of your tongue. this is a new pattern. a childish bickering, or even teasing, "i've never wanted to know anything. everyone else is terribly inquisitive."

regulus just eyes you in bewilderment. as though your view on the world is rather strange. regulus is fond of reading, and he has a plethora of curious facts to share to anyone who would listen. he had been more vocal of them when he was younger, but at eleven, he's growing very reserved and respectable.

to anyone but you, it seems, because he's rude and standoffish in your presence, even if his cheeks start to burn when you catch him staring at you. maybe you should've let him know. it'd be sweet to see his eyes widen in surprise, or his lips purse. that'd be worth all his rude jokes and unwarranted insults. his silence has allowed him to believe that all his sentiments are harmless. but they are not.

perhaps you are useless, not even a little bit useful at all, if a mere boy who's still gangly and graceless has you wound around his little finger, while not even knowing it. you can't decide if that's better or worse than knowing. it doesn't really matter anyway. when the family meetings took place late in the evening, and you were pointedly dismissed, you had decided you shan't ever want to know anything. to live in simple bliss of a fantasy, to enjoy what you're good at enjoying, and never touch the dirt of any of their messy problems. the end of childhood doesn't concern you, no more than any of the scandals you overhear and promptly ignore. gossip you adore, but only if it's mindless, like a poor matching colour of a robe.

the rest you are well off without.

pretty thing, mother had once called you when awake. her gaze had been vacant. you refused to decipher the meaning, if there was any to begin with. pretty things needn’t be sensible, they only need to be admired.

regulus offers you his hand. a rarity, him touching you, because he rarely is one for contact. especially with you, it had seemed. the small, slim fingers don’t tremble in their wait, "want to swim?"

your earlier mood melts away like the heat waves over the warm stone. the blood has flushed both your skins, but his more.

it's not important anyway.

"thought you don't like water," you say smugly, happy to lord over this very basic information you know of him over his head, "you'll look like a prune."

regulus wrinkles his nose in distaste at the idea. his pale complexion is so easy to scorch and scar. the redness blooms on him beautifully.

but then, all he says is, "you're my favourite, you know that, right? always have been."

the pleasantry, in such an instant, brings another surge of blood to your cheeks.

"why?" you have to know.

a shrug, then, a smile. not malicious at all, and you've always enjoyed it when he can't hold the pretences up in your company.

"dunno," and his expression goes blank again. his gaze roams somewhere far, "so do you want to go swimming?"

his offer has something more, and the confusion lingers.

"it is very hot," is all you find to say.

and what else, but to hold onto his outstretched palm?

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #the marauders #the marauders era #the marauders x reader #imagine #imagines #harry potter #hp #harry potter x reader #reader #reader insert #xreader #hogwarts #fluff #angst

103 notes · View notes

heynowisavedyouright · 4 months

Text

I've got you,

[ID: a webweave made of wikipedia screenshots. Put together, it reads:

Leave it to me.

A star system or stellar system is a small number of stars that orbit each other,[1] bound by gravitational attraction. A large group of stars bound by gravitation is generally called "distinct identities " in orbit around each other that are seen as a single object to the naked eye although, broadly speaking, they are also star systems.

from supreme loyalties, that override all other considerations, these close binary systems can exchange mass, which may bring their evolution to stages that single stars cannot attain. Examples of Stellar mass loss can occur to do whatever may be necessary in support of the loyalty. Loyalty to one's job, for example, may require no more action than simple punctuality and performance of the tasks "mental undoing" motivation to quit; and feelings of pain, exposure, distrust, powerlessness, and worthlessness.[1]

Employees who worry about not getting work finished and keeping up a fast pace can feel like they are drowning in their workload, a feeling that manifests itself in chronic stress and anxiety, which can cause the sudden ejection of a large portion of the star's mass.

Loyalty to a star cluster or a galaxy can, in contract, have a very broad effect upon one's actions, two stars that are thus mutually connected, form the system which we are now to consider. When two such stars orbit closely, their gravitational interaction can significantly impact their evolution. can place someone at risk of developing

Pietas (Classical Latin: [ˈpiɛt̪aːs̠]), translated variously as "duty", "religiosity"[1] or "religious behavior",[2] "loyalty",[3] "devotion", Main article: Stars named after people Foxie, the spaniel belonging to Charles Gough, who stayed by her dead master's side for three months on Helvellyn in the Lake District in 1805 (although it is possible that Foxie had eaten Gough's body).[32]

Ancient Egyptians believed that dreams were the best way to receive divine revelation, and thus

A210. Gods of the Sky

A220. Gods of the Sun

A240. Gods of the Moon

A250. Gods of the Stars

A260. Gods of Light

often as a form of nonviolent protest or in acts of martyrdom

Theosis (Ancient Greek: θέωσις), or deification (from Latin deificatio 'making divine')

"dedoublement", or "double consciousness", the historical precursor to DID, was frequently described as a state of sleepwalking, with scholars hypothesizing that the patients were switching between a normal consciousness and a "somnambulistic state".[56]

Sleepwalking as a legal defense [ edit ]

The Babylonians and Assyrians divided dreams into "good," which were sent by the gods, and "bad," sent by demons.[62]

most people believe that "their dreams reveal meaningful hidden truths".[74]

The term "veridical dream" has been used to indicate dreams that reveal or contain truths not yet known to the dreamer, whether future events or secrets.[77]

Unwanted exposure: Something personal that we would like to keep private is unexpectedly revealed, or when we make a mistake in [a] public [setting]."[39]

For defendants whose defence states they have a diagnosis of DID, courts must distinguish between those who genuinely have DID and those who are malingering to avoid responsibility.[172][75]

Agent regret is the idea that a person could be involved in a situation, and regret their involvement even if those actions were innocent, unintentional, or involuntary.[3] For example, if someone decides to die by stepping in front of a moving vehicle, the death is not the fault of the driver,

the person apologizing was, in some way, responsible for the unjust actions taken;

the person apologizing is aware of the injustices that resulted from those actions; and

the person apologizing intends to behave differently in the future.[6]

Only after he wakes does he know it was a dream.

In ancient Japan, legends talk about hitobashira ("human pillar"), buried alive at the base of or near some constructions to protect the buildings against disasters or enemy attacks,[6]

also known as suicide by police or law-enforcement-assisted suicide,[2] a suicide method in which a suicidal individual deliberately behaves in a threatening manner, with intent to provoke a lethal response from a public safety or law enforcement officer[3] to end their own life.

the deliberate act of using one's

Public image Topics referred to by the same term

Existence State of being real

to cover a live time-fused hand grenade,

[Image: "A star set to explode", the SBW1 nebula surrounds a massive supergiant in the Carina Nebula.]

absorbing the explosion and fragmentation in an effort to save

Since this is almost universally fatal, it is considered an especially conspicuous and selfless act

It is always intentional.

End ID]

#tw suicidal ideation #milgram #0909 #web weaving #wikiweave #john milgram #mikoto kayano #if double+neopla$m wa$ a webweave : the webweave

76 notes · View notes

oneatlatime · 3 months

Note

Hiii!!! I’ve been binging through your blog for the past few weeks and I noticed how you talk about how Kataang(Katara x Aang) is portrayed in the show. Honestly yeah, I will admit I didn’t like it at first but now I just don’t really care for it. But I’d be interested hearing an in-depth opinion on the ship(unless you already did and I just never noticed or forgot 😭).

Another question, do you think you’re going to read the comics that came out the series? If you’re asking my opinion I’d say they’re a uuuh 7-8 out of 10 IG?

I do have thoughts on Kataang which I haven't shared yet. Part of me thinks I should wait to answer your ask until I've finished the series; it's obvious to me that these two are being set up to be the big finale couple, which means if I talk about them now I'm probably missing the pieces I need to have a full, well-rounded opinion. But you know what? I feel like talking about them now. So here goes.

Short answer: It peeves me that Aang comes from a culture that seemingly doesn't even have parents, yet he still manages to date his mother.

Long answer: they're both way too young. I'm a huge fan of letting the kids be kids for as long as possible. Especially with these kids, who have been prevented from being kids by the war. As Katara points out in the opening scene of the very first episode, she's been the mother since her own died (or at least she feels like she has had to be the mother). Call me crazy, but I'd rather Katara spend a few years after the war doing dumb childish stuff to recapture that lost childhood than jump straight into a relationship. Isn't the safety and space to do dumb childish stuff one of the things those who are trying to end the war are fighting for? Shouldn't she get to enjoy that? And Aang is just way too young no matter what way you look at it. He's 12 right? I think that would make him a grade 6 student. Back in my day (yells at cloud) Grade 6 students collected yugioh cards and feuded over who had the snazzier lunch box. I could picture a 12 year old having a crush on a slightly older girl that goes to the same school, but it would be short lived and unactionable. I guess Katara would be around 14? So, a grade 8 student. A grade 8 girl would not date a grade 6 boy. It would just never happen.

They've both got bigger fish to fry. Aang is the last Air Nomad AND the current Avatar. When he fully takes on both of those positions, what time will he have for a girlfriend? Katara is the only Southern Waterbender. Whether or not she wants the responsibility, it will be her duty to single-handedly reconstruct a huge portion of her nation's culture from the ground up once she returns south. Does she have the time to ping pong around the globe mothering her boyfriend as he rides giant animals or does Avatar stuff? Say she wants to: what will her family and the rest of her tribe think of the only person who can access such a huge part of their culture riding off into the sunset?

Their current relationship dynamic is still too mother/son. This is more obvious in season 1 than in season 2 (maybe that's growth?) but you can't depict a male/female pair as pieta and then expect me to ship. I think this could change somewhat, but I've already been disappointed in that. I thought that once Katara had mastered waterbending and therefore felt she had something other than mothering to contribute to the group, she would back off with the mothering. And she did, a little, but not enough for my tastes. Maybe as Aang fully steps into the Avatar role and the last Air Nomad role (sidenote: no idea what the latter would look like) he'll move on to a more equal relationship with Katara.

I think Katara is meant for better things than rebirthing a nation. Bending seems to be at least somewhat genetic. So if Aang wants Airbending in any form to survive after his death, he's going to need a billion kids. While I could definitely see Katara wanting children, I don't see her as the barefoot pregnant type.

I'm not convinced that Aang has a clear picture of Katara. She has flaws, which is good! Does Aang see them?

I get the feeling that, while they are helping each others' skills grow as they travel the globe, they are also preventing each others' personalities from growing. As long as Aang is around, Katara has someone to mother. As long as Katara is around, Aang has someone who prevents him from feeling the full weight of his responsibilities. Again, this is worse in season 1, but how often did Katara deny that Aang was to blame for something that was at least somewhat his fault? Aang will never become a fully rounded person until he can look at his flaws and mistakes dead on and say "my bad" without a Katara in the background going "no you're perfect!" Katara deserves to find out what kind of person she is outside of a nurturing role. Quick thought experiment: what if you pair Katara with someone who needs no nurturing, or better yet, nurtures her? And what if you pair Aang with someone as bluntly truthful as Toph? Katara and Aang might find both of those situations uncomfortable at first, but I think it would contribute to their growth.

Aang having a crush on an oblivious Katara would be a great single season arc. I think it would fit both of their characters well, and I think Aang growing past latching on to the first person he saw after the iceberg would be a good way to show that he's rooting himself in his time-displaced present, and fully committing to ending the war. And don't get me wrong, I love Aang and Katara both as a fighting team and as friends.

These kids are all fighting a war, and all kids. I don't mind the supporting characters having romances, because it's not like Sokka or Suki can end the war, no matter how hard they try/might want to. But I'm a big believer in doing one thing at a time, and I think if you're the only person in the whole world who can end a war, then ending the war should take precedence over dating. I'm aware that that's an unrealistic expectation and out of step with the show's theme of balance. In the real world, birth rates skyrocket during war time because people live for the moment and grab happiness (read boinking) wherever they see it. But both these kids are pre-boinking age so I'm going to be a cranky old fart about it.

Being the wife of the Avatar is a position that will often come with being relegated to second place, especially with the amount of work that undoing a century of war will take. Although she works well in a team, Katara is a naturally dominant personality. Katara did enough of putting herself in second place before the series started. I think Katara could very easily fall into the pattern of subjugating her own needs and desires and putting her husband's first, but I don't want that to happen. And one way to prevent that from happening is to prevent her from dating the single most politically important person in the universe. (To be clear, Aang would never deliberately squish a wife like that, I just think the workload of being Avatar and last air nomad would cause that to happen)

A lot of my objections to this pairing are very adult objections. I don't know what I would have thought about this pairing when I was the age of the show's target audience. It undoubtedly would have bothered me less, although I probably would have been put off by how twee it is. As an adult, all I can see are babies playing house.

As for the comics, I hadn't made any concrete plans to read them. I don't know where I'd get access to them. I'm not sure how canonical they are. I guess I should probably decide whether or not I want to read them after I've finished the whole series. I've been told that my girl Jin appears in one of them, so I definitely have some interest. I have also had the Avatar Kyoshi novels strenuously recommended to me. But so much of Avatar's charm, to me, is in the medium. And while comics are closer to animation than books are, they're still static. Avatar does movement so well.

#ask #this got way too long #short short answer: they're too young #not much incompatible about their personalities #plenty incompatible about their responsibilities

77 notes · View notes