projecting all ur issues™ onto fictional characters is a time honored tradition. if kafka can give a cockroach his depression and deepseated fears of uselessness i can give a comic book character my personality disorder and sexual traumas. god’s dead and soon we will be too so in 2018 write all the weirdly specific Coping Fic you want and don’t let people get on your case about it
half the tags on this are apologizing to fictional characters for fucking them up more and the other half are complaining about kafka and yknow what all of yall are valid
I love how the search function on this site is absolute garbage. I can look up a post word for word and I will NEVER find it
Pro tip:
Wanna find a post?
Write out what you remember into a Google search.
After you write that out, end with site:tumblr.com
Google will search for your text on just tumblr
In my experience, it’s way more effective than searching through Tumblr
(you can use site:SITENAME.com to search any site btws)
This usually works but for some reason a lot of posts get indexed on google from a person’s URL based on the posts that were recently reblogged on page 1, meaning that this is only a tiny bit more reliable.
I HAVE a solution to this, you have to write down site:tumblr.com/post “ “
and then write a direct quote (could be a fraction of a sentence) into the quotations, I’ve been doing this for years, and it’s so useful, it works like 99% of the time
(the more popular a post is the more likely you’ll find it)
“Shh, it’s alright,” the villain said. “You’re doing beautifully and I’m so proud of you. But that’s enough now. It was cruel of them to make you fight me – you could never have won. It’s not your fault.”
The ancient and powerful villain may have had a calm and gentle face as he spoke, but he was furious, not at the hero, but the gods for continually sending kids and teenagers to fight their battles.
Tears fell from the heroes eyes, staining their cheeks. “I don’t g-get it… You’re not supposed to be kind!” The words left the hero’s mouth breathless, strained, and disbelieving. The gods had said the cause was righteous, that they were destined for this; so why, then, had they failed? Why, then, was the villain looking so kindly at them? And why, then, were they so relieved to hear those words from his mouth?
The villain knelt. Gods, so far as the hero knew, did not kneel. They towered and gleamed and spoke in booming voices that seemed to shake the sky itself. They were beautiful, and powerful, and above the ken of mortals. They said their brother had fallen – but the hero’s thoughts could only blank, as they saw him not stumble, nor falter, but bring himself to their level of his own accord.
“What am I supposed to be?” he asked.
The hero swallowed. Was this a test? The gods had warned that the Trickster could be beguiling.
“You… you want to bring about the end,” they accused. Reminding themselves as much as anything.
The villain nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed. Admitted; confessed. The hero waited for him to gloat. They were so tired. The weapons that they had been given had been so heavy. The magic in their veins had burned. They had fought so hard to reach this lair, the Throne of the Fallen God… but now they cannot even see a throne. Just a place that looks like a prison, too-long lived in.
Seal him back in.
“I can’t…” they say. Can’t let you do that, is what they know they should be saying. But somehow it stops there. Everyone is counting on them. Counting on them to save the day, to stop the end of the world.
The villain reaches over, and rests a steadying hand on their shoulder.
“Shh,” he repeats. “I know. A dozen mortal years and a thousand divine gifts are not enough to thwart a hatred that has been building for centuries in the heart of a god. You were a good champion. Better than they deserve. But if I let another one of you win, it will only mean a different child is sent, in another hundred years. It is not fair. I should not have let this go on for so long. I am sorry, little one.”
The hero trembles in exhaustion. The corners of their eyes itch, as they meet the villain’s gaze. It must be a trick. It must be. But they do not have the strength to fight it. Hot tears track down their cheeks, as they slump in defeat.
The villain squeezes their shoulder.
“You did well,” he assures them. They should not take comfort in it. And yet, he sounds so convinced that they cannot help it. Weak, they think. To come so far and fall for all the tricks at the end, to falter in the last moment. They scrub at their cheeks. But they do not resist, as the villain scoops them up, and holds them with one arm. Like a parent carrying a child. Tall enough for the hero to remember being even smaller. He pats their back, and brings them with him to the dread altar in the center of the chamber.
“It is time for the end,” he says. “You do not have to watch.”
They should, they think. It would be brave to.
They close their eyes, and turn their face towards the villain’s shoulder instead. His voice rumbles as he finishes the incantation. Through closed eyelids they see something flash; but when they blink their eyes reflexively open, they find that a hand has moved to shield their gaze for them. The ground shakes. The air turns hot, and then cold. The strange objects arrayed around the villain’s layer tremble and clatter, like an earthquake.
This is it.
Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Papa.
I wasn’t strong enough.
They brace themselves as it all comes to an end.
Ha! You wish! Watch as I turn this serious and angsty thread into a bittersweet sugar fest! Muse, let’s hit it!
The ground shakes and trembles. A cry rips through the air
itself, cracks of thunder, gales of wind; the voices of hundreds of ancient
beings grasping desperately at the last straws that may keep them alive. That
may keep them here. That may keep them immortal.
Trembling, the hero curls in on themselves, hoping against
hope that it won’t hurt. That it will be swift and painless, just like people
said it was for their Mama and Papa when the lightning struck them down. Never
mind their screams, never mind that they still twitched and convulsed before
the ax man finished them off.
The cries reach their crescendo, each note seemingly trying
to tear the very fabric of existence apart. This is it. They curl up just a
little bit tighter and…
Consider this: hockey in Russia is very political and Ovechkin would probably not have a career if he didn’t say something in Putin’s favor. Putin is very involved with the hockey team and hockey stars there and uses them for political statements and to ease the tension. They are his pawns and we don’t know how willing they are or aren’t in doing what they do
Also consider: you’re not Russian so you don’t know what it’s like to live over there. You and I have freedom to speak out against the people in power. People in Russia do not. Everything there is regulated.
Russian politics are way more complicated than any of us realize and I’m not excusing the piece of shit Putin’s policies at all because he’s fucking garbage.
But also consider: you came to the wrong blog to hate on Ovi for anything.
also, somewhat unrelated, but worth mentioning:
if you’re into documentaries, i really suggest watching icarus directed by bryan fogel (it won an oscar, and is available on netflix – x, x). essentially, it started off as a lance-armstrong-inspired investigation of how easy it is to get away with taking performance-enhancing drugs in the world of cycling, but ended up focusing on grigory rodchenkov – the scientist fogel befriended on behalf of the documentary – as it was revealed that the russian government was running a covert doping program for a number of their olympic athletes for well over a decade (including during the sochi olympics), and rodchenkov was coerced into overseeing all of it.
something i took away from icarus is that the russian government – yes, that totally includes putin – does not fuck around when it comes to sports, and that bad shit can happen to you if you’re the reason why things don’t go their way.
according to rodchenkov’s testimony:
fsb agents (the fsb being the equally shady and terrifying successor to the kgb) were regularly present in labs to make sure technicians who were involved with the doping program carried out orders, and they played an integral role in swapping out the urine samples of “dirty” russian olympians during the sochi olympics (x).
when news of the scandal broke and investigation began, rodchenkov told fogel that there were two fsb agents stationed at his house, and that he believed that “they’re going to kill him,” since he was the one with all the knowledge of how to program was carried out, and thus the biggest liability (x, x).
additionally, two former senior officials involved in the scandal died unexpectedly under suspicious circumstances within weeks of news of the scandal becoming public (x), and the honorary president of russia’s olympic committee straight-up said that rodchenkov deserved to be executed for whistleblowing (x).
despite russia’s attempts to press fabricated charges against rodchenkov, attempts to manipulate him by threatening his family, and get him extradited back to them, he was put into witness protection briefly after fleeing to america (x).
BASICALLY, what i’m trying to get at is this: putin’s a bad fucking dude, and so are a lot of the guys in the russian government. so, whenever ovechkin or any other russian athlete or sports-related official smiles and jokes and meets requests made by putin, yeah, they’re supporting an absolute monster of a human being, and they could be doing it because they have shitty morals, or just prefer turn a blind eye to russian politics, but i get that high calibre russian athletes could get in trouble for doing anything else.
i’m an american who watched a documentary on netflix, and maybe it’s not this deep, but if someone can guarantee safety for themselves and their family by smiling and waving next to a evil bastard, well –
As someone who is a Russian Linguistics and Culture Major, all of the above is so true that it hurts. For years any high profile Russian who has spoken out against the current government of Russia (which by the way only exists because the government rigged the polls) have wound up in a myriad of awful situations, and it isn’t just athletes. One of the big things that’s been done pretty regularly since the fall of the USSR is the assassination of media reporters who try to expose the corruption of the Russian government and it’s so bad we literally have a list of reporters and a Wikipedia page about those who have died under mysterious circumstances while in Russia. And don’t forget about the recent nerve gas attack on Skripal and his daughter in the UK which was directly linked to Russia because Skripal worked against the Russians during the 1990s and 2000s. It isn’t just athletes, but any Russian who expresses a position against the government is targeted.
Russia also has a pretty bad track record with athletes in general, like @doitfortheboys said, they’re basically used as puppets in the Russian government. People like Evgeni Plushenko have been appointed to government positions just so that they can be used as propaganda machines and are typically forced to remain in country except for competitions or games. They don’t have the option of saying ‘sounds cool, but no thanks’ because it’s quite literally a death scentance for the person who declines and/or their families. Also, Russia has attempted to keep athletes from competing internationally for a very long time. Evgeni Malkin had to sneakout of the country and hid out in Finland before escaping to the States, he’s incredibly lucky that he and his family are safe at the moment (though Metallurg Magnitogorsk had a lot to do with it as well not just Russia).
The gist is, Russia is not a place that celebrates diversity the way we do. Many Russians are encouraged to submit to the homogeneous regime Putin has set in place and anyone who disagrees is at a high risk of having something awful to happen to them or to their family.
I think it’s overlooked sometimes how political Guardians of the Galaxy 2 actually got.
Thor Ragnarok and Black Panther are both about an evil thing, colonization, taking something not yours to take and fashioning it to your own needs. But Guardians 2 forms the first part perhaps of Marvel’s anti-colonization trilogy. Ego is the ultimate colonizer, having no purpose in his life other than taking things and making them into more of himself. To this end he’s become the ultimate eugenicist, too. Every time he creates offspring – potential second versions of him, not even people in his eyes – he tests them and if they’re not what he wants he kills them. He’s a slaver (he owns Mantis in every way that matters) a killer, a manipulator, an absolute monster behind a smiling face.
There’s a running theme in GOTG 2 about the evils of treating people as things.
The Sovereign do this too – they’re gold in colour, but they’re essentially white supremacists. (The slight satire of them also being basically really hardcore video gamers, who sit behind drones and make mass murder into a competition, was not lost on me either.) And Yondu, Rocket, Gamora and Nebula are all where they are because they were treated as things – slaves, experiments, disposables. The movie explores their traumas, and makes it clear that they’re justified in their rages.
GOTG 2 does with Ego what Infinity War somehow didn’t manage to do with Thanos, and completely and utterly kill the monster at the end of its story. Peter is granted by Ego all the power he could possibly want, as well as the promise of the family he’s always craved. But once he discovers that it’s all built on bones, he rejects it utterly, even at what he thinks is the cost of his own life. Ego’s not given an ounce of mercy or sympathy, not even from Peter, his own son.
Essentially GOTG2 follows almost an identical path to Thor: Ragnarok – a god (alright, demigod in Peter’s case) discovers that the powers granted to him came from a place of evil, and rejects them in favour of something better. Those two films and Black Panther form an epic “dismantle oppressive systems, even if they benefit you” triple-bill.
“You sure you’re allowed to be
here?” Johnny asks the Devil. It’s been a good few weeks since the bruises
faded but he can feel them suddenly, flaring into a string of sharp pains along
his jaw.
In the hard August sunlight,
there’s no hint of scales under the Devil’s skin. He looks like a man—a weak
chin, and pale as something grown in the dark. He’s leaned up against the side
of Johnny’s truck like he’s sunning himself. (Maybe he is. They say that in the
Garden, the Devil was a snake; Johnny wonders if he has fangs too.)
Johnny can feel him staring, even
through the mirrored sunglasses. “Why wouldn’t I be allowed?” the Devil asks,
as Johnny stops dead in front of him. Johnny’s palm is sweating, where he
clutches the handle of his fiddle case.
“Well, it’s holy ground, isn’t
it?”
The Devil scoffs. “Does the church
parking lot really count as holy ground?”
“As much as any graveyard.”
The Devil is watching him, behind
those mirrored shades of his. Johnny would stake his life on it. “Then what
business could you have here, Johnny?”
The sun is hot, and Johnny’s
shoulders ache—it’s been a while since he played so long, and the band had
barely taken any break between sets. It had been even hotter under the white
tent, every breath an inhale of warm coleslaw and human bodies sweating through
their Sunday finest. Johnny had only agreed to play the church social as a
favor to Nina, and he’d hated her more with every note of I Am The Man,
Thomas and Big Mama Brown, wishing he’d thought up some excuse instead, or
maybe just told Nina to fuck herself with a bow frog.
But the Devil is leaning up
against Johnny’s truck, and Johnny has the awful suspicion that if he mentions
all that, he might be offered another gift.
(The bruises along Johnny’s jaw
sing.)
“Why does any man get religion?”
Johnny says, and the Devil cocks his head curiously. Johnny grins. “Protection
against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.”
He has the pleasure of watching
the Devil throw back his head and laugh under the bright sky. The Devil’s got
hair the same white as ash, and a forked tongue; it’s strange to see him duck
his head back down, and wet his lower lip with it.
“You needn’t venture into His
country, Johnny,” the Devil says, and Johnny can hear the capitol letter there,
the specific Him. “If you wanted
something, you know I would have obliged.”