#the world is so cruel and unjust it makes me feel like a tiny little ant | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fanmoose12 · 2 years

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omg guys i'm so excited to show you what @free-pancakes and i have been working on!! it's a little something based on y'all know what scene from squid game!!

@free-pancakes did the art and i wrote the small thing based on it and i hope y'all enjoy it as much as we enjoyed doing it!! (heartbreaking) spoilers to the show right ahead!!

"Hey! You, the short and grumpy one!"

Levi shudders, recognizing that shrill, unnecessarily loud voice immediately. The four-eyed weirdo he had taken pity on before the start of the third game. The very same one that had been pestering him non-stop ever since their victory.

His eyes wander, searching for someone - anyone - who hasn't found a partner yet. Of course, it's just his luck; almost everyone in the room is already paired.

Slowly, he turns to face the weirdo.

"I don't want to play with you, four-eyes."

"You don't?" even after his harsh refusal, she sounds completely unbothered. Such nonchalance bewilders Levi. And impresses a tiny bit of him. It also makes him wonder what real life had done to four-eyes to make her like this. "So you are going to beg these idiots to let you join? That's kinda pathetic, dude."

He knows it is. And - realistically - he knows that there is no one else here who wants to play with him. As daunting as it is, four-eyes is his only chance.

He narrows his eyes and raises an eyebrow, giving the weirdo a critical look. She doesn’t even bat an eye at his scary demeanor. "And why do you want to play with me so much?"

"I watched you during the previous games. You were awesome!" she grins, completely unabashed and full of genuine excitement. "And you let me join your team. That saved my life, you know. I want to repay you for that."

She seems so honest, so trustworthy, Levi doesn't think he had ever met a person like her. Four-eyes is bright, cheerful, she radiates warmth that Levi can't help but crave.

But the life he led before the games taught him to always keep his guard, always remain on his toes. Letting go of these habits is hard, impossible even. And so, the expression of doubt stays on his face.

"Why would I want you in my team? What are you useful for?"

"Well, I'm very smart," four-eyes says, winking cheekily. "And if you join my team, I will ensure your victory."

His eyebrow goes higher. "And how exactly will you ensure it?"

"I'll do anything I can. So," she sticks out her hand, offers it for a finalizing handshake. "Partners?"

Levi looks in her eyes, as he takes her hand in his. Her eyes are pretty, he realizes with a start. Bright and deep, hypnotic in their intensity. And her hand is calloused, a little clammy. But so pleasantly warm. He doesn't want to let go.

He squeezes it once, gentler than the situation calls for. Sparkles appear in the place where they touch. They go through the entirety of his body, settling down in his stomach.

The feeling is unfamiliar, strange, but not unwelcome. It's... enjoyable, in a way.

Levi lets go of her hand, before his body confuses him even further.

"Partners," he agrees, his heart stumping at the sight of four-eyes' radiant smile.

___

It is unjust, unfair, so fucking cruel. It's not what Levi expected. For the first time since the start of the games, the rules seem too horrible to follow. Suddenly, the money don’t matter all that much. He doesn't want to play anymore.

But when the life had ever cared?

"Ah, that's how it is then," four-eyes sounds calm, the internal turmoil that is wreaking him seemingly doesn't affect her at all. "I guess I should have expected something like this. It would have been too easy if they let us have two team games in a row."

"So..." even to his own ears, his voice seems too hollow, practically lifeless. "What are we going to do now?"

Before answering, four-eyes sweeps her gaze across the arena, noting every little detail. Not impressed by whatever she had witnessed, she scrunches her nose as soon as her survey is finished. "If that's my last half hour in this world, I don't want to spend it like this - fighting for my life. I've had enough of it already. So," she stretches her arms above her, shooting Levi a quick, blinding smile. "Let's make our own rules, shall we? Let's... bet everything on one round. The one who wins gets to live. And in the meantime, let's talk."

"Talk?" he's almost sure he misheard. Talking? That's not something he is even remotely good at. If that's their last moments in this hell... does four-eyes really want to spend them talking with him?

"Talk," she nods, her smile getting bigger. "One of us is going to die, so we can say anything, confess anything without a fear of judgement. It's liberating, don't you think? I bet there is something you want to get off of your chest."

"I'm... not good at it," he says, staring at his feet. Suddenly, during a game of life and death, the possibility of disappointing four-eyes is the prospect that seems the most daunting to him. Levi would have scoffed at his unexpected burst of idiocy. He would have scoffed, if he wasn’t so close to crying.

So very different from him in practically everything, four-eyes still finds the strength to start laughing. "I expected as much, Mr. Grumps, don't worry. I'll start." She takes a deep, just the tiniest bit melodramatic breath. Levi can't help but roll his eyes at her antics. Is she always so ridiculous?

"My name is Hange Zoe, I'm twenty six years old, and I'm here because... I've fucked up too many times. I’ve been living on a street for the past few months, so when that guy showed up, I decided - why not? I can either starve to death or fight for a chance of getting my life under control. Wasn't really a hard decision."

Finished, four-eyes falls silent, her cheerful demeanor cracking at the edges. "Sorry," she chuckles, quickly returning the happy mask back in place. "I know it's pathetic."

"It's not," Levi protests, surprised at the force of his voice. "I... I understand."

When living a life as horrible as theirs, it isn't hard to part with it. Levi knows it better than anyone.

"My mother is ill," he murmurs, nails ripping into the skin of his palm. "Her treatment is expensive, that's why... I'm here."

"Ah," Hange draws approvingly. "So you have a noble goal. I knew you do, shorty. And what about your dreams? Do you have any?"

Dreams? He wasn't allowed to have them for so long. What use of thinking about them if they have no chance of becoming a reality?

"Dreams are for people who don't struggle every day just to survive."

"Oi, c'mon!" Hange punches him in the shoulder. "There is got to be something! Something you want only for yourself - like a cool phone or a video game console, a really nice suit or—"

"Vacation," he mumbles, cutting her off. "I guess I want to go on a vacation."

"Oh!" Hange sounds ridiculously intrigued. Without looking at her, he can imagine the dumb but charming smile and wide, curious eyes behind duct-taped glasses. "Where do you want to go?"

"To the sea. On an island, I— I saw it on a TV once, back when we still had it. I don't remember its name, but it looked— nice, I guess."

"A trip to the sea, I love the sound of it! We can go together, sip on margaritas, sunbathe side by side... Then we can go exploring the island, we'll go to the mountains, into the jungle...” her voice raises with each word, eyes getting brighter and brighter. “You'd save me from a poisonous spider, I'll treat your wounds after you fall off from the tree. We'll have so much fun..."

Her childish excitement is almost infectious, but on Levi it has the opposite effect. It turns him sad, makes him wish for things that could never be.

"Right," Hange laughs, sound devoid of actual mirth. "Sorry, I forgot about— this whole thing."

"What about you then?" he asks, eager to change the subject. "What do you dream about?"

"You'll be laughing at me, but I... had never been in love. I want to know what it feels like, if it's as good as books tell us."

He turns around to look at her, but Hange doesn't meet his eyes, instead staring wistfully at the sky, gaze carefully avoiding the big clock up above them.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but..." she glances briefly at him, giving him a look much sadder than Levi thought she was capable of. "When I'm with you, I can almost feel that thing they describe in the books. I think... I think I could have fallen in love with you. You seem like the guy who wouldn't break my heart."

"And you, four-eyes? Would you break my heart?"

She smiles, a subdued, forlorn kind of smile. "I hope that I won't."

___

In the past few days, Levi's heard more than a hundred gunshots. Not one of them hurt him as much as this one does.

It's with that sound that his heart shutters into too many pieces. For the first time since the start of the games, he can't stop the tears from flowing.

He too feels that Hange was the person he could have fallen in love with. Just not in this life.

#look at cakes' art!!!!! so good!!!! please give her all the praises!! she deserves them!!!!#and the hands!!! the best drawn hands i've ever seen <333333 #levihan

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eiswolfzero · 3 years

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justice lords immediate reaction after luther kills wally?

Since Wally was publicly executed I imagine that the Justice Lords were watching from somewhere. He must have been missing for a little while ("Beaten, bruised, and weakened") so Luthor showing up, publicly (probably on TV too???) must have caught their attention.

Maybe they were racing to get there, maybe they watched in shock and horror. I imagine that at least Batman was jumping into a Javelin or the Batwing and trying to get there as fast as possible. Maybe all of them did.

None of them made it however.

They all arrived too late, maybe Bruce watched in numb dissociation on a tiny screen in the Batwing as it flew across the ocean. Maybe one of them saw it and simply said "He's dead." over the communicator.

So many possibilities. So many ways.

But all in all, there would be shock. The anger must have come later, since Luthor had been in his office already when Lord Superman killed him. (I also consulted the wiki a bit, so this is the wiki and my headcanon and thoughts combined):

Lord Batman - numbness, an empty hole inside his chest. Not unfamiliar from the feelings that haunt him since his parents died but Wally had made it better. Had made himself at home there too. And now he was gone. He helped Lord Superman attack the white house but after that he would have given in to the numbness ("it had to be done" he said), not to be seen for quite a while. Hidden away. Lord Superman took over Leadership from there I imagine. Feels guilty until his obsession takes over

Lord Superman - an unjust feeling settled in his stomach. He wasn't one to get angry fast but he was. He was angry and this wasn't just and people just watched and stood by. Seeing Flash dead made something snap within him. If someone as kind as Wally couldn't be saved from the evil in this world...then who? Doesn't feel guilty after that, he feels justified ("I'm great" he said after killing Lex).

Lord Martian Manhunter - I'm not really sure how he would've reacted. He seemed rather passive the entire episode (to me, from what I remember) but someone from his new, found family was killed. Again he lost family and he lost the other's too. To Lord Superman, his madness, their madness and he let it happen. He would be along for the ride. Feels guilty throughout

Lord Wonder Woman - Pure shock. Her dear, joking friend Wally, dead. Killed by a shotgun in public. No one deserved that. No warrior deserved such a death and to her Wally had been one of the greatest. She feels lost. How could men be so cruel? How was it that this world treated others like this? The wiki says she was the most shaken when Lord Superman killed Luthor but I imagine this is where she simply follows. She's got her ideals and thoughts and while they've always been tested, now they've been shaken. She chose to follow Lord Superman. Probably confused but feels like she's doing the right thing.

Lord Green Lantern - similar to Lord Superman. It feels like the greatest injustice ever dealt. Here he is, with a green ring that chose him to use its powers, to protect, and he couldn't even protect one of his best friends. He had a ring that literally worked on willpower and yet he couldn't stop this by sheer will. Couldn't bring Wally back. I imagine his believe is briefly shaken after that and he would need a little while to use the ring again. After that, it's easy however. He's going to do what he didn't do before. Use his will to make things better. Feels justified. An honest feeling through and through

Lord Hawkgirl - Rage. If there's one thing she knows it's rage and anger and that's what fills her entire body, her stomach, her head. She would want to smash Luthor's head in but also knows that's not how they do things. Maybe she destroyed a room, maybe something she could just smash to pieces, but there's a lot of rage. The wiki says she found the transition to the Justice Lords difficult but still tagged along. Probably feels guilty and misses the old days.

#justice league #justice lords #luthor killed wally #tw death mention #those heroes #sorry did I go overboard?#also sorry it took so long #but it was fun to write!! haha

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yandere-wishes · 4 years

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Gambling man //Yandere Idia Shroud Gang AU//

This has got to be one of my longest fics so far, if only because I tried to stuff it with Greek mythology references. Let me know how many you guys can find!

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

I met you once, I loved you twice that's the way this tale begins

You took a deep breath, straightening your black dress for the third time that minute. You weren't supposed to be here, this wasn't something "good girls" did. They didn't lie to their mothers just to sneak out to casinos run by one of the seven notorious gangs of Night Raven city! But what choice did you have? Money was tight, you're mother's flower store was barely surviving. No one wanted freshly picked Forget-me-nots or bouquets of narcissus and roses! Any "normal" person in Night Raven city didn't have enough money to buy dinner for their families let alone an assortment of flowers. The truth was that no one in the city could ever make ends meet, not with the amount of "protection" money the seven gangs demanded. Each territory had a set price range, all inhabitants of those territories had to pay that exact price every two weeks, failure to do so would lead broken bones, burnt homes and as a last resort dead family members. Each time gang took over a rival gang's territory the price would increase as a sort of punishment for the residents. It was cruel, unjust, but then again so was the world.

You and your mother lived in the current "Purple territory" run by the Octavinelle gang, the greediest out of the dreaded seven. Ever since someone tipped the local cops off about a gang-related kidnapping, the "protection costs" had risen by 20%. Whoever was barley scavenging money back then was surely penniless at this point. So that's why you were here, hoping to somehow win enough money to pay at least a quarter of the next "protection rent". The blue division nicknamed the underworld was one of the better divisions. People there paid less, lived more prosperous lives, businesses their earned fair income somewhere even booming with business. One of the blue divisions most alluring aspects was the Night Long casinos, a place where people from all over the city tested their luck.

The skull doorknobs were icy to the touch, sending shivers up your spine upon contact. It was almost like you were willingly walking to your death. For a split second you closed your eyes, grounding your thoughts. This was stupid, everyone went to the casino when they were short on money. Of course if they actually gained anything -or lost what little they had- was all up to faith.

the bright lights glared from every corner. Blinding any who dared to open the metallic black door. Music reverberated off the walls, rushing to crush the guests. Everything was blinding and uproarious, beyond overwhelming for any newcomers. Your body shook, torso feeling too heavy for your frail legs.

"Fist time kid?" You turned around rapidly, a cold sweat broke over you, had you done something wrong? How could that even be possible? You just got here! When your attention shifted to the source of the voice you were momentarily stunned. Sitting behind a desk, a blue screen floating close to her face, was the most exquisite girl you had ever seen. Tiny black skulls decorated her curly blond hair, her fair milky skinned hand carelessly swiped through digital documents on a hovering Netscreen. Her Olympic blue eyes circled with heavy dripping black makeup, were fixed on you, bearing right through your soul.

Your voice refused to leave your throat, words stabbed the inside of your neck sticking themselves to your throat forbidding air through. The girl behind the receptionist's desk let out a haughty giggle before outstretching her arm beckoning you forward. Hesitantly you stepped over to her, body trembling with every step. As you approached she leaned forward a playful smirk shining over her face. "You're new here aren't you sweetie?" inelegantly you nodded. For a second a look of sympathy fashed over her divine features. "Money's tight huh?" again you nodded, head half away up something shined in the corner of your vision. A blue and back armband fastened tightly around her bicep. She was a member of the Ignihyde gang, not just some lowly secretary. The girl didn't seem to notice your staring, her eyes were darting across the packed rooms. "Those two bottom feeders seem to be occupied" she mumbled more so to herself. "That would just leave Ortho," cupping her hands around her mouth she yelled over the roaring music and endless chatter. In moments a young-looking boy skipped over....except he wasn't a boy at all! You're eyes frantically scanned the boy's stark white body. His feet resembled hooves more than usual feet. Half his face was covered by a muzzle of sorts that blended in the snowy appearance of his torso.

"Ortho, be a dear and show this young lady around, she's new and wants to earn some quick cash." No sooner had the words left her mouth that her attention jolted back to the hovering screens, back to scrolling through names and credits. "Right this way miss" The young boy, who you presumed was named Ortho called, somehow he'd already skipped ahead. You rushed over to him, following this the shine that the metal of his body emitted. "And this is the blackjack table, my big brother is in charge of running games, let's stop by and say hi!!" "O-okay"

In the past nineteen minutes that you had met Ortho, all the young boy talked about was his "amazing older brother". How wonderful this man must be to have engraved his presence so deeply in the mind of such a young...child. Steadily you followed Ortho over to a green table in the middle of the room. Arching over the soft green table was a black neon sign with bold white lights spelling out the word "BLACKJACK". Tiny money chips and playing cards flashed around haphazardly.

Ortho ran up to the table, slapping his palms on the fuzzy surface, sending frail cards flying in all directions. "Big brother! I met a new girl a the door! She's so nice, a bit quiet but she's so sweet! Hey, big brother do you want to meet her? Do you? Hey (y/n) come over here! This is my big brother Idia!"

Dame that boy really could talk a mile a minute couldn't he? Tensely you eyed the tall man that Ortho was talking to. It took a minute for everything to click. The blue hair that resembled wild flames, dark yellow grief-filled eyes, and teeth as sharp as a shark's, it had to be him!

Idia Shroud the inherited leader of the Ignyhide gang, sister organization to the avaricious Octavinelle and owner of the Underworld casinos.

The man was rarely seen in public, it was rumored that he suffered from a strange curse which is why he remained locked up in his mansion most of his life. Yet here he was, nodding along to the ramblings of his....younger brother? For a split second his golden orbs darted towards you, absorbing every detail of your frame before returning to his brother. You stifled down a yelp, not wanting to draw any more attention to yourself. Endless minutes seemed to scurry by as Ortho drowned on about every little thing he had noticed about, every theory for why you walked like there was a gun pointed at your head, or why your eyes lingered longer the 0.58 seconds on every someone every time they started celebrating their victories. It was mind-numbing, you wondered how Idia could just nod along without bang his head on the table out of annoyance.

"Hey" You felt a sharp tung on your arm, almost knocking you off your feet. Subconsciously you let out a loud welp, casing the two Shroud brothers to turn to you. You craned your neck trying to look behind you. A tall slender man's fingers where wrapped suffocatingly tightly around your forearm, causing the appendage to turn white. "Are you here to play or just stare at Idia-sama?" his voice bordered in between a threat and a question. His honey-colored eyes glared daggers at you.

You tried to for a coherent answer, your throat only pushing out a few syllables repeatedly like a broken record. "Actually Pain she was just getting ready to play blackjack with me" Idia's voice was creaky and horse, it was like his words were coming from the inside of a damp cave. The flame-haired man's lips pushed apart forming a smile of sorts, displaying his fang-like teeth. The man quickly let go of you, pushing you slightly towards the two brothers. Obediently you took a seat on one of the tall stools. Idia began to shuffle a deck of grayish blue cards, his eyes never once leaving your form. "Come one Pain let's go get them some drinks" Ortho cheered as he capered over to the taller man and guided him into the sea of players. "How much do you want to be?" Idia queried, his long fingers rearranging the deck in a mesmerizing manner. It suddenly occurred to you why you had even come to this suffocating place in the first place. To win some money, to help mother. You shuffled through your purse and scavenged out a crumpled twenty dollar bill, nervously you leaned over the table to pass it to Idia. His thing fingers grasped the bill and shoved it into the pocket of his tuxedo pants. Half-heartedly he tossed you two blue chips and a green one. "Um I think you made a -" he brought a finger to his lips and made a "shushing" noise. You simply gulped and awaited him to pass you your cards.

Hours ticked by, people began to leave, the once crowded room had been reduced to a bored-looking secretary, two bodyguards tossing cards back and forth and a little robot who gazed at the pair at the blackjack table. Glee and sheer excitement pooling in his electronic iris. The game had started out in utter silence, every single sound around the two of you had by some magic faded into the abyss. You had surprisingly one three rounds gathering a total of one hundred thirty-five dollars, not nearly enough for even a quarter of next month's payment. The next two rounds were one by Idia who didn't even seem to be paying attention to the game. It was around this time that he had reluctantly asked you why you were here. It might have been the optimist in you or maybe the drinks that Ortho and the bodyguards kept serving periodically. But you had cracked, told him everything. How you're mother couldn't make enough to afford three meals a day, how she starved her self to be able to feed you a minimal breakfast and lunch. How the Octavinelle gang had risen the prices on their "protection money" and how you just wanted to help! You were desperate to make life just a tiny bit easier for your mother! Every time one miserable story came to an end there was another waiting to take its spot. Sometimes you swore you saw pity and sadness cross over Idia's features but again that could just be explained by the drinks you had consumed.

It must have been the third round, Idia had won for the fourth time in a row. You were about to push the few chips you had to his side, when the Ignihyde gang leader slammed his hand on the table, imitating his brother's action from earlier. "I can help!" he blurted but then quickly recalled hunching his shoulders. "I can pay your mother's debts!" Your eyes widen, ears ringing with the mystical words you had just heard. No No No! There was no way in hell that a heartless mob boss would agree to help your family. "W-what do...what do you mean!" for the first time his golden eyes locked with your (e/c) ones. "I'll tell Azul to lower the prices a bit and I'll pay your mother protection money" You jumped to your feet about to hop over the table and hug him! Joy coursed through your body your brain spinning in every direction trying to make sense of what you had just been told! How could a descendant of the "Lord of the dead" harbor such kindness in his heart! "THANK YOU IDIA I--" before you could finish or even get close to him he stuck out a pale arm. "But there's a price", sadness and threads of shock washed over you, of course there was a price. There was always a catch with everything in this city, even kindness didn't come for free. Your eyes lowered staring at your shoes, then his shoes, and back to your shoes. "Which is?" you mumbled. Horrific thoughts flashed through your mind. What was he going to make you do? Force you to work as a waitress in the casino? Maybe a stripper for the VIP lounge? Would he force you to become a prostitute on the street to repay him the money he had so "graciously" offered you!?

A cold sweat began to glisten over your face, just what had you gotten yourself into? You could feel Idia's icy slender finger pinch your chine as he gradually tilted your child up. There was a look of uncertainty on his eerie face. His lips would part, move even but no words would fly out. The once comfortable silence had now turned rotten and began to decay. Finally, the tips of a word became to clumsily fall from his mouth."S-s-stay....stay here with--" his eyes fell to the floor, the quickly swam up to stare into yours with also much faux courage as he could muster up. "Stayherewithme!" he blurted out in a single outstretched breath. It took a moment for your brain to nitpick the words apart, analyze each jumble to comprehend what they meant.

"The lord of the dead use to have a queen, it was said that dispute her being a powerful goddess she could not obstruct the dreadful curse that the Lord of Olympus had bestowed on his younger brother. But her mere presence was more than enough to subdue the pain that he felt." Idia leaned forward, his greying chapped lips brushing against your soft ones, for a second it resembled a kiss. But before your lips fully touched he slithered both hands up, to cup your cheek as he rested his forehead against yours.

"But why me?" You quizzed. After all you had just met him a few hours ago. It didn't add up! From the distance you heard an exhausted sight before a silvery voice yelled.

"You the first girl to talk to him, since he was a kid. So the idiot thinks it's destiny and you are meant to be the spring goddess to his god of the underworld!"

Your eyes went up to meet his, all you had to do was stay with this man until your mother, had saved enough money to lead a comfortable life. Then you could escape and reunite with her once more. Either way he wasn't really leaving you much a choice, even if you decline he could order those two brutish bodyguards to drag you to his mansion and chain you up there. You closed your eyes tightly, he may not show it outwardly but he really was a cold-hearted monster, a fiendish salesman through and through. Dangling you and your family's fortune in front of you and pretending like he was giving you a fair choice.

"I really don't have like time to bat this around I'm kind of on a schedule I got plans for august I need an answer like now!... Going once...Going twice1" Idia declared as his once blue flamed hair began to taint a fiery orange-red.

Your eyes and mouth seemed to have made the choice for you, the second your eyes flashed open your mouth parted and said...

"ALL RIGHT!"

I've never been a gambling man, I've never had the winning hand but for you, I'd lose it all!

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magicaltravelerlove · 3 years

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Is this where I belong (The furthest I could have gone)

here take a story where Childe saves a child and has complex emotions about the world (and Lumine)

Become your shield whenever you fall asleep

The Sounds of the ocean mix with the breathing winds sang in childe ears. Most times, he will enjoy the embrace of this smoothing sound, right now on the other hand, it was the last thing on his mind.

He was crotch down, his right hand letting his head rest as he watched a pair of small hands dig in the sand. He looks up at their head, a pair of dark orange ears to match their dark orange hair. He has never seen a child with such big fox ears. Are they fox ears? They are in the shape of ones.

"Hey, little one, are you here alone?" In all honesty he sounded like a creep but it's a necessary question seeing that there’s no one around her and for a few miles.

"Did you get lost?"

The small child (that looks no older than 10) looked up at him, her big ears twitch curiously before going back to playing in the sand. Childe sighs, getting no response from the kid again. they either were taught to not talk to strangers ( even if they were left in a deserted and very dangerous place) or they just...don't want to talk to him. She couldn't be mute since he heard her hum to herself.

And she can't be deaf seeing she turned to him every time he talks, She just doesn't respond.

Hmm, what can he do?

He closed his eyes, "Hmm, you're more difficult then Ojou-chan" he can feel his chest become tight from his mindless thinking, though he chooses to ignore it.

"Ojou-chan?" He opens one deep blue eye and see the girl staring at him with interest, she even got closer to him. he chuckled, how cute

"so now you're listening to me, hmm? Why is that?"

The girl shrugs, scooching close to Childe.

"Who's Ojou-chan?".

"Who's Ojou-chan?" He said enthusiastically.

He gets up and hoists her up along with an oof, she doesn't complain, grabbing on to his shoulder as he places her on his side.

"Well she is one of the greatest adventurers of all time and mondstadt’s very own hero! She's a boundless fighter, a Beauty no flower or jewelry can compete! She has the brightest eyes, bright then the sun itself- add her smile and she is blinding. She has the sweetest delightful voice even when she tries to fill it with bitterness. " Each word that comes out of his mouth becomes more soft as he drifts off, thinking of his Ojou-chan.

The girl tucks on his hair 'ow' "Do you like Ojou-chan, mister?" Eh? Was he getting off track? He can feel his cheeks heat up just a little bit.

"O-oh well who doesn't? You like her too if you heard all of her adventures" her dull orange eyes watch him carefully, he notices how her tiny hands hold on to him loosely, ready to let go at any time. He holds her a bit close and tighter, not wanting her to fall for the lack of secure hold on her end.

"Little one, what's your name?".

"...Haru".

"Haru! A pretty name for a pretty girl" she was lovely, her unique ears make her seem smaller than she already is, but she was also a mess. Her dress was tearing, ripped at the ends with likely (hopefully) dirt stains, along with her stockings, ripped on the knees with fresh bruises and scars; Her long Jasper hair entangled at the ends. He can guess from her disarray, the location she is in and her cautiousness to him, that something tragic had happened. Perhaps her family met a cruel fate and that's why she isn't telling him anything.

Childe eyes, rather than filled with worry or heartache, were lifeless and dull.

How cruel and unjust this world is to leave a child- alone and abandon, miles from any breath or soul of a human- to defend themselves with their tiny hands and nothing more. Another day and for all he knows, she would have been painfully gone as well.

"Mister?"

Childe turns to her, if he haven't found her at the edge of the ocean water, playing with the wet sand, how would the world filled with Gods, chosen her fate? And can he really say much about this when his actions and being a part of the Fatui, could cause the same fate for others when he willingly chooses to look away.

He gently pushes her hair to the side, seeing her own eyes that lack the same light as his.

"Haru-chan, have you ever been to Liyue?" he gives a soft smile, to reason with her worries, she shakes her head.

"It's a beautiful place, I think you'll like it and it has some of the best food you'll ever tasted!"

"Do you want to go with me?"

Haru hesitated to answer and even lets go of his shoulder, though this was only for a second as she firmly grabbed him once more, with more force than before.

"Ok"

It was a simple answer, nothing dramatic, no tears or overwhelming happiness but, with her grip on his shoulders that was not there moments before, he knew he crossed a bridge.

Although the light of his eyes will never return for him, he doesn't want another to be meant with the same fate.

"It's a bit far from here Haru-chan, so to pass the time let me tell you stories of Ojou-chan and her great adventures!" Haru nodded while Childe started walking towards the roads.

The whole time they walk Childe talks endlessly about Ojou-chan, distracting them from their long journey to Liyue. He talks about her biggest adventures in Mondstadt’s, helping a dragon and saving the city; her long travel to Liyue, helping the people along the way.

Haru gets more excited every story he tells but how can she not? The person telling the story has as much enthusiasm as the last story he tells and he doesn't seem to be getting tired of it. Haru on the other hand, can barely keep her eyes open as another hour passes. Childe continued with his stories not noticing the child's tiredness. During all these storytelling Haru noticed something that perhaps Childe doesn't realize himself.

"Pretty…"

"Hmm?"

How beaming his face becomes when talking about Ojou-chan.

"Aww, are you talking about me?" Childe cheerfully chuckles, noticing the child barely keeping their big eyes open. He pats Haru's head just as she yawns, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Mm-hm" she doesn't have the energy to respond with words anymore, falling asleep to the gentle sounds of the wind and the shining of the sunset.

#genshin impact #genshin childe #genshin lumine #genshin impact imagines #childe #childe x lumine #lumine #please #excuse the massive amount of grammar mistakes

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onlytaylor · 4 years

Text

Drarry + Facing Demons and Finding Family

Tw: mentions of symptoms of depression, anxiety, ptsd, and child abuse. All are resolved with a happy ending.

Draco Malfoy walks the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, and it’s different now. The way it had bustled with a vibrant vivacity in his younger years is long gone now, replaced by the mediocrities that come with running errands and making stops for work. It had been repaired, for the most part, after the war, but something about the shadows of buildings that used to be constructed just a little bit different haunts Malfoy in his steps.

He turns to glance over his shoulder when the sound of a child laughing fills the spaces between bustling bodies and adult feet. A familiar tuft of blue hair comes dashing forward, and Draco feels a momentary reprieve from his own hollow dissonance. His face lights up as the boy throws his arms around his neck, crying “Cousin Draco! What are you doing here?”

And behind the vivacious grin is the humble one of Harry Potter, the boy who really did end up saving the world. Draco doesn’t hate him; how could he? If it weren’t for the testimony of the man standing there now casually in his Muggle plaid shirt and ripped-up jeans, Draco wouldn’t be walking these streets.

“Malfoy,” he puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth a bit on his feet. “What sort of business are you up to these days?”

“Oh, just... dropping off a package for the boss. You know.” He shrugs, suddenly vacant. His momentary reprieve shrinks into a daunting reality.

“Wanna come get ice cream with us?” Teddy’s toothy grin eats at the edges of his impending monotony.

“Oh, well, I wasn’t-“ he starts, but Harry Potter has stepped his foot forward.

“No, please. If you’re not too busy, we’d love to catch up. Teddy misses you.” And, allowing the package to feel a bit lighter in his coat pocket, Draco turns on one heel and heads to the parlor with them both.

***

Having Teddy Lupin run through his life is like chasing a tiny piece of dynamite. You never know just when it will explode, and when you’ve got it in your fingers it seems to roll invariably to the floor. Draco’s been waiting now for quite some time for his own destruction, but his regularly timed meetings with Harry (wow- really on a first name basis now) and his cousin had brightened his steps countably.

It seemed that the sparking fire may just never come.

***

Draco Malfoy doesn’t visit Malfoy manor, and its empty rooms are surely hung with cob webs and dust mites and other small creatures that have made it home. The stone exterior is beginning to succumb to a green vine that twists its way up the foundation, and apparently small children dare each other to knock on the door of the “Death Eater House.”

Draco doesn’t have to visit Malfoy Manor to know which ghosts roam its halls, apparitions of tortured souls and the results of his own mistakes. If only he’d stood up to his father. If only he’d run. If only...

Draco swallows, once, then twice, before straightening his stare ahead. Harry’s coming over soon, and this time Teddy is at the Burrow. They’ve never hung out like this, quite alone and unsupervised by Teddy’s string of home-made knock knock jokes. He’s not sure why, but he’s nervous.

***

After the war, Draco had considered himself a work-in-progress. He’d ventured through the stages of grief, mourning his losses and wishing he could change the past. He’d also picked himself up off of the floor, vowing to start new. None of this was easy. Panic followed him around every corner, but around every corner was the reassuring laugh of Teddy; smile of Harry. If he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit their great assistance in his own healing.

But that doesn’t stop the nightmares. Or the constant feeling of dread. And when Draco Malfoy is alone, his guilt consumes him. Why hadn’t he done the right thing? Why hadn’t he stood up to his father?

***

When Draco was eight, he’d drawn a portrait of his family. It was an assignment by his private tutor, a sort of busy-work while she prepared more practice for magical theory. He’d drawn them, stoic and cold, using shades of gray and black to fill in the spaces between them. They didn’t touch, didn’t love. Lucius told him that artists didn’t make any money in the Wizarding World. Draco ripped up the drawing and threw it in the rubbish bin.

***

When Draco’s lease on his London apartment is near its end, Harry finds him with a nervous twitch of his lips.

“You know, Draco, you don’t have to move into another building. I know you hate your neighbors because they remind you of your family. Our flat is large enough for a third member.”

Draco had almost immediately rejected- his first instinct was to scoff at any such attempts at pity. But Teddy’s eyes had met his, bright and foretelling- and his pleas almost melted Draco’s shoes to the asphalt.

“If you really want me to,” Draco smiles, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

***

Draco hadn’t realized that his ghosts would follow him here. But as he watches the shadows dance upon the walls of his very own room, he knows he’s not dreaming. It’s his father, reminding him that he will never be good enough.

It’s his mother, watching with irrefutable silence.

It’s himself, pointing a wand at Dumbledore. Leaving with Snape. And abandoning his dreams to follow in his father’s foot steps.

It’s a portrait of Draco’s family, stone cold and frozen against the frosted window pane.

He doesn’t realize he’s screaming.

Not until the door is thrown open, and Harry’s there, sporting nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a concerned purse of his lips.

He’s on the bed, and now Draco is crying. Yelling. Laughing hysterically. Because he’s fucking insane, sitting in a bed half-naked with Harry Potter and telling himself to shut his fucking mouth before Teddy wakes up.

But Harry is gentle. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and whispers “I know. But it’s not true. None of it is real.”

And Draco sobs, without really knowing how to stop, and Harry’s skin is warm against his own. It’s the first time he’s ever really felt whole.

Hours pass, though the clock reads otherwise. And Draco tells him that he needs to go back to bed. That they’ve both got work in the morning, and Teddy is visiting Andromeda...

But, no, Harry whispers, this is more important. You are more important. When had their relationship morphed into this... whatever this is?

Draco Malfoy allows himself to be held, and it is surprisingly wonderful.

***

Working for the ministry is like working in one of those Muggle cubicles. He should be grateful for the opportunity, but Draco hates his job. His boss is monstrous, a poised figure that reminds him far too much of his father.

He gets a bit panicky when requests are made, unable to say no. Draco Malfoy never thought he’d become a push over, but his inherent desire to please, to win, to have a second chance is tumultuous.

He doesn’t know how to live without it.

***

Teddy is spending the night at the Burrow, and Draco and Harry are doing their usual dance of washing and putting away the dishes.

“Fancy a movie?” Harry asks, and something soft flutters in Draco’s chest.

“Sure.”

***

It’s midnight when Draco feels the gentle presence of Harry slumped against his shoulder, his quiet snores a rhythm that he begins to memorize.

He doesn’t move, and the stillness is what allows him to feel the sporadic twitches that begin to ripple through Harry’s body.

“No, no,” he murmurs, “Please, no. Hermione... Cruciatus...”

Draco freezes, and he immediately understands the inner workings of Harry’s psyche.

He was there when his aunt Bella inflicted near irreparable damage to Hermione Granger. He didn’t stand up. He didn’t stop her.

There’s a tightness in his chest, and it fluctuates with his heart rate. Harry is having a nightmare, and it’s all his fault.

“You’ll never make up for what you’ve done,” he hears his father say, and the words are a gun to his head.

“Harry,” he whispers, desperately running his fingers along the side of his arm to calm him. If he couldn’t go back, the least he could do is aid his sleep.

Harry settles, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief. His father is laughing at him.

Ghostly shadows dance along the walls, flickering in the dim light of the TV. The world seems to grow around him, and he is infintismal.

His palms are sweaty as the guilt settles, rotting a hole in his stomach. And then there’s a whisper, a subtle word that shifts everything: “Draco.”

He glances at Harry’s face twice to make sure he’s not imagining the slight tug at the corner of his mouth. He said Draco’s name. And, from the depths of his slumber, he’s smiling.

Draco’s eyes are prickly, and he’s not sure why there are tears surfacing at such an inopportune moment. Perhaps he’s gone completely insane... or maybe...

“Not your father, Draco... amazing... need you... love you...”

A light seems to dissipate the shadows, which morph and expand into unidentifiable shapes before they slowly vanish. Draco’s hands are still clammy, but his mind is on overdrive.

The Savior of the Wizarding World is dreaming about him. Believes in him. Maybe, even...loves him?

And the remaining shadows come crashing down, spirits that find rest in redemption. If Harry Potter, with his stupid scar, and his stupid broomstick, could think highly of Draco Malfoy, the ex-death eater... maybe he could forgive himself.

Maybe... and then there are images flashing through his mind. Of stone family drawings and cruel and unjust punishment.

Of the desire to please, so much, that if his father pointed a wand at his throat he’d beg for forgiveness. Of pretending to have dignity for so long that he’d lost his own along the way.

And then, another sleepy rasp from Potter: “not your fault...”

And something snaps inside him.

“Not my fault,” he repeats, barely audible, yet it rattles an earthquake that cracks the floor. The ground faults, and everything he’s ever know crumbles before him.

“You are pathetic.” The voice of his father shakes the walls, breaks the foundation. Rips open the fortress of his solitude, jagged lines coursing through his very being and down to his core.

There’s a wand at his throat.

Harry isn’t here. Here, it’s a Malfoy’s paradise, and Draco’s skin crawls at the realistic image of his father before him. He’s so fucking life-like, the drawl of his criticism dripping with the poison of a basilisk. He’s smiling, and that hurts. It’s malicious.

But then, another whisper. A distant proclamation that rings through the periphery of his hearing. “Draco... always... good enough...”

Fuck. Harry?

“Good enough,” he repeats, the syllables a solid reality, just like the man before him. And, in a sudden fit of realization, Draco realizes the epitome of his salvation.

“You’re not real,” he says, and the words are a bit shaky as they permeate the air. His father’s face twists into something unreadable, a cross between a scowl and utter shock.

“You’re not real.” The wand lowers. His brow narrows.

“You were never real. My father is in Azkaban. You are just the ghost of what he did to me.”

His hands are drifting into the atmosphere, like grains of sand dissipating toward the floor. His expression morphs into utter fear, and, for once, Draco feels powerful.

It was never about defeating him. He could have dualed his fractured subconscious for years, constantly bettering himself, only to fall again. And the wand would always be pointed at his throat

But Harry, Harry said he was good enough. And he can hear the distant titter of Teddy’s amusement, the padding of his socks as they bounce along the hardwood floor of their flat. Of their home.

Harry cares. Loves. And so Draco must love himself.

“You could never kill me,” he says to the air, as the whisp of Lucius Malfoy’s presence fades into nothing. “It was just me, all along. Hurting myself because you trained me to. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fucking fault.”

There’s a sudden whoosh, and the room is spinning. And then it’s not. And Draco Malfoy is sitting next to a blissfully sleeping Harry Potter in a London flat.

The movie is over, and all that remains of the last few minutes is a line of scrolling credits.

The shadows, they’re gone. And somehow, Draco is no longer haunted. The house is peaceful, and a serenity seems to fill it’s every crevice, binding the cracks that once cleaved the walls. He pulls Harry closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Taking a risk he’d never had the confidence to execute.

Harry smiles, stirring a bit before turning his green gaze upward. “That’s nice,” he says, and Draco chuckles.

“Yeah, it is, hm?”

“Hey Draco?”

He doesn’t reply, but meets that vibrant stare of his with irrefutable honesty.

“Thanks for being a part of our family.”

“Family?” The word nervously slips his lips. He’s never done this before.

Harry nods. “You, me, and Teddy.”

His eyes are prickly again, and he swallows a hard lump in the back of his throat. “I love the sound of that. Of family.”

“Good. Because I’ll hex you if you go anywhere. Old habits do die hard, you know.”

Draco laughs, hearty. Whole. Harry snuggles into his shoulder, falling asleep lightly as he thoughtfully plans his next project.

***

The next day, Teddy enters to find Draco drawing a picture of his family at the kitchen table.

“Whatcha doin’?” He asks curiously, hopping onto Draco’s lap as he sketches.

The picture before them is a family, a blonde, a brunette, and a tuft or blue hair between them. There are no spaces, no empty holes between their bodies, and the sky is a vibrant array of purples and oranges.

“Let’s hang it on the fridge!” Teddy exclaims, grasping it and running to attach it to the front of the surface.

Draco eyes the picture smiling, and it is the best he’s ever felt.

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #teddy lupin #lucius malfoy #narcissa malfoy #draco x harry #drarry squad #draco malfoy x harry potter #dad! draco and harry #facing your inner demons #post war #draco malfoy will forever be my muse for kicking daddy issues to the curb #this was therapy for me

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opbackgrounds · 4 years

Text

I don’t have the time or energy right now to do another ask-a-thon or to do a bunch of long meta posts, but in celebration of reaching 5000 followers I did want to do a write up of a character that I see overlooked a lot by the fandom who is very near and dear to my heart. What makes them especially interesting is that I think their existence is a prime example of Oda’s skills at a writer, foreshadowing plot elements that wouldn’t be expounded upon for hundreds and hundreds of chapters.

It’s pretty common for Oda to play the long game in his writing. Going back through the series as I have I’ve gained a new appreciation for Oda’s world building and his ability to set up certain element of the story that won’t be pertinent until far in the future. It helps the world feel organic and lived in, but on the downside, it’s sometimes easy to forget that certain characters or organizations even exist, which can make their sudden reappearance in the series feel jarring or forced.

There are also characters and plot elements that are in and of themselves not very prominent but are there to help establish themes and motivations for other characters. For example, Gaimon was only in the manga for one chapter (and a couple of cover stories) but helped answer one of the driving questions of the East Blue: “What is treasure?”.

The character I want to talk about today is a good example of this second group. Like Gaimon, they were only around for a single chapter, and yet their importance cannot be overstated when it comes to understanding Sanji’s character both in the Baratie and in arcs to come. They’re a type, a way of foreshadowing, and absolutely instrumental to the overall plot of the Baratie arc all at the same time. It’s pretty rare to see a character able to fulfill so many roles with such a short amount of screen time, and as much as people gush over Oda’s character writing, this is one instance where he doesn’t get the credit that is due him.

Who is this mysterious character you may ask? Well, Batchee of course

It’s not a coincidence that Batchee is introduced in the same chapter Sanji is, because in a way, their stories mirror one another. It’s ironic that Fullbody would dare to accuse Sanji of hurting a fly when the Whole Cake Island establishes without a doubt that Sanji is not only has the gentlest spirit of the Straw Hat Pirates, but cares so much for the world around him that he is literally willing to feed hungry rats. To be clear: Sanji would not hurt a fly, especially if that fly was a woman. In the same way, Batchee shows a remarkable resilience, never once retaliating against the injustice they faced for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And unlike Sanji, who is outwardly very coarse and uncouth, he does so quietly, uttering not a single line of dialogue throughout his brief appearance. It’s this instance with the soup that triggers the entire plot of the Baratie arc (and is paralleled towards the end when the chefs try to force Sanji away by insulting his cooking), making Batchee an absolute essential component of the arc, one of those tiny gears that hardly anyone notices but would cause the whole machine to fall apart if removed.

We see Batchee suffer in silence as he’s horribly abused by the people around him. Not only was he attacked unprovoked by a jealous Fullbody, notice how we see no other insects during the Baratie arc. Batchee is alone, just like Sanji was alone before Zeff rescued him. It’s no coincidence that Oda used a bug in this scene, as bugs have exoskeletons just like the Vinsmoke siblings, and although it’s arguing from silence, I would not be surprised if Batchee was likewise driven away from his family for being too weak. As to why he was on the Baratie at all, I can only assume that he dreamed of being a chef, only to have that dream torn away from him by a cruel and unjust governmental system, setting a precedent for further atrocities later on in the series.

There’s just not enough information given to speculate further, but I have the fullest confidence that Oda won’t let this plot thread dangle. I’m not someone who likes guessing about future chapters very often, but I would not be at all surprised if he returns during the Wano arc as one of Kaido’s gifters as another Duval-type situation where an old, forgotten foe swears revenge on the Straw Hat’s cook. Hopefully he’ll be given a similarly happy ending. After all he’s been through, he deserves it.

(Edit to add: while looking up stuff for this post I found an old interview that’s pretty interesting

“...Unfortunately Gin’s will wasn’t strong enough to defeat the deadly poison...But even with that, I think fans can be excited for what’s planned next...2016 was the Year of Sanji, it’s time to get ready for the Year of Batchee...”

—Eiichiro Oda

Oda’s predictions on his timeline are famously bad, but with everything going on in the story I could definitely see an imminent return)

An interesting thing to note is that Batchee has a drastically different character design in the manga than the anime. Historically the anime has worked closely with Oda in order to ensure maximum accuracy, however the insect shown during these episodes can’t possibly be a fly. It’s got 10 legs, antenna coming out of its butt, and no wings to be seen

Obviously this is another reference to Sanji’s future transformation abilities. Unlike the the Vinsmoke siblings, Batchee’s power isn’t named, but his color scheme makes me believe he fulfills the role of the brown Power Ranger. With such a drastic transformation (albeit offscreen, likely to preserve the surprise during WCI and beyond) from common horsefly to...whatever that is...I wouldn’t be surprised if Vegapunk himself had a hand in his creation. Only time will tell.

To wrap things up here, the story of Batchee and Sanji are closely intertwined. One cannot exist without the other, and just like how Batchee foreshadows much of Sanji’s Whole Cake Island storyline, I believe that Sanji can help us see Batchee’s ultimate fate. One Piece is ultimately a very optimistic series, and since there’s no confirmation that he actually died during his introductory chapter I have to assume that the little guy is still out there chasing his dream. I would have liked to have seen him during the post-time skip cover stories, but his absence can only mean that Oda has big plans for the future, and I for one look forward to seeing what he has in store.

#opbackgrounds #one piece #long post #batchee #sanji #parallelism #character analysis #thank you for supporting me being ridiculous #to the anon who let me know it was his birthday #I think you from the very bottom of my heart #deliberately misconstruing facts for my own amusement #just for fun

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serialreblogger · 4 years

Note

Reminded me because of the Barbara post - I think they get Erica (Princess and the Pauper) to start the 'you're just like me' because a. They dont want Anneliese to look pretentious b. Erica is an optimist and happy to connect with people, c. Anneliese isn't used to interacting with people on that level. Plus Erica still seems to hold some hope to get away from her debt and duty, while Anneliese is trapped in her duty to her kingdom, but Erica also knows what it feels to be like that.

YEAH! This is really good character meta hhhh

And it’s more than that, too - Erica had to be the one to say it first, to tell Anneliese they were more alike than different. Because... yeah, it’s way more in character for Erica to find similarities and connection with people. That’s who Erica is. But who Anneliese is has been shaped by her upbringing too much to ever dare try to connect with someone on the same level, beyond the coin in a metal can and practiced, perfect smile. She’s been raised knowing she could not, could never, truly connect with people; knowing she had to be set apart, she had a duty to be a princess, and that meant she couldn’t ever truly be a person.

It would have been unbearably pretentious for Anneliese to find common ground with Erica. It would have come across, rightly so, as the most cruel sort of ignorance, erasing Erica’s very real and very different struggles and pain and suffering, to say an iron cage was the same as a gilded one. Erica was the only one who could have started that dialogue - and she had no obligation to. She had no obligation to find common ground with a princess. She had no obligation to make Anneliese more comfortable; it would have been fair, and given Anneliese’s character, equally effective for her to shout and demand the literal princess stand up and do something for her people. For Erica.

Honestly, if Anneliese hadn’t been a Barbie princess, it probably would have been the only effective approach; it’s not in the nature of privilege to understand suffering. We can only understand what we’ve experienced, or what we’re told. Erica would have been right, and in the real world probably far more well-advised, to wave their differences in Anneliese’s face. It’s not Anneliese’s fault she was sheltered, but it is her responsibility to use the power that’s been foisted, unwanted, upon her, for the good of the people who don’t have any power of their own. To give that power back.

But - because this is, after all, a Barbie movie - Erica didn’t do that. She didn’t point to the unbridgeable gulf between the two women and say, “You’re the one with the broken bridge on your side. Fix this.”

(She could have said that - should have said that. But she didn’t.)

Erica said, “Yes, we are separated by this chasm. Yes, it is so much darker and colder on my side. But you are not happier than I, in the end. We are both trapped on our tiny islands, surrounded by the void, and that’s not fair. Not fair to me, but also not fair to you.” She didn’t ask for anything (though she should have). She said to Anneliese, to everyone, that a gilded cage is still a cage. That suffering isn’t less real just because it’s less. And she welcomed Anneliese to sing with her, in spite of it.

Gosh, I love this movie so much, because yes, real life revolution is so much messier and more fractured and flawed and people in power are not like Anneliese, they will not lend their hands out of the kindness of their hearts (though they should). But this movie?? This badly-animated 2000s-era hour-long Barbie movie? It doesn’t pretend otherwise. It doesn’t say “oh, of course they’re the same, Erica’s forgiveness is the only acceptable road she could take.” It doesn’t show the fractured messy truth of a society so disparate as that of The Princess and the Pauper, but it doesn’t lie about it, either.

Families go hungry, and go homeless. Parents sell their children into slavery for their survival. Erica says, “I work at Madame Carp's penitentiary - I mean, Dress Emporium.” She says to Anneliese, “I made the dress you’re wearing.” She says “If I'd like to have my breakfast hot, Madame Carp will make me pay, and I have to fetch the eggs myself” through the dark and driving rain.

And Anneliese just has to ring a bell to have a maid come running to bring a silver tray of fresh, poached eggs, with “strolling minstrels” playing as another maid rubs her feet; and all she longs for is to sit in a library and read.

Those aren’t the same. Even a six year old who has no idea what “penitentiary” means understands that these women are not the same.

Erica says it anyway.

Erica says, “I’m just like you,” and all at once a thousand little girls understand that “suffering less” does not mean “not suffering”; a thousand little girls understand that “being different doesn’t mean not being friends”; a thousand little girls that grow up saying “I’m not like other girls,” not knowing that every little girl thinks being a person means not being a girl, every one of those girls get an inkling that “not like other girls” doesn’t mean “hates other girls for existing.”

I don’t know, man. I don’t think I’ll ever not have feelings about this movie. It’s certainly not an adult’s guide to overthrowing the bourgeouisie, or a critical evaluation of appropriate responses to classism and bigotry, but... but it introduces kids to the idea that, yes, the world is cruel. The world is classist and awful and unjust.

But that doesn’t mean we have to be cruel to each other.

#be it noted that i am not advocating for Get Along With Our Oppressors #sometimes? sometimes you just gotta punch em #(look me in the eye and tell me Erica would not have punched a nazi)#but -#sometimes #if only in a perfect world that isn't this one #sometimes it's good to remember that kindness is powerful too #princess and the pauper #barbie #barbie movies #linden writes an essay #ask linden

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boxndlxsschxos · 4 years

Text

jxsticeprxvailed said: @ all your muses, what is their fondest memories?

@jxsticeprxvailed

Fondest memory? "Hm." Curls tugged at the corners of Sae's lips. That question brought back a FLOOD of happy memories, from the time before father ended up being KILLED IN ACTION. A time when she still let herself LOVE. A time where the crushing reality of this CRUEL & UNJUST WORLD came crashing in on Sae's already far too mature life. Letting a few seconds of MELANCHOLIC NOSTALGIA tick by, Sae finally replied with the one at the very forefront of her mind. "That would have to be the day Dad got Makoto her BELOVED Buchimaru-kun..." In a world of complicated ideas and complex emotion, that remained the SIMPLEST THING she'd ever witnessed. A broke father. Going above and beyond. To get his daughter. The one thing. She needed. To survive everything life had to offer... That had heard been the CORE ROOT of everything Sae had done since dinner father's passing in the line of duty. Oh, how far this OVERBEARING, OVERWHELMING world had derailed Sae... "You know I'd never seen someone light up more than when I saw dad get I that pencil case..." Still hadn't seen a moment and more MAGICAL -- And she lived as an arbiter that EXECUTED & LOCKED AWAY the worst nightmares of a TRAUMA-RIDDEN WORLD. Honestly, that may just have been the start of her PSYCHOPATHIC ADORATION of Makoto Niijima.

"My... Fondest memory?" Consider Weiss DUMBFOUNDED. "Why in the world would you ever care about that?" Seriously!! Had perplexed brows knitted together like NEVER before. The Schnee heiress prides herself on TALENT & INTELLECT. (After all it was the only thing her father AT ALL respected, and beneath false bravado lay an INSECURE BITCH.) "Then again..." Lips became a thin line, and then a POUT... Cold azure seas mellowing out into something SAD. "I... Don't really know the answer to that question..." Speaking of sad... That tone in her voice proved RARE... Maybe even NEW. "PTSD robbed me of a lot of my childhood..." An alcoholic mother, exigent sister, bully brother, hyper abusive FACE-SCARRING father, and a terrorist cell intent on tearing them all away from her -- YEAH, NO WONDER... “I assume it had something to do with Winter or Mother, or maybe even my Grandfather before he passed away...” They’d always been the CLOSEST TO COMFORT Weiss had ever come. “But like I said, I really couldn’t tell you for sure...” Balled up fists, folding arms, body twisting away -- HEAD HUNG LOW. “I...” Voice quivered and tears began to build up in those storm-blue hues. “I think I need to be alone for a while... Could you give me a minute?” When was the last time Weiss Schnee was TRULY HAPPY? Had she ever been? Honestly... She couldn’t say for sure...

Well, Natsuki had a very SHALLOW pool of experiences to choose, given how little REAL HAPPINESS she counted within her life. Thankfully, due to a... CERTAIN SOMEONE... Those few experiences within her HAPPY POOL were enriched beyond imagination and filled with such a DEEP SENSE OF JOY. “Oh, that’s EASY.” Though if you’d asked her a few months ago, or if the two seniors were MID-FIGHT, well... She might just have given you a DIFFERENT ANSWER. “It’s gotta be when Makoto found my secret stash of PARFAIT GIRLS.” Tinsy-winsy frame had wired itself up on discovery -- So expectant of the fall was Natsuki. So sure that Niijima would insult her things -- Call her CHILDISH, WASTEFUL, IMMATURE, STUPID, just like everyone else did. But, much to Natsuki’s surprise, that HADN’T happened as Makoto shared some manga from her OWN Guilty Secret before going in depth with Parfait Girls and even springboarding from THAT into asking Natsuki to BAKE for her. MOVE OVER CLOUD NINE -- NATSUKI’S RIDING CLOUD ELEVEN. “I’ve just honestly never felt more PROUD & VALIDATED in my things... And that’s probably when I let my guard down the most...” A DREADED PROSPECT IN & OF ITSELF -- Especially with the student council president inquiring about Natsuki’s father who remained a very REAL impending doom for BOTH OF THEM. “I have a lot I’m scared of... And sharing my things used to be even scarier than facing Papa when he came home drunk...” Just to put into perspective how important such a revelation was. “Maybe one day I can share my POETRY with her, too...

Reclined against the bed, one hand behind her head, the other flinging knives AIMLESSLY against the wall opposite. Well, not ENTIRELY aimless. After all, said wall DID hang the pictures of the very people who killed Akaguro Chizome. As the only human to EVER make her feel half-way normal regarding her own world view of what SHE needed to make herself happy, Toga held a deep-seated loathing for the human who struck him down. Had a blood-curdling sense that she MIGHT JUST BE NEXT. “Huh?” Yellows eyes flickered across at the question, and with another flick of her wrist, the last knife EMBEDDED itself in the concrete. “Whaddaya mean, fondest memory?” What a FOREIGN CONCEPT to the little psycho who had never been one to really consider what kind of path she’d cut to get here. “I, uh... Hmph.” Face twisted up in DEEP THOUGHT & THEATRICALITY, and one more blade found its home decorating wallpaper. “I’d say...” Eyes snapped wide, tiny throat gasping out in BRAIN-EXPLODING SHOCK. “It ain’t got NOTHIN’ to do with you.” With a dance-like precision, Toga snatched up the final combat knife that lay on her mattress, floating across to hold it to the stranger’s throat. “And it’s best that ya LEAVE before I make another happy memory outta your ENTRAILS.” Wait... Why the FUCK wasn’t she just doing that anyway? “Nghh!! Yer really beginnin’ to ANNOY ME.” Left hand reached for the bedside drawer without missing a beat, pulling out some ROPE. “Jus’ for that imma tie you up REAL NICE, an’ when I get back, your gonna be a REAL GOOD REASON why I shouldn’t just CUT YA & KILL YA right now.” Something annoying in her gut told her that she was NEVER going to kill this human anyway... What the FUCK was going on with her?

(MAKOTO...)

Oh. Oh, Cait didn’t like this question ONE BIT. Truth be told, she struggled with ANYTHING that drew MARRIAGE & LOVE into doubt within her own mind. Which... just happened to be EXACTLY what this question did... Because any small amount of time ago, Caitlyn would’ve SWORN that the happiest day of her life -- And ERGO her fondest memory -- Was that of WALKING DOWN THE AISLE TO MARRY JAYCE. But these days, something TWISTED her gut and CLOGGED her throat whenever she attempted to make such claims. And only one thing had changed in the mean time: MAKOTO NIIJIMA. Which... For all her breathless panic, racing organs, torturously damning thoughts, and her desire to RUN INTO THE WILD -- THE GREAT ESCAPE... Said gut also would never allow her to even CONSIDER Makoto being her FONDEST MEMORY. What a stupid, foolish, bizarre, and downright ludicrous idea that would be. They’d barely spoken before the rifle lessons, and what had happened since that could be worth REMEMBERING FONDLY? (CHEMISTRY...) Oh no, no, no. Caitlyn couldn’t ever do that. DENIAL WOULDN’T LET HER. “My twenty-first birthday. Daddy bought me my first custom-made rifle from a company called Hextech -- Said it was time I hunted with something that had a bit more KICK than the vintage rifle he’d passed down to me growing up.” A sign of her COMING OF AGE & PROVING HERSELF. Definitely one of her FONDEST MEMORIES, to be sure... Though it might just have been that vintage rifle that held the ones that were even fonder...

...................LIKE TEACHING MAKOTO TO SHOOT.......

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v-thinks-on · 4 years

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Into the Time Slip: A Second Chance

Day 13 (Part 1) of Holmes for the Holidays

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Today’s Prompt: Sherlock Holmes stuck in a time loop (from hold.my.coat)

Note: I liked this prompt so much, I ended up writing two responses. This first one doesn’t fit the prompt quite as well, but I’ve been rereading the Sherlock Holmes stories and recently read Sign of the Four, and I have some thoughts on it.

“The division seems rather unfair,” Watson remarked. “You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?”

“For me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “there still remains the cocaine-bottle.” And he stretched his hand up for it.

Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

“Which is it today?” Watson asked, startling Holmes’s attention away from the old black-letter volume which he had opened as the drug surged through his system. “Morphine or cocaine?”

“Cocaine,” Holmes repeated himself with some impatience.

Watson hesitated before abruptly protesting, “Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed?”

“You have done everything in your power to extricate yourself from the matter. I would say it is no longer in your hands.”

“No longer in my hands?” Watson demanded. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

Holmes waved it off, though he was truly touched by Watson’s fervor. “You say that now, but a married man has other more pressing duties than to an old friend.”

“My dear Holmes,” Watson exclaimed, “I fear the drug has addled your brain. What talk has there been of marriage?”

“It is a cruel trick you are playing, Watson, for I know you are a man of your word and would not have lied about your engagement to the lovely Miss Morstan.”

“Who?” Watson asked, now on his feet to examine Holmes properly. His concern could not have been mistaken for anything but genuine.

“I assure you, the lady is not my invention,” Holmes said, smiling at the absurdity of it all. A thousand possibilities crossed his mind, each more impossible than the last.

Watson’s concern showed no signs of abating.

“At ease, Doctor,” Holmes said with a dismissive wave.

At last, Watson settled back in his chair, though his eyes did not leave Holmes. Holmes, for his part, found he didn’t mind the attention, perplexing as it was.

He was just turning the peculiar puzzle over in his head when his thoughts were interrupted. “Aha! If I am not mistaken, that is the lady herself ascending upon the stair!”

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson stepped inside, bearing the card of Miss Mary Morstan.

“Come to see Dr. Watson, no doubt,” Holmes said with a sideways glance at the doctor, though he could not deny that she had gone about visiting her intended in a strangely formal way.

“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill.”

It was impossible, and yet, there was the very evidence before him. He could only confirm, “You come on account of a letter, received this morning, inviting you to meet an unknown friend at the Lyceum this evening at seven o’clock?”

She gasped. “How? How could you know?”

“Watson, I fear I have been most unjust to you,” Holmes murmured. “Could you do me the favor of reading the date off of today’s paper?”

He did so and it confirmed Holmes’s most irrational suspicion and then some.

“I fear I am a day off,” Holmes said, again perhaps more to himself than either person in the room. He could feel Watson watching him with the fear of seeing someone go mad.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Morstan said, “Have I arrived at a bad time?”

Before Watson could confirm it, Holmes silenced him with a wave and turned to the lady. “My apologies for my irregular behavior. You could not have come at a better time; your arrival has resolved a small dispute between my friend and I, and I am afraid I was in the wrong, rather more than I expected. I would not miss your case for the world, but I request that you entrust it fully in my hands.”

“What do you propose?” the lady asked with the guarded air of someone who does not know what is going on, but does not trust it.

“By a rather odd coincidence, I have come by some knowledge of the case which you present and I have a good reason to believe that I know the identity of the man who sent you that mysterious letter, as well as the pearls that preceded it.”

“How on Earth?”

He waved off the question. “Unfortunately, that I am unable to say. However, I find myself in an ideal position for providing the advice you seek. Allow me to contact your mysterious correspondent. I believe he will need to postpone your meeting, but that it would be to your great advantage to see him when he is available, and my friend and I would be happy to accompany you.”

She hesitated, but at last she said, “Very well, if you know of the matter I suppose it is best to leave it in your hands.”

“Excellent. I expect you will hear from your correspondent tomorrow if not today.”

After the lady had taken her leave, Watson turned to Holmes and asked, “Are you certain you are quite alright?”

“In truth, Watson, I am half convinced I must be dreaming. However, that is a poor presumption to act upon, and so far everything seems to line up precisely.” He gestured for Watson to hold his peace. “There is much that still needs to be done, and if I am correct, a man’s life hangs in the balance, as well as our fair visitor’s fortune. When it is done, then I will have a clean breast of it and you can send me off to the madhouse if you believe it is warranted-”

“My dear Holmes!” Watson exclaimed.

Holmes forged on with a shake of his head, “Until then, I ask that you trust in my decisions and make no hasty decisions, especially not on the matter of marriage.”

“Certainly.”

“Now, we must make for Pondicherry Lodge with due haste.”

Only after it was all done; Jonathan Small apprehended for the attempted burglary of Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, the story of the Sign of Four revealed, and the Agra treasure divided between the Sholtos and the worthy lady, did Holmes face Watson by the fireside of their Baker Street flat.

“I owe you an apology, my dear Watson,” Holmes said softly, as though he was not quite sure he wanted the words to be heard. “You have been most unfairly treated.”

Watson appeared startled. “I have been concerned,” he admitted, “But not mistreated.”

“For some time now, I fear I have been rather trying on your patience. I saw it, but I did not observe, did not heed your distress. I did not realize how serious it was until” - Holmes hesitated - “You may think me quite mad.”

“I would hope you would reconsider your use of the needle after whatever has occurred, but I fear that somehow you have been right in nearly every particular. Did you have some warning?”

“In a sense,” Holmes said with a wry smile. “When we spoke the other morning, when I was so disoriented as to think you had left me for a wife, I truly recalled that you had. I recall it still. It seems as though it must have been a few days ago, though the date was the same. We were disputing over some ill chosen words of mine when Miss Morstan arrived and presented her case. We accompanied her to the Lyceum Theater at 7 o’clock, and were brought to the home of Mr. Thaddeus Sholto who told us the incredible tale of which you are now aware. With him, we went to Pondicherry lodge, only to find his brother dead, murdered by Mr. Small’s peculiar friend. As I investigated the murder of Mr. Sholto, it appears you fell in love with Miss Morstan and her with you. Mr. Small dumped the treasure into the Thames, leaving you free to ask the lady for her hand, and she accepted. And so, I was left to my cocaine-bottle until it appears it had not yet occurred.”

“Why, it must have been a dream!” Watson exclaimed. “And yet, you were not wrong in a single particular. I confess I do find Miss Morstan attractive, though I have been rather preoccupied with your condition.”

“My apologies for losing you a bride - for it can only be on account of my altered behavior that you are not now engaged.”

Watson waved it off. “She is much better off with her treasure than an old army doctor.”

“And yet, I find that I do not envy her nearly as much now that treasure is all she has. I am certain she make a most eligible bride,” Holmes amended with a wave, “but I assure you, Watson, you would have been most dearly missed.”

“My blushes, Holmes!”

“Having deprived you of a wife, it is only fair that I do what I can to make it up to you. You have never yet recognized my merits as a housekeeper.”

#v writes #Sherlock Holmes #H/W #Holmes for the Holidays

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fake-destiny · 3 years

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Selective Righteousness

Throughout life, we are confronted with people from all sorts. The rude, the nice, the compassionate, the cruel, as I said, all sorts of people. The way you see them is not necessarily the way they see themselves; actually, it is never the way they define themselves. It is quite complicated as is the case with all human traits. To understand them, you either have to break each trait down to tiny pieces or spend your life diving into people's minds which, allow me to say, is quite exhausting. That is why I just want to talk about one behavior, because discussing a trait is beyond the scope of this post.

I assume most of us have met someone who would claim to be righteous. They see injustice and they immediately point it out. They would be an outside observer but, nevertheless, they present a valid point when discussing the true meaning of justice and the way it could have been prevented if every one of the just-witnessed parties acted a bit more rightfully. I know this is a vague example but bear with me.

A while later you hear or see that same person being unreasonable and unjust. Here, you wonder: what is really going on here? Weren’t they supposed to be rightful?! Wasn't that the impression you got when you listened to them while they broke down the moral obligation of every individual and painted a rosy picture of how peaceful the world would be if every one of us took responsibility for his or her actions and behaved a little bit more thoughtfully?!!

Quite frankly, yes! It is the same person. To be brutally honest, that person is you and me; it is every living human being. We are all excellent at spotting mistakes. You may think that this makes us just a bunch of hypocrites. I do not agree with because hypocrisy is a malevolent trait and while many of us, no doubt, possess it, the majority is not like that. The problem is that we simply do not see ourselves.

We are simply blind when it comes to our own mistakes. We hurt others without even feeling the tiniest shred of guilt because we do not realize what we did. We break each other’s hearts thoughtlessly and so it goes. Many tend to underestimate the effect we have on others. This could be a result of the way we see ourselves. We may feel insignificant, thus, hurting others seems like an overestimation since we are really not that impactful, right?

Besides, pointing out the mistakes of other people makes us feel better about ourselves. Learning about morality does not make us moral but we often fail to see the very thick line between them. This fake feeling of morality makes us immune to seeing our own cruelty, and no wonder it does. We believe that other people dive headfirst into this sort of mistakes, not us. After all, we know right from wrong and we are good people because we never hurt anybody on purpose, right?

Selective righteousness. It is the spontaneous type of hypocrisy. The one we are not fully aware of. The one that is not intentionally malevolent. I learned that it is just a protection mechanism. No one wants to find out that they are just cruel in many ways and that sometimes they cannot help but be so. We may not believe that we are good, but we definitely do not want to believe we are evil.

<<IBAL>>

#morality #morals and ethics #life goes on #righteousness #righteousfun #belief #integrity

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liminalchasm · 7 years

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i really don't like any interpretation of junkertown that plays the 'ruthless apocalyptic wasteland' thing straight i think it's... i get why people take it that direction, because it's easy, and it's easy to take your idea of what a poor lawless small not-even-really-a-town looks like, and take the 'ruthless killer' bits of lore at face value, and take our junkers as a template for the whole society.

but like. i really gotta stubbornly insist that people look at junkertown as poverty and disaster stricken community, and as a colonized community that's been shaped by their resistance to the unjust government literally trying to steal their land and give it to their invaders.

it's too... easy, intellectually lazy, to go with the tropes. to write it with pity or decide that 'ah, they're lawless, they must be violent. it must be horrible and unsafe. they must not have basic resources. people kill to survive. that's what poverty and disaster is like, outside "real" civilization'

but that's so. that's so wrong, that's so classist and that's so wrong. why take that easy out, build on the trope of the horrible, destructive, inhospitable desert and the cruel people who live there, killing just to survive. why? why go that route. you don't have to! you can imagine something better, something new. something that doesn't feed those awful ugly tropes more fuel

you can see poor people and indigenous people as civilized and rational and loving, and you can sympathize with them, you don't have to portray them as violent, and you don't have to assume that the consequence of a disaster and the scarcity that follows are, obviously, violence, and people tearing each other apart.

those things aren't natural! it doesn't follow that the survivalists and tiny communities would suddenly destroy each other for scraps. it doesn't follow that when people go hungry they forget how to love, how to empathize, how to feel. that's not true, you don't have to believe it, you don't have to make a story where things must go that way. people are better than that. they are. we are. because we choose to be and when you write a story you get to choose how people act, so why, why would you say you believe, in your heart, that people deep down want to act like that? that they would?

if it was your home would you forget how to love? would you forget what a wedding was, turn to violence and never think of leaving? would you never teach a child about what else is out there? and what came before, and what you hope might still come?

world wants you to believe those awful things. that people, who aren't like you, poor & colonized & non-western people, are violent and their society is dangerous and cruel and that they don't have nice things, comfort and love and kindness and culture. nothing worth protecting or cherishing or uniting for. they want you to believe that so you don't ever realize that they are you, and they could always be you.

it goes deeper than just 'oh that’s inaccurate, that's not how a society would work, oh if they have things like robot battles they must have enough spare parts and labor to keep them up' because it's bigger than that, it's not about that at all, it's that people don't... write about junkertown or see junkertown as real human characters & communities with complex feelings or lives, they're all a big scary caricature or a tragic backstory

and it's like fuck dude! that kind of me you're talking about. tiny, desperate communities don't tear each other apart, they cling to each other. the junkers are so gay coded it's almost impossible for me not to draw comparisons-- the only reason we have an lgbt community at all right now is because people pulled together in the face of violence and death and they fucking fought for each other. people died so that people like me could live in a world that hated them a little less!

and it's the same with how poor junkertown is. poor people try to protect each other, i mean, look at the history of labor and workers rights. and, i grew up skirting the poverty line, that’s me! and then i have to see people acting like... like normal is a fifteen-thousand dollar wedding with a new white dress and a full buffet and a whole building rented out. there's no... it's like poor people don't exist, it's like traditions that aren't rich and western don't exist!

if you're writing or drawing you get to decide what things are like, you can think about what you want to say about the world and the story you're telling. so why, why is junkertown always rotten and violent and dead? it doesn't need to be, i'm begging you

stop writing this story, stop pushing this narrative, stop and think about what you're saying. think about what junkertown represents. not in blizzards dumb ass fake lore but as a concept, what does it represent, to you, to the story you're trying to write. why, why do the junkers always find "normal" society so much more inviting than their home.

think about what it says, about poor people and communities who live through disasters. and people who live in "inhospitable places". and people who fight back against genocidal imperialist invaders, or government theft of their land and livelihood. think about what that violence and death says about them.

junkertown is a story about colonialism. junkers fought to get their home back from an invasion, and then a government that stole it. it's about how that fight damaged them, in some way, a fight that should not have happened in the first place. even when won, it still left a horrible scar and a horrible dept that all of them had to pay, in radiation. and nevertheless they filled the empty shell of the thing that tried to kill them with their new homes and lives.

how can you read that story and not find beauty and rebirth and reclamation there? why is it always violence? why is junkertown always a terrible hell hole that needs to be escaped? why give in to the overused tropes, why ignore all this for the cheap easy 'violent other' story. why not let them have a community and a home? why must the strange land and its strange people always be cloaked in death?

#long post #i tried to edit this down i swear but i'm just really this mad about it #16 paragraphs! wow!#fuck me that's like 3 high school essays #i should get ged credits for this #i'm sorry about making this long as post but i'm not sorry i need people to read this! i need people to think about this!#best of

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ariphyll · 7 years

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and you'll find me by the mangled roots of the tree towering above us

AO3 Link

Written for @leonilesweek2017 prompt day 5: Blood

Word Count: 1465

Summary: Stars don't grant wishes, but that doesn't stop Niles from letting himself hope. It was only a tiny piece of him, something that somehow managed to not be tarnished by the hands of life yet, but he let it wish nonetheless.

Niles had always held the belief that the blood running through Leo’s veins must be so vastly different from his own. It had to come from simple breeding, right? Niles had seen his own blood spill hundreds of times and there's no way he can imagine something so dark and thick and red pulsing underneath Leo’s skin. The blood of royals had to be something magical - why else would they obsess over marrying nobles to nobles?

Niles knew from the beginning that there would come a time when Leo had to marry. Even as the second prince, it was important for him to find a good wife that could give him strong children. Did royal blood breed strong heirs, was that it? Was that the reason for the social binds that kept him separated from Leo? It was all worthless to Niles who in the eyes of nobles might as well have blood that’s made out of mud.

What happened to that fairytale romance little kids dreamed of at night? Did the rich and powerful not have that? Yet, if the poor gutter trash like him never dreamt of it either, who did?

Niles stared up at the stars littering the sky above the castle. They seemed dull tonight, not quite the vibrant specks of light they usually were. The cold distant comfort they typically provided him was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t quite blame them; if Niles had a choice he would be as far away from this castle as possible by now. Anything to get away from the festive cheer and jubilation as the second prince of Nohr celebrates his new wife and marriage.

Niles watched the sky closely. Perhaps he could find a star falling from the black canvas, something he could pin a small wish to. Niles was not inherently a hopeful person; years of living on the streets scrambling for survival taught him that there was no place in the world for naive eyes and idyllic dreams. Still, perhaps tonight he would allow himself just one moment. One chance to act on a childish behavior. Niles trailed his eyes across the sky until he landed on the North Star. He supposed a permanent star was just as likely to grant his wish as one falling to the ground.

Impossible either way.

I wish…

“Niles? Are you out here?”

Niles felt just the tiniest flicker of surprise run through him, before he turned to face Leo walking his way. His lord looked finer than ever tonight, his clothes made of the best of cloth and tailored to perfection. A true royal decked in clothes meant for that kind of status.

It just looked stiff and uncomfortable to Niles. Although the ever constant to Leo was the headband perched perfectly in his hair. It looked just as ridiculous now as it did when Niles first met Leo; being caught and on his knees, resigned to his inevitable death. Death instead of warm hands, soft and uncalloused and not yet truly burdened. Death instead of a position, a reason to live, to do more than survive-

“There you are, I was wondering where you had run off to.” Leo folded his arms, giving Niles an appraising look. “Hiding from me?”

“Of course not milord,” Niles said, keeping his face calm and casual. Always quick with a mask. “Simply searching for some fresh air.”

“I suppose I can’t blame you, it really is quite stuffy in there.” Leo pulled at the collar of his shirt. “... And these clothes don’t help much.”

Niles smirked. “Care for me to help you out of them~?”

Leo shot him a disgruntled look. “Something tells me my wife won’t appreciate that.”

“She can help too,” Niles said, smile still as light and airy as before. Thorns felt like they were jabbing into him at the mere mention of his lord’s new bride. Sometimes Niles wondered if Leo kept an invisible vine coiled around him or if the pain he felt truly was all his imagination. “I don’t mind the company.”

“That’s enough, Niles,” Leo huffed. “Are you planning on staying out here for the rest of the night?”

And return to watch you give fake smiles with your noble blooded wife? Niles shook his head. “You know I’m not a fan of these things, milord.”

A faint smile ghosted Leo’s lips. “Can’t leave your secluded demeanor even for my wedding night?”

“I doubt anyone misses me much. You know how nobles are - all uptight and affronted when someone like me even looks their way.”

Leo sighed. “Yes, even after so many years of serving me some nobles are still… hesitant to trust you. Not like you do a good job of making a positive name for yourself.”

Niles barked out a laugh. He wondered in the back of his mind if Leo paid enough attention to him to know when his laughs were fake. “We both know that acting as if I’m on the same level as you milord wouldn’t breed anything good.”

“You don’t have to act like you’re royalty to know when to hold your tongue.”

“But milord, my tongue is one of my best weapons. Care for an example on what it can do~?” A part of Niles was arguing with him to reel himself back in but it was too late in the evening and there was too many glasses of wine in Niles to keep a real filter.

Leo pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Niles. I don’t need to start rumors already when I haven’t been married for a full day.”

“Well the marriage isn’t fully in effect until you bed her, right?” Stop talking. “There’s still time for you to change your mind.” Stop talking right now. “Why, we could run away together milord. Surely there will be romances written about us.” You’re an idiot. Do you think he thinks you're genuine?

Leo was silent for a moment, before letting out a real honest laugh. “I can’t imagine something that would aggravate the court more. However, while roaming the countryside with you as fugitives sounds far more entertaining I’m not going to leave my wife.”

Niles fought to keep his face neutral. “Do you even care about her, milord? Surely you’d rather be with… someone you’re actually interested in.”

“Don’t we all. However, marrying her is good for Nohr as a whole. I don’t have time to waste my marriage on frivilosity.”

“And yet you nobles act like I’m the one with a cold heart.”

“It’s just politics,” Leo said. “Comes with being well-off and in power.”

“The silver spoon has a lining of dirt, I see.” Niles held back a sigh. He felt rejected even if his proposal wasn’t taken seriously. Somehow, that made it even worse.

A short silence fell between them. Niles wondered if it was heavy for Leo too or if his lord was unbothered by it all. Niles had hoped that the ache in his chest that had become a familiarity to him over the years would disappear once Leo had announced his engagement. Once he got the final confirmation that his ridiculous thoughts and wishes were impossible to happen he would go back to normal. Go back to before he realized that his servitude and feelings for his lord went far past platonic. Not even seeing the two get married was enough for him to quit it however, because even staring at Leo, dimly lit in the night, tugged at Niles’ heartstrings like he was an ignorant child.

“Hm, I must be getting back inside or people might start to look for me,” Leo said.

“Last chance for you to run away with me,” Niles joked. “Free yourself from such harsh tyranny.”

Leo let out a short chuckle as he turned to leave. “If only I could Niles, you would be first on my list to run off with. Are you coming with me or staying out here?”

Niles wished he would stop pinning his hopes onto sentences thinly veiled as jokes. He shouldn’t feel such a sting over this. Why was Leo able to craft such magic to keep Niles ensnared like this? “I’ll be back in a bit. Go ahead without me, milord.”

Leo nodded and left him alone, heading back into the castle. Niles watched his retreating form for a few moments before turning to stare up at the night sky once more. His gaze fell back onto the North Star. Various naive, impossible wishes flitted through his mind but one kept coming back to him.

I wish I could be reborn to have royal blood like yours.

Niles had always known life to be cruel and unjust, and he supposed it was his fault for ever thinking that would change.

A/N: Hey, if you liked this fic and want something written personally just for you, why don’t you check out my commission info?

Happy last half of nileo week everyone!

#leonilesweek2017 #leonilesweek #nileo #i cant remember which event tag it is lol #fire emblem fates #fic #i had to do something for this week at least #hope y'all like pining

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sadiesavestheday · 4 years

Text

How to help Black Lives Matter - Breonna Taylor Watercolor Portrait

This is Breanna Taylor

Transcript

What can Black people do to help?

What can non-Black people do to help?

What can we all do to help?

What if you can’t protest?

What if you do not have money to donate?

Resources

References

Transcript

This is Breonna Taylor1. She would have been 27 on June 5th, but she was killed by unidentified police in her own bed on March 13. Officers came to her home to investigate a nonviolent crime she had no part in. When they rammed down her door without identifying themselves or even knocking, her boyfriend, Kenneth Walker, assumed that their home was being invaded. It was.

Kenneth fired at the invaders with his legally owned firearm, and shot an officer in the leg. In retaliation, the police blindly shot into Breonna’s home with so many bullets that they flew through the walls: hitting clocks, pots, and chairs2. Eight of those bullets hit Breonna, murdering her while she was sleeping in her own bed.

Breonna was an emergency medical technician who was planning on becoming a nurse and a mother. She worked at two hospitals, putting herself on the frontlines during the COVID–19 pandemic. Breonna said that one of the things that gave her happiness in life was being able to help others.

For me, painting a portrait is a really meditative and intimate experience. I’m staring at a person for hours, looking at every detail of their face, describing it over and over in thin layers of watercolor. So I look at her and I’m struck by how cute she is. I see how laid her edges are and that cheeky smile. How proud she looks. How she seems like she would’ve been the life of the party and would have been able to make anyone burst out laughing.

If she had lived, she would have had a Corona birthday party. Maybe it would have been at home. Socially distanced. Calling her loved ones through Zoom and eating a little cake. Then back to work, to saving lives and risking her own.

But instead, on her birthday, her family was in mourning.

Why?

I want to say her name because I am a Black woman, and Black women are often forgotten in movements like these. I do not want her to be forgotten, and I will not forget her.

When I first heard about the death – the recorded lynching – of Ahmad Arbery3, all I could think was, “They can’t stop killing us? Not even in a pandemic?”

It felt somehow particularly cruel to murder someone with such glee at time in which we are all afraid for our lives. Not only that, but when Black lives are already at a higher risk for being lost during this pandemic.

I ask again, why?

Because he was running. Taking up public space. Saying, I’m allowed to be here, to exist, to be healthy. Some men saw that and made sure to correct him of his misunderstanding.

So now, people are in the streets, taking up space, saying “This is my space too, I belong here. I claim it.”

They chant. “Whose streets? Our streets! 4”

One of the topics of my master’s thesis was the need for Black people to reclaim public spaces 5 6 and how minority populations throughout the world used the same tools to create spaces for themselves. The spaces are hard-won and often short-lived. The tools that they use are nearly always declared illegal. These are spaces that they are not really allowed to have. They are not allowed to loiter. They’re not allowed to stroll. They are most certainly not allowed to run.

A Black person like me, lingering in a garden, is suspect. They should not be there. Staring at petals. Observing the light falling through leaves. Taking mental painting notes. No, they are thieves. They are robbers. They are most certainly up to no good.

For how many Black people, like me, is PokémonGo not simply about pocket monsters7. How many of them are scared to wander because they know that there will be eyes that stare and ask, “Why are you here?” Because there will be people who suddenly rush outside to make sure that this tiny Black woman is not going to ….

Not going to what?

How many Black students, like a younger me, have to justify their existence on their own campuses? The very campuses that they managed to claw their way into, despite all the barriers trying to keep them out? And still, it doesn’t end. A Black body in any space is up to no good. Playing Frisbee. Eating lunch8. Studying in the library. Napping in the common area9. In case you forgot, this is not where you belong, and someone will be sure to remind you.

At Princeton white women (yes, it was always white women) clutched their purses as I walked by. It was like watching a cartoon. Can you explain to me the threat that they saw? The danger they perceived in the face of a teenage girl who didn’t even weigh 100 pounds? A girl who was barely over 5 feet, who had asthma, and who could barely see? But who they saw walking in their direction was not that girl. For them, I could not be a young girl whose shoulders hurt from the weight of books in French and Japanese, just hoping to pass another semester. But I could, of course, be a threat.

The act of having dark skin is violence enough for a racist.

And from there, well anything goes.

From there you can attack peaceful protesters10, because they can never be peaceful once they have committed the high crime of being Black. From there, it makes sense to have police surrounding the protest area in riot gear “just in case.” From there there is always, always a justification for why there is a boot on your neck. For why another mother’s child did not make it home. For why another child grows up parentless.

“Well, they should have…”

“They shouldn’t have…”

But really there is never, ever anything you can do to erase the original sin of having dark skin.

Do you know what it is to live knowing that, for some people, your very existence is violence?

So, holding this knowledge, I worry for the protesters. I worry for their safety. I worry that they will get sick. But why worry about potentially catching a disease that may kill you when you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that your fellow man has been killing you for centuries? When you know that so many of them want to fight to continue killing you? If you will die anyway, why not at least do something?

The problems are one and the same anyway. Racism is a public health crisis11. Why do Black and brown people die from diseases in general12 and COVID 19 in particular13 more often than white people?

There are a few explanations that you can choose.

The first is that brown and Black people are poor and do not take care of themselves. I hope that you do not need me to tell you that this is racist. Even if you control for wealth, the disparity still stands. If you control for education, the disparity still stands. Even amongst Black people who are proactive about their health, the disparity still stands.

So ask you for the third time, why?

There is another answer that is so steeped in racism that it feels as if it has walked straight off of the plantation. That is that Black bodies are simply deficient. They are just more prone to disease. There is nothing that we can do about it.

This is the same argument that excused the death of slaves. It could not be because of the inhuman treatment they received from the very moment that they were born. No, of course not. It was because their bodies were simply weak.

So if we put that argument aside, we have another. That of the unjust treatment of Black and brown bodies within the medical system. To this day, many doctors believe that Black people experience pain differently than white people14. They believe that we require fewer pain relievers15. They believe that our bodies are somehow stronger, more able to deal with pain and suffering than others. This is a convenient thing to believe when so much of modern medicine - including the entire field of gynecology16 – is based on the unwilling exploitation of 17 and experimentation on18 19Black bodies.

So we receive less medication, and less treatment, and less care. How many Black people die because of this? How many die because of doctors’ maltreatment? How many die because they fear the maltreatment more than they fear the disease?

How many Black people die not from cops, but from asthma, saying, “I can’t breathe?”

Did you know that Black people are more likely to have and die of asthma20? Did you know that, despite that, it is more difficult for a Black person to receive an asthma diagnosis and treatment? Even the tool that is used to measure lung function is designed specifically to make it harder to diagnose nonwhite people with asthma21. It assumes that it is simply normal and natural for nonwhite people to have reduced lung function. Then, even if you manage to get a diagnosis, the medicines are not designed for you. Black people are often excluded from medical trials, so the very medicines that are meant to save you, like albuterol, are more likely to be ineffective or actively harm your body22.

So imagine this cruelty: spraying teargas on a population that is more likely to die from asthma, during a pandemic caused by respiratory illness, when they are protesting the unjust murder of a man whose last words were, “I can’t breathe.”

When we say we can’t breathe, we really can’t breathe.

I have had asthma since I was a very young child, and yet doctors still question my diagnosis. They will sit in front of me with decades of tests showing that I have reduced lung function on their desk and my inhaler that I carry every day in my hand and they will ask me, “But do you really have asthma?” They will smile at me, “Are you sure it isn’t just hay-fever?”

The idea that Black people are somehow superhuman23 is still too strong in the medical establishment. It is a terrible problem when you happen, in fact, not to be a superhuman but simply a regular human who is sick and seeking help.

I am thankful to my mother for many things, but I am thankful in particular because, even as an immigrant, she worked hard to find a pediatrician who would see her little children as they were, small, sick, and unable to breathe.

Now as an often sick adult, and an immigrant myself, I have to find my own doctors. Each time, I worry. When I go to a new doctor, I worry, will they be racist? Will they, like one doctor, hear me screaming in pain and say that I am faking it? When I go to a doctor that I know, I worry, is this the day that I will find out that they are the type of racist who smiles in my face? Like the doctor who told me, when I had a simply diagnosable and treatable condition that, "Perhaps the pain that you feel is actually, your internalized self hatred resulting from what you ‘perceive’ as racism?”

Or perhaps like the woman who called the police on Christian Cooper24. She was upper-class, educated, liberal, and even voted for Obama. Yet the moment a Black man stepped out of his place in a public space she had an immediate response.

By the way, let us not forget that this public space was once private. They stood on the land that was once Seneca Village, a Black community that was destroyed so that Central Park could be built into beautiful space for white people to promenade25. Because of course nothing is really yours when you are Black.

So, the moment that Christian Cooper this gay, Harvard educated, member of the Board of Directors for the NYC Audubon Society assumed that he had a right to that space and perhaps she was the one in the wrong, she was quick to remind him that none of those things matter. She expected the police, just like those ladies who clutched their bags away from me, to see him as nothing more than a threat.

She didn’t use the n-word, but she didn’t have to. She says, “African-American man," and the words are poison in her mouth.

I am sure that I am not the only Black person who thought it was a small miracle that Christian Cooper did not end up yet another hashtag on our ever growing list.

Now, in this world that I have described to you, what are we supposed to do?

What can Black people do to help?

First, to Black folks:

I see you. I love you. I’m praying for you

Be gentle with yourself. Now, more than ever. It can be so hard these days, and the events are constantly re-traumatizing us. Showing up is important, but so is getting rest and taking care of yourself. The battle is long.

This is the time of anger and sadness. These are tools. Use them. Use them to work, to paint, to write, to speak, to care for others, to care for yourself.

Again – I see you. I love you. I’m praying for you.

What can non-Black people do to help?

To non-Black folks:

We see you. We see your silence. We see your action. We see your indifference, and we see your speech.

I am sure that I am not the only one who has noticed the dearth of commentary on this topic amongst watercolor channels on YouTube. I have also noticed those of you who have spoken up and I’ve been so thankful for it.

Think twice before sharing another video of the abuse or public lynching of a Black person. What point does it serve? How does it help? Does it simply spread outrage? Is it worth traumatizing your Black brothers and sisters over? How many times have you seen Black death appear on your screen? For us, this has been a decade of recorded Black murders. We see these images over and over again, and each time it is a fresh new horror. Every time I see George Floyd, I see my father. These videos often desensitize viewers to Black death and violence to Black bodies. How often do you see gruesome videos of white bodies dying come through your feed? I ask you again, think carefully.

Educate yourself. The Internet is vast and wide. So many things are searchable. Learn your history. Make an effort to work against the racism that you have learned, because we all have internalized racism from living in this society. Fight against the urge to deny that it is within you too.

Sit with your discomfort. If it is not something that you have tried before, this will be uncomfortable. It will probably still be uncomfortable even if it is already a practice of yours. That’s ok. Racism wants you to prefer comfort over the safety of your Black brothers and sisters. Don’t let it win.

Listen to Black people when they tell you things. Believe them.

Show up for black people. If you see what that looks like a strange confrontation between a non-black person and a black person, do not leave the black person alone. Often times, your simple presence and letting the other non-black person know that you are watching is enough to de-escalate the situation. If need be, step in and raise your voice.

If you see a black person being interrogated or arrested by the cops, do not leave them alone. Watch the interaction. If need be, take a video recording. Calmly narrate the situation, specifying what you are actually seeing. Say things like, “They are not resisting. They are complying with the officer’s orders,” so that there is a record in case it is needed in the future. Share this video with the person involved if possible. Do not put this video up on the Internet without the permission of the person being filmed and delete the video if it is not needed.

Think twice, three times, four times, about calling the police. Do you really need the police in this situation? Is this simply a minor inconvenience? Or do you fear for your life? Remember that for the black people around you, even calling the police to get help can lead to a death sentence.

Take responsibility for your own education. Do not press Black people for unpaid labor. Some people will freely teach you, but demanding it from anyone is neglecting your duty to educate yourself. There are lots of amazing resources out there right now, take advantage of them.

Lift up Black people. Do not let yourself be in the room with no Black people in it. What does that mean? It could be as simple as making an effort to always name a Black person when asked, “Who would you recommend we reach out to next?” So often Black people are left out of these chains of recommendations and miss out on many opportunities as a result. Or, if you have a platform, you can do a collaboration with a Black person in your field. If you are in the position of hiring, you can make sure that Black and brown faces are present not only at the lowest level, but at higher levels in your company. Advocate for wage transparency. If your Black coworkers are getting paid less, demand equal pay.

Cite Black people26. Normally this is something that you would hear in an academic setting, but it is necessary outside of academia as well. The knowledge and work of Black people, and particularly Black woman, is somehow treated as if it is public knowledge. People will take their creations and never mention their names. You see it on Tik-Tok27, you see it with slang 28, and I even see it here on art YouTube. If a Black person has inspired you, say their name. Let other people know who they are. Let them inspire other people too.

Talk to your people. Talk to your friends. Talk to your family. Talk to your coworkers. There are so many spaces that you will be in that Black people cannot enter, and it is up to you to be the voice that protects your Black brothers and sisters in those situations. Racism begins in these small private spaces and it grows until it erupts in public.

International folks. I have been so happy to see the widespread international support of the American protests throughout the world. It really is amazing.

But as a Black woman who has lived the majority of her adult life abroad, I take pause when I see international audiences highlighting racism in America. So often America is used as a scapegoat to say, “See, look how terrible they are over there. We would never be like that.”

When I speak to people here in Germany about my experiences, they often tell me, “but at least things here are not as bad as in America.” They tell me this in the country in which I am screamed at in the street. In which I have been pushed and shoved. In the country where it is a part of every day life for me to see racist caricatures on the packaging of products. Where people excitedly explain that a word for a certain chocolate is n-word kisses 29. Where it took until 2018 for the heads of some of those who were killed during the genocide of the Herero and Namaqua people 30.by the German Empire to be returned to their homes.31

In this country where, for a decade, brown people were shot in broad daylight by a terrorist organization and police refused to investigate it.32 Instead, they were blamed for their own murders.

People have told me, “We cannot be racist, because we learned after World War II.” This, in the country where hundreds of thousands of Sinti and Roma people were killed in a genocide33 that was not even formally recognized until the 80’s34. Yet, you can still go and buy sauce the refers to Sinti and Roma with the same derogatory term that was used on the documents that sent them to their deaths. Please, continue to tell me how you cannot be racist.

I say all of this to mean, know your own history. I’m not just speaking to Germans, but everyone outside of the USA. Racism is not an exclusively American problem. How has your country treated Black people? How does it treat them today? What are the minorities in your country? Are they well represented? Are they safe? Are you marching for them? Are you protecting them? Do you know their names?

I studied prejudice towards minorities in Japan as part of my Master’s and the response I got when I explained this was always the same. "Eh? But we do not have minorities35 36,” or , “There is no racism in Japan.”37

But of course, this isn’t true. So imagine my shock when I saw people marching in the streets in Tokyo to protest the xenophobic and racist behavior of their own police.38 I’m so happy to see it, and I hope that it continues and goes even deeper, and I hope the same for minorities all over the world.

It is important for America to know that the eyes of the world are watching.It is also important for your own people to know that you are watching the leaders of your own nations too.

What can we all do to help?

Okay, now to everyone, what can we do?

Of course you can protest. There are protests happening in every single state in the United States and all over the world. If there is not a protest near you, you can start one. I have seen more than one one-person protest in the past couple of days.

What if you can’t protest?

This is an especially important thing to consider for people who are high risk groups for COVID–19, as well as disabled and chronically ill people. There are still things that you can do.

Donate. If you cannot be on the frontlines, you can help those who are supporting those who are. Donate to Bill funds. Donate to the National Lawyer League. I will have a list of places to donate in the description and also in a linked blog post.

Support Black businesses. There are so many things that we consume every single day. Can you get your hairspray from a Black-owned business? What about your clothing? Your makeup? Your food? Your software? Every purchase will help lift up a Black entrepreneur. Black capitalism will not end racism, but we do currently live in a capitalist society.

What if you do not have money to donate?

There are several things that you can do that cost no money at all.

Contact your representatives. Tell them that you want them to implement legislation that protects Black people from police violence.

Sign petitions. There are petitions calling for justice for so many victims of police brutality. You can add your name to the list.

Volunteer. If you have skills, there is an organization that needs them. Perhaps you know graphic design. Perhaps you know how to build websites. Perhaps you can paint. Perhaps you can garden. Perhaps you can knit. Perhaps you can sew. Perhaps you just have able hands and want to help. There is a place for you. This movement requires a community of people willing to share their talents.

Stop consuming from people and organizations that promote hate and do not support Black people. There are some times where we have no choice about the things that we consume. If your medication is only made by one company, you cannot stop buying it because of the racism of the manufacturer. But most products are not like that. Do not give your money to organizations that have shown themselves to be against Black and brown people. Don’t support hate.

Use your platform. If you have a following on any social media, raising your voice can spread the message to an even wider audience. Use your space to educate others. Use your space to fundraise for supporting causes. Make sure that your space is a safe space for Black people and do not allow racism in your comments. Let racists know they are not welcome.

Watch fundraising YouTube videos. You are on YouTube right now, and there are many videos that have been created that will donate all of their ad-revenue to different organizations supporting black lives matter. Go watch them!

Do not support companies that use prison labor.39 The modern prison system is an extension of slavery.40 Many companies, like Victoria’s Secret41 and Starbucks42, use prison labor. It is extremely profitable to them because prisoners are either paid extremely low wages or none at all. Educate yourself about them, and refuse to purchase from them. I will have a link to some of these companies in the description and on my blog.

Work towards the abolition of the prison industrial complex.43 Police are just one step in maintaining the prison industrial complex. The United States imprisons more people than any nation in the world.44 These prisons do not have the goal of rehabilitation, but instead are run with the goal of exploiting the labor of prisoners. Despite earning almost no money, prisoners are often required to pay for things like medical treatment45, speaking to their families over voice chat46 47, and even reading books48. This is inhumane.

Do not show the faces of protesters in videos or photos that you share. This can lead to them being arrested or targeted in the future. For your own safety and for the safety of others, remove any metadata as well, including location information. There are applications that you can use that will do this for you. 49 50

Support Black creators. If you are into something, there is probably a Black creator making content about it. There are Black creators talking about books, movies, video games, and of course art. Watch their videos. Read their blogs. Subscribe, follow, all that stuff that we always tell you. One important thing here is don’t follow someone just for the sake of following a Black person, if you do not actually read or watch what they put out, they will be negatively impacted by you following or subscribing to them.

Educate yourself. Dedicate yourself to being antiracist.51 Continue that work throughout your life. All of this work begins here, inside of you.

Thank you for watching this video and listening to me. I hope that you all stay safe and healthy.

I will have links to how you can help in the description. I will also have a blog post with even more links, a transcript of this video, citations for the things that I spoke about, and Black creators that you can support.

All of the proceeds from this painting will go to support the Loveland foundation and bail funds throughout America. I will also be making prints of this painting, and a portion of those proceeds will also go to organizations that require funding to support the movement. I plan on painting portraits of George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery with the profits being donated in a similar fashion.

From now on a portion of all of my sales will be donated, including the money that I receive from Patreon. So thank you to my Patrons for supporting a Black artist and these organizations.

Thank you again so much for watching. See you guys next time. And I always mean it, but I mean it more than ever now, Be gentle with yourself.

Resources

References

Oppel, Richard. “Here’s What You Need to Know About Breonna Taylor’s Death.” NYTimes, 5 June 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/article/breonna-taylor-police.html. ↩︎

Costello, Darcy. “Breonna Taylor’s Pregnant Neighbor Is Suing Police Officers, Saying They ‘Blindly Fired.’” Louisville Courier Journal, 11 June 2020, https://www.courier-journal.com/story/news/local/2020/06/04/breonna-taylors-neighbor-sues-louisville-police-after-shooting/3148434001/. ↩︎

Fausset, Richard. “What We Know About the Shooting Death of Ahmaud Arbery.” NYTimes, 5 June 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/article/ahmaud-arbery-shooting-georgia.html. ↩︎

Mania, Conspiracy. “Seattle Protesters Push Back the National Guard While Chanting WHOSE STREET?! OUR STREET!” YouTube, 7 June 2020, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFjrE7CLnlw. ↩︎

A similar topic. (W)Rapped Space: The Architecture of Hip Hop. https://www.jstor.org/stable/1425643. Accessed 6 Nov. 2020. ↩︎

Chapter 6: Counter Public Spaces of Resistance. https://www.jstor.org/stable/42981568. Accessed 6 Nov. 2020. ↩︎

Crockett, Emily. “Pokemon Go Is Augmented Reality. Too Bad Reality Is Still Racist.” Vox, 11 July 2016, https://www.vox.com/2016/7/11/12149664/pokemon-go-augmented-reality-racist. ↩︎

Oumou Kanoute, Sophomore. “A Smith College Employee Called the Police on Me for Eating Lunch While Black.” American Civil Liberties Union, 11 June 2020, https://www.aclu.org/blog/racial-justice/race-and-criminal-justice/smith-college-employee-called-police-me-eating-lunch. ↩︎

Griggs, Brandon. “A Black Yale Graduate Student Took a Nap in Her Dorm’s Common Room. So a White Student Called Police.” CNN, 9 May 2018, https://www.cnn.com/2018/05/09/us/yale-student-napping-black-trnd/index.html. ↩︎

Gabbatt, Adam. “Protests about Police Brutality Are Met with Wave of Police Brutality across US.” The Guardian, 6 June 2020, http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2020/jun/06/police-violence-protests-us-george-floyd. ↩︎

“Op-Ed: ‘Racism Is a Public Health Crisis.’” News, 8 June 2020, https://www.hsph.harvard.edu/news/hsph-in-the-news/racism-is-a-public-health-crisis/. ↩︎

Hostetter, Martha. “In Focus: Reducing Racial Disparities in Health Care by Confronting Racism | Commonwealth Fund.” Commonwealthfund, 1 Jan. 2000, https://www.commonwealthfund.org/publications/newsletter-article/2018/sep/focus-reducing-racial-disparities-health-care-confronting. ↩︎

Booth, Robert. “Black People Four Times More Likely to Die from Covid–19, ONS Finds.” The Guardian, 7 May 2020, http://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/may/07/black-people-four-times-more-likely-to-die-from-covid–19-ons-finds. ↩︎

Branswell, Helen. “Some Medical Students Still Think Black Patients Feel Less Pain.” STAT, 4 Apr. 2016, https://www.statnews.com/2016/04/04/medical-students-beliefs-race-pain/. ↩︎

Holpuch, Amanda. “Black Patients Half as Likely to Receive Pain Medication as White Patients, Study Finds.” The Guardian, 10 Aug. 2016, http://www.theguardian.com/science/2016/aug/10/black-patients-bias-prescriptions-pain-management-medicine-opioids. ↩︎

Holland, Brynn. “The ‘Father of Modern Gynecology’ Performed Shocking Experiments on Slaves.” HISTORY, 29 Aug. 2017, https://www.history.com/news/the-father-of-modern-gynecology-performed-shocking-experiments-on-slaves. ↩︎

Kenny, Stephen. “How Black Slaves Were Routinely Sold as ‘Specimens’ to Ambitious White Doctors.” The Conversation, 11 June 2015, http://theconversation.com/how-black-slaves-were-routinely-sold-as-specimens-to-ambitious-white-doctors–43074. ↩︎

Newkirk, Vann. “An Unethical Medical Study Took a Year Off the Lives of Black Men.” The Atlantic, 17 June 2016, https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/06/tuskegee-study-medical-distrust-research/487439/. ↩︎

Rothman, Lily. “History of African-Americans and Medical Research Goes Beyond Henrietta Lacks.” Time, 21 Apr. 2017, https://time.com/4746297/henrietta-lacks-movie-history-research-oprah/. ↩︎

Asthma and African Americans - The Office of Minority Health ↩︎

Shaban, Hamza. “How Racism Creeps Into Medicine.” The Atlantic, 29 Aug. 2014, https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/08/how-racism-creeps-into-medicine/378618/. ↩︎

Weiler, Nicholas. “Genomic Analysis Reveals Why Asthma Inhalers Fail Minority Children.” Genomic Analysis Reveals Why Asthma Inhalers Fail Minority Children | UC San Francisco, 14 Mar. 2018, https://www.ucsf.edu/news/2018/03/410041/genomic-analysis-reveals-why-asthma-inhalers-fail-minority-children. ↩︎

Hutson, Matthew. “Whites See Blacks as Superhuman.” Slate, 14 Nov. 2014, https://slate.com/technology/2014/11/whites-see-blacks-as-superhuman-strength-speed-pain-tolerance-and-the-magical-negro.html. ↩︎

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