she/her // 18+ //situated in the USA // AuDHD Multifandom, interests change periodically. I HAVE COMMISSIONS OPEN
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NOT a minor. I’m AuDHD and I like knowing things. I’m studying game design in college, I play video games and draw sometimes. I spend most of my time rotting my brain. I think Jesus rocks. Im a dragon.
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Saïx comes to Axel’s aid after a mission goes awry, and Axel can’t help but wonder if somewhere beneath all the violence and golden eyes, Isa still remains.
“Axel!”
If there’s one thing Axel hates more than being bad at something, it’s pain. Well, that might not be true, there are a lot of things Axel hates, but currently, that’s number one. Xemnas says that as Nobodies, they don’t have feelings, only memories of feelings, but if that’s true, then Axel has an elephant’s memory of pain. Which, at the moment, is supremely inconvenient.
“Axel!” Roxas yells again, closer now, as he sprints across Agrabah’s sand-strewn bazaar and drops to his knees at Axel’s side. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see — it’s my fault — are you okay?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Axel says. It takes more effort than he expected to make his voice sound in the realm of normal. Probably due to the thick dark matter and tendrils of smoke oozing from a giant gash in his abdomen. He’s better than this. He should be better than this. He’d gotten complacent with how much of a natural talent Roxas is, forgetting that the kid has only been one of them for a few short months. Axel should’ve been paying more attention, not making rookie mistakes.
Coulda woulda shoulda. Fact is, the Heartless bastard had got one over on him, and now he can barely breathe for the agony he’s not supposed to feel.
“Come on, we’ve gotta RTC,” Roxas says, tugging at Axel’s good arm in an attempt to bring him to his feet.
No dice, as Luxord says: The barest movement sends a spike through his right side, another helping of ooze, and an added sunburst of black in his vision.
“What should I do?” Roxas sounds near tears. Axel can’t really blame him. While the kid has seen Xion faint and other members swear when struck, he’s never seen true injuries.
Axel needs help, that much is certain. Even just a potion or elixir would help, except he’d forgotten to bring any on this mission and Roxas had used his during their ill-fated skirmish. He tries to think of whom in their dwindling Organization he could send Roxas to for help.
Xemnas would let Axel sort out his own affairs, if he even permitted Roxas an audience in the first place.
Xigbar would laugh and toss an As if! over his shoulder en route to his room.
Xaldin, if not already preoccupied with harassing the Beast, would grunt at best.
Luxord’s off on his own mission, no doubt annoying his enemies to death with an extensive library of card puns.
Xion is comatose again, with no indication of when she’ll surface.
Demyx is too terrified of Saïx to divert from his recon, assuming he’d want to get off his ass in the first place.
And Saïx himself …
Axel grimaces, this time not because of the pain. No, Saïx wouldn’t lift a finger to help unless it served the Superior’s interests. Probably wouldn’t even blink at the news but for the wrench it’d put in the plans that Axel has pretended not to notice slipping away with each passing day.
“Some of the Lessers,” he grits out. “Dusks, or your Samurai if they’ll come.”
“Not your Assassins?”
“They’re good at what they do. Which means they’re not built for rescue missions.”
“Yeah, okay!” Roxas jumps to his feet, invigorated with having a task to carry out. He creates a corridor and hurries through it with a promised, “I’ll be right back!”
“I’ll just …” the portal closes, “wait here then.”
Curious, Axel prods experimentally at his wound. The Heartless’s claws had cut straight through his darkness-repelling coat, undershirt, and several layers of skin, exposing the muscle and fascia below. Dark matter continues to gurgle and spurt, staining the sand beneath him. Axel wonders how long it’ll be before he dies. Minutes? Hours? And if he does die, what happens to him then? Does he just blink out of existence? He’s disturbed at the thought, at not being able to say a proper goodbye to Roxas and Xion, and for dying in such a preposterously stupid way.
The train of thought does help, though, for it passes the time until finally, another corridor opens up. He brightens as he anticipates Roxas stepping through, accompanied by a Lesser or two to patch him up enough for travel through the corridor. With a ripped coat and open wound, he’d be risking too much to enter one as-is.
Except it’s neither Roxas nor so much as a Dusk who steps through, it’s —
“Saïx,” Axel breathes. The sight of his oldest friend standing here is enough to cause him to wonder whether he did die after all. Surely, there’s no other explanation than that this is the afterlife. Not a comforting one, either. Saïx’s deep frown is ever-present, augmented by the ugly scar splitting his face into quarters, and he’s dressed in full Organization regalia. Axel had hoped … well, he’d hoped it’d be Isa he saw upon his death, not Saïx. Fraught as their bond is, there’s little Axel wouldn’t give to see green eyes instead of gold.
“Get up,” Saïx barks, stalking over to him. For a moment, Axel could swear a sliver of concern crosses Saïx’s features as he gives Axel a once-over.
Axel doesn’t, because he knows if he tried, he’d reveal his weakness, and that’s the last thing he wants Saïx to see. “Why are you here?” he asks. “I told Roxas to bring a Dusk.”
“They report to me, not Roxas, and the boy is prone to hysterics when it comes to you and the puppet.”
Axel opens his mouth to reply, and gets a coughing fit for his efforts. His side screams and when he wipes his mouth, his hand comes away smeared in black. Breaths shallow, he manages, “I’m surprised Xemnas let you off your leash.”
Saïx’s jaw clenches, as Axel knew it would. For all that Saïx wears a mask of indifference, there is a festering sore he can’t hide. Once, Axel would’ve thought it too mean to press, all too aware of the sacrifices Saïx has made to gain Xemnas’s trust; now, if he doesn’t press, indifference is the only reaction he’s ever afforded.
“I said, get up,” Saïx commands again. When Axel refuses to comply, he lets out a sound of frustration and reaches under Axel’s good arm just as Roxas had. However, unlike Roxas, Saïx is deaf to Axel’s cries of pain and lifts him bodily into his arms as easily as he draws forth his claymore.
Past caring about self-preservation, Axel gasps out, “Saïx, please, I — hurts — and my coat —”
Saïx pauses. The corridor waits impatiently for them to step through. “You ripped it. Roxas neglected to report that detail.”
Axel gives a dull moan of acknowledgement.
Several seconds elapse as the gears turn in Saïx’s head. Axel used to be able to read him like a children’s book. He hasn’t been able to in a long, long time, but even through his sputtering vision, he can see Saïx’s frown deepen. Seemingly to himself, Saïx mutters, “The darkness could …”
He doesn’t finish his sentence; or, perhaps, Axel doesn’t register it. Eventually, he comes to some sort of decision and the portal vanishes. Axel whimpers as Saïx begins to walk, his wound aggravating with each step. Thickly, Axel asks, “What’re you doing?”
“There ought to be an inn somewhere in this world. I intend to leave you in it until I can retrieve a new coat. You’re of no use to us dead.”
To us? Axel thinks dully. Of course, to us. There’s no Saïx without Xemnas, in more ways than one.
“How d’you know’ve an Agrabahn inn?” Axel slurs. He lets Saïx take more of his weight.
“Do you think I make you write mission debriefs because I enjoy reading them? They’re for intel, Axel.”
“M’ own pers’nal tour guide.”
“Near enough.”
“No,” Axel ponders aloud, “too grumpy. Zero stars.”
Saïx huffs, a noise that could almost be a laugh. Axel files away the noise deep in his mind anyway, wrapped up safe and sound where he can admire it later. It was hard enough wresting a smile from Isa; from Saïx, nigh impossible.
After what feels like thirty miles and countless buckling of his knees, they hang a left and Saïx announces, “Here.”
From what Axel can tell from his admittedly hazy view, the place is unassuming, nestled amongst a row of homes. He idly wonders which Organization member could’ve come by here, let alone found it notable enough to include in a report.
Saïx rings the bell on the façade and hauls Axel inside once beckoned by the proprietress. The woman gasps at what Axel assumes must be an awful sight, but a few words from Saïx has her checking on room availability. While Axel can’t quite make out the words, Saïx’s voice is a pleasant rumble against his ear. It’s been all too easy to forget that in another life, Saïx could lay on the charm as ably as a carnival fortune-teller.
Whatever he says, it nets them a key, and Saïx half-drags him down to the end of a hallway. His free hand grabs a towel from the bathroom and spreads it on the bed, the better to avoid getting dark matter on the mattress, Axel assumes. With an odd gentleness that, in fairness, could be merely Axel’s delirium, Saïx eases him onto the bed. Axel’s torso again wails in protest, but he’s too tired to do more than groan.
His earlier spike of adrenaline crashes as his body recognizes safety, and his consciousness cuts out before Saïx can say anything else.
———
The room Saïx had procured for them is many things, but curtained is not one of them, and Agrabah’s bright, hot sunlight rouses Axel awake.
His first thought is that his side — now bandaged so precisely he wagers it could be diagrammed in a medical textbook — feels like it’s been sliced clean through with a blade tempered in acid.
His second thought, alarming enough to stifle the groan of agony, is that there’s an arm laid across his chest. A cool, muscled arm curled so tightly Axel fears he’ll be unable to move an inch. Which might be frightening for a seasoned assassin, were it not for the owner of the arm, whom Axel registers in shock as he turns his head.
Saïx’s hair is a tangled mass of blue and his black shirt is rucked up slightly at the waist to reveal a tantalizing two inches of skin. One of his legs is entwined with Axel’s, regrettably fully covered in Organization XIII-issue pants. At the Castle, Saïx had never stayed long enough to fall asleep, but Isa had always been a koala. Apparently, that particular trait had merely been buried, not stamped out entirely.
Not that Axel minds. Injury be damned, he would stay here forever if he could. Saïx’s slow, deep breaths against the nape of his neck, the occasional twitches or murmurs as he dreams, the way his possessive streak is, for once, hurting no one, Axel revels in it. Part of him thinks he must be in a dream as well, that this couldn’t possibly be real. It’s too peaceful, too … gentle.
Illusion or not, he won’t waste the chance while he has it. Gingerly, he brushes aside the strands of hair obscuring Saïx’s face; in sleep, a frown for once nonexistent, he’s breathtaking. High cheekbones and a delicate slope to his nose, a sharp jawline and a mouth his dream has formed into a pout. The silver studs in his ears evoke a sentimental vanity that Axel never addresses for fear Saïx would remove them out of pettiness.
Hesitating for a moment, he presses his lips to the slashes across Saïx’s face, right in the center. He wouldn’t dare such a thing if Saïx were awake. The anger at the intrusion, Axel could endure; the reflexive flinch away, as though the brand is as fresh now as it was a decade ago, would break the heart he doesn’t have. He lightly runs his fingers along Saïx’s jaw, down his arm, and settles on his waist.
Axel’s usually pretty good at keeping himself in check, responding when Saïx seeks him out but careful not to instigate anything himself. Yet, the only word he can use to describe the full sensation in his chest is yearning. He yearns to kiss Saïx awake, to see a lazy smile still slack from sleep directed back at him. He yearns to feel Saïx’s hand thread through his hair and be chastised over its unruliness. He yearns for … well, he yearns for Isa.
Saïx’s face suddenly blurs as hot tears mar his vision. Axel had thought he’d accepted reality years ago. Maybe it’s all the hours he’s spent with Roxas and Xion, being forced to answer questions he’d previously refused to dwell on.
He can’t breathe for the tightness around his lungs. Nor can he stop the shuddering hiccup that escapes, which has the unfortunate side effect of making Saïx stir. Axel blinks away the tears as best he can, just in time for Saïx’s eyes to flutter open. The golden irises that greet him hit like a bucket of ice water.
“Hey,” Axel murmurs, praying for nonchalance.
“Hi.” Saïx’s voice is hoarse with sleep. Axel has three blessed seconds of that relaxed expression before Saïx’s frown manifests anew. He appraises the compromising position they’re in and instantly untangles himself.
Throwing self-respect out the window, Axel grasps Saïx’s wrist and pleads, “Don’t go. Stay. Just … just for a minute.”
You don’t need to hide from me, he desperately wants to say but doesn’t, terrified that that would serve only to jab at a sore point and repel Saïx entirely.
Axel finds a surprising amount of conflict in his erstwhile friend’s face. He freezes; Saïx is as a trapped animal, and Axel would much rather deal with a docile creature than a rabid one. After a minute that’s more agonizing than the slowly healing wound that was the reason for all this in the first place, Saïx warily lies back down, albeit to the very edge of the bed.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Saïx all but whispers, as though Xemnas is lurking right outside their window. “I should have left last night.”
Thank the stars you didn’t.
“The Organization can survive without you for two seconds.” Propping himself up on an elbow, he asks, “When’s the last time you slept?”
As Nobodies, they don’t need sleep, technically speaking, but Axel enjoys the quiet it brings. Saïx roughly rubs his face, deliberately avoiding his scar, and answers, “I don’t recall.”
“Well, you should do it more often. You don’t look like shit for once.”
The quip is a gamble, but to his delight, it pays off: Saïx rolls his eyes and replies, “Charming.”
“Always.” Emboldened, Axel reaches out to tame the flyaways that have once more fallen into Saïx’s face.
His efforts earn him a vise grip around his arm. “Do not touch me.”
“Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.”
So much for progress. Saïx’s skin is glacial against Axel’s unnatural heat. Isa had always run cold, but not like this. As the seconds drag on, Axel finally raises an eyebrow in prompting, and Saïx abruptly drops his arm. Axel mourns the loss. Delusionally, he’d hoped the opposite would happen. That Saïx would kiss the inside of his wrist the way he knows makes Axel shiver. Look up at him through those lashes lined in black. Render Axel insensate as easily as he lobs scathing retorts at anyone unfortunate enough to step into his path.
All there is now, however, is a big, fat no.
Axel flips over onto his back. It hurts to see the emptiness in Saïx’s once-lively eyes. To be rebuffed where once he’d have been devoured. Or, he remembers what such a thing would feel like, anyway.
“Just go, man,” he sighs in defeat. “Dunno why you even agreed to stay if you’re gonna act like this.”
“Is that why you asked?” Saïx replies tersely. “You were hoping I’d fuck you?”
Axel grimaces at the crudeness. It’s not untrue, admittedly, but a little tact would be nice. A little sugar to balance the bitter. “Oh, forgive me for being presumptuous. You’re the one who always interrupts my peace to take out your frustrations on me.”
“I’ve never heard you complain.”
“Maybe I should. At least I don’t walk out the second it’s over as though you’re yesterday’s trash.”
Axel can feel Saïx’s stare boring into him. With a huff of annoyance, Saïx says, “Well, you’re not walking anywhere with that injury.”
“Cut the shit,” Axel snaps, caving to look over at the man from whom he’d once been inseparable. “Don’t act like you care. You just don’t want to damage Xemnas’s merchandise. You’re his little —”
With no warning, Saïx surges forward and covers Axel’s mouth with his own.
Stars help him, it’s so unexpected that Axel returns the favor. Oh, how he’s missed this. No amount of sea salt ice cream or vibrant sunset could compare to Saïx’s touch. Nothing could, except maybe Isa’s. Axel grips Saïx’s shirt in his fist to pull him closer, and this time, Saïx doesn’t stop him. Instead, he rolls further to straddle Axel’s hips; not an unfamiliar position, and yet Axel can only stare, his hands stalled. Flecks of green have sprung to life amongst the gold in Saïx’s eyes, he’s sure of it.
“We’re Nobodies,” Saïx reminds him, oblivious, “we have no capacity to care.”
“Then what is this?” Axel grabs Saïx’s hand and places it over the spot where his, Axel’s, heart used to be, where he could swear he feels a rapid pulse.
“Memories. Nothing more.”
The green solidifying into a ring around Saïx’s pupils has Axel abandoning all rationality, and from his lips emerges, “Isa …”
Saïx snatches his hand away. “Don’t.”
“It’s just us here,” Axel presses. “Isa.”
“I said, don’t call me that.”
“What, you gonna punish me?” Axel asks.
“It’s not punishment if you’re asking for it.”
Axel can’t argue with that. “So … love me instead. If you remember how.”
“Love,” Saïx scoffs, even as the faintest tinge of pink blooms in his cheeks. “Have you lost your wits entirely?”
“Maybe. You always said I had more brawn than brains.”
A laugh bubbles up from Saïx’s mouth, small but real, and he leans back to poke the bony hips beneath him. “I have never said such a thing.”
Axel dips his fingers under the hem of Saïx’s shirt, just barely. Just enough to feel the hard muscle there, the abrupt contraction at his touch. He pauses, but doesn’t retreat from Saïx’s harsh appraisal. What an enigma is the man above him — ruthless and indomitable in battle, delicate as china once his defenses are finally breached. Away from the Castle, neither Dusk nor Superior waiting in the wings, a dangerous ribbon of hope threads through his head that perhaps they haven’t strayed irreparably far from the people they used to be all those years ago.
“It’s just us,” Lea says again. Saïx glances behind him at the locked door, a concern so human it’s endearing. “So what? We’ll give her one hell of a show.”
“Shut up. I need to think.”
“About what?”
“I don’t — I have things to do, assignments —”
“Isa, look at me.” He does, and Lea feels like crying as he another ring of gold gives way to green, and another, and another. There you are.
“You’re going to rip your stitches,” Isa mutters. “I spent time on those.”
“Yeah? Thought you liked me all marked up.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what, then? Show me.”
For the first time in a long time, Isa’s mouth twists up into more smile than sneer. “Patience.”
Lea hides a chuckle. “Yes, sir.”
Isa’s eyes darken with desire at the epithet and, when all is said and done, Lea does, in fact, rip his stitches.
———
“You’re up!”
The familiar voice arrives with an echo, dulled as if underwater. It’s also relentless, demanding consciouness Lea isn’t entirely prepared to bestow. With a groan, he blearily registers Roxas standing by his bed, face spread into a relieved grin. His own bed, Lea realizes, not …
Disoriented, he sits up, slowly taking in his surroundings. Absent is the smell of spices in the air, the shoebox of a room tucked away in Agrabah’s heart, the bottle of arak that had almost been strong enough to beat his Nobody tastebuds into submission, the music plucked out by some distant performer, the slightly lumpy bed built for two. No, the stale white walls and pulsating moonlight that define the Castle That Never Was are as far from Agrabah as it is possible to be. There’s no one next to him, not even space for someone next to him.
“Where’s Isa?” he asks.
Roxas tilts his head in confusion. “Isa? Who’s Isa?”
“Never mind. How’d I get here? I was at the inn and …” He hesitates, then opts for some significant abbreviation. “And I fell asleep.”
“What inn?”
“The one in Agrabah. You left to get help, and Saïx came —”
“Man, you must’ve lost more blood than I thought,” Roxas interrupts with a nervous laugh. “Saïx would never help someone.”
Lea frowns. “What do you mean?”
“When I told him you were injured, he said he’d just send some Dusks to bring you back. I don’t think he cared whether you lived or died.”
Lea stares at Roxas impassively, skin heating at the memory of Isa’s hands, teeth, body, leaving scarcely any part of him unattended. The side of his neck throbs not-unpleasantly, and he’s sore in places that have nothing to do with Heartless. Yes, Lea knows well what Isa’s brand of not caring feels like.
Undeterred by Lea’s silence, Roxas continues, “He forbade me to do anything but my mission, or I’d’ve gone back for you myself. He said Xemnas would turn me into a Dusk if I didn’t. I’m sorry, Axel.”
“No, hey, it’s not your fault, I just thought —”
Lea startles at the mechanical zip of a door opening. Isa crosses the threshold and strides across the floor, sparing no glance at Roxas. His name is on Lea’s lips, ready to be spoken — that is, until Lea properly takes in his appearance. There’s no warmth, no softness, and his eyes …
Two sunken pits of gold are all that greets him now. Not a single dot remains of the green that had so entranced him, that had revealed the humanity left within. Isa, his Isa, is gone.
The shell that is Saïx comments, “So, you’ve awakened at last. I half-thought when the Dusks dropped you off that you’d bleed out all over the floor. What a mess that’d have been.”
“Saïx,” Lea says. The name tastes like ash on his tongue. To Roxas, he asks, “Could you give us a sec? Please.”
The last word is perhaps what shocks Roxas into obeying, as he offers no objection, simply nods and hurries out the door. Lea rises to his feet; too quickly, apparently, for between his wound and emotional whiplash, the room starts spinning. He grabs onto Saïx to steady himself, but for all the reaction he gets, it may as well have been the wall.
“Why …” Lea’s mouth is dry. “Isa, what happened to you?”
“Nothing happened to me.”
“The hell it didn’t!” Lea searches his face, as hard as it is pretty. It dawns on him, “Xemnas. You brought me back and he found out and he … I don’t know, he did something.”
“Our Superior merely reminded me of my purpose in this Organization,” says Saïx. “It was a sorely needed lesson.”
“But — you remember. Last night, you remember it, don’t you?”
“I remember suffering a moment of weakness, nothing more.”
“Weakness,” Lea scoffs. He pulls down the collar of his shirt to display the love bite that resides there. “You mean this weakness?”
A flash of something passes over Saïx’s expression as his eyes flicker down to the mark, but all he says is, “Pull yourself together, Axel. You have work to do.”
“Tell me Isa’s still in there,” Lea begs, aware of how pathetic he must sound. He cups Saïx’s face in his hands. “Tell me I haven’t lost you.”
Saïx calmly steps out of Lea’s grasp. “You lost Isa ten years ago. Accept it.”
Lea — no, Axel, once more — can only watch as Saïx turns on his heel and exits the room as swiftly as he’d entered.
To the violent stillness left in his wake, Axel vows, “You’ll have to kill me first.”
I do not know what I'm cooking yet. I had inspiration for KH ocs and I'm trying to make it happen, IDK I'm inexperienced with this. No I don't really know what their deal is yet, other than His Majesty of Bad Vibes having something to do with it.
i come across a lot of people who claim to be "obsessed with mormonism" (or, heaven forbid, claim to have a 'special interest' or 'hyperfixation' about Mormons) and about 1% of these people actually have genuine interests in the religion and history and theology, but the other 99% just watch a lot of secret lives and alyssa grenfell and the book of mormon musical, and actually don't even know what scriptures we use or what we believe in (and yet still claim to know more than i do about "the Truth about Joseph Smith") which i think speaks to just how often people hyperbolize their interests and knowledge in something
and i know that when i say this, i just sound like an old man complaining about 'posers' and 'larpers'. but what separates someone who pretends to know everything about Mormonism from someone who does so with something else is this: an interest in Mormonism is almost exclusively an interest in mocking, criticizing, and alienating Mormons. it's rarely "wow this is such an interesting phenomenon", but mostly "wow these people are so weird and evil". an interest rooted in scorn and hatred is not an interest. it's simply a way for them to feel superior
It's an example of cultural appropriation, where someone is enamored with a group's culture or aesthetics and embraces it but rejects the actual people themselves.
Book of Mormon musical fans are some of the worst offenders because they fetishize our missionaries (TEENAGE VOLUNTEERS), but would never dream of setting foot in a sacrament meeting, and that's if they even believe we're real.
But nooooooo, you can't cultural appropriate Mormons because they're too white and Christian, nevermind that historically both of those groups have rejected us, with mainstream Christians still calling us heretics and heathens in the big '26. Nevermind that that view erases the contributions and struggles of people like Jane Manning James, Elijah Abel, and the Genesis Group, to name a few.
But please, by all means, keep drawing your shitty fan art of my friends and family. You are, of course, the expert here because you *checks note* super love the pretend gay Mormons you saw on stage once. That surely gives you greater knowledge than the actual real life queer Mormond of the world.
And then theses people are so consistently rude and dismissive, treating me like im an idiot because I didn’t do things that meet their standards and rebellion (which is presumably yelling “I HATE MORMONS I HATE MORMONS” with my ears plugged every time I ever a church and to have been doing this since I was a small child) they fail to come at me and my experiences with any amount of nuance or empathy, rather they always react to me like “oh my gooooooood, I can’t believe I found one in real life. Wait you guys exist outside Utah and/or the USA? oh my god that’s sooooooooo scary, so like they could be anywhere?”
listen, I don’t think anyone who finds Mormons interesting is bad or wrong, but when I’m forty minutes into a rant from a Swedish atheist who has never been to a church (let alone a temple) condescendingly “explaining” why actually I don’t know what Mormonism is im going to get pissed
Rant incoming:
You know what's serendipitous about me seeing this? It came right after someone I follow suddenly decided to post some negative thing tangentially related to mormons, and of course several people in the notes had to make that the main spotlight. Love that.
I seldom post stuff related to my religion for two reasons: 1. I don't want to be perceived as proselyting, because that's not my intention, and 2. when you post something like that publicly, you open yourself up possibly receiving tons of hate. The latter has increasingly reinforced #1 over the years.
People have always perceived us as some kind of "weird" or "other." There has always been misinformation out there, people who profit off of that misinformation, or people who think they know more than they actually do. That isn't new. But shows like Secret Lives, and social media have basically magnified all that into a morbid, parasocial obsession that's, quite frankly, yet another example of peak internet brain rot.
Talking to these people, you would think that our entire history can be summed up by "con man, polygamy, child brides, and racism" and that our culture is just "mind control, creepy old white dudes, tradwives, soaking and dirty sodas."
Let me tell you, as someone who grew up well before the internet blew up into what it is now (who's lived across the US, known members from around the world, gone through periods of inactivity, multiple faith crises, and has in fact done plenty of her own research pre-2013 gospel topics essays) I cannot begin to describe how exhausting it is to interact with people who think like this.
Even if you try to correct them on something that's just objectively factually incorrect, oh no no no no, that doesn't matter. You can't be trusted because you're still brainwashed. Nothing you say, do, or think is born out of genuine belief, lived experience, or critical thought.
No, apparently, they know better than you, and think they can pathologize almost anything you do because they're more enlightened than you for... I don't know... listening to some true-crime style podcast on cults, watching Alyssa Grenfell or whatever's on Hulu these days, reading anonymous horror stories from reddit, looking at 19th century tabloids about how awful the mormons were, etc, accepting all of that at face value, and then calling it "research."
Never mind how sensationalized and exploitative the true crime media ecosystem is, even just generally. Never mind that in literally no other topic would "reading stuff on reddit" be considered objective research. Never mind that the whole concept of "brainwashing" itself is pseudoscience that's long since been debunked. Never mind that the word "cult" has become so loaded with prejudice, that there is a reason why you don't see a lot of "cult studies" in the primary scientific literature, and that the sort of rhetoric you see spread by self-proclaimed "cult experts" has its roots in a white-evangelical moral panic from the 1970s. Yes, even Steven Hassan who came up with the BITE model (which is not even peer reviewed btw) got his start in abusive deprogramming methods that were born from that era. Yes, even Alyssa Grenfell will unknowingly (or knowingly, honestly sometimes it's hard to tell with her) regurgitate talking points from that era too.
They don't bother to try and deconstruct any of that, but then have the audacity to try and lecture me about how I'm stupid for not deconstructing... which, in this context, can basically be translated into "Your perspective on your own mormon upbringing, aka your own lived experience, is only valid insofar as you stop being mormon."
And this isn't even getting into the quiet racism this crowd exhibits too. Seriously, they'll go on and on about how racist mormons are, but let me tell you... the volume of nasty, patronizing white-savior comments I see coming from these same people whenever they find a POC Latter-day Saint on social media is astounding. Again, talking to these "experts" who've allegedly done tons of research on us, you'd think all mormons were white until recently, and that's just not true. Even with the priesthood/temple ban (which yes, I agree, is a horrible stain on our history that should never have happened), there have always been people of color within our church. Pretending like they weren't there and/or minimizing their voices, or acting like they can't make their own informed choices about what religion they want to identify with is literally a form of erasure, stop it!!!
I'm tired. I'm tired of people acting that is normal, acceptable public discourse, because it isn't.
Which is not to say that you have to like mormonism, let alone convert. But you know what... there's a lot of things that I do not like about aspects of other religions or atheism as well. Every religion has skeletons in its closet. And yet, I would never treat any of them the way these hyper fixated pseudo-experts have treated me or my community. You know why? Because it fucking sucks, and it's not okay.
Lastly, to anyone who might come along to say "But you're a cult!" .... Here's a radical thought, treating people like shit because *you* think they're weird and stupid is not the flex you think it is. Grow up.
Love how kingdom hearts will be like “Xehanort is a mastermind that planned this all sense he was young” but then will cut to Xehanort doing the most asinine shit that 100% was not planned but with the confidence of a god. Some might call that bad writing, I call it characterization.
been thinking about kh2 (very excited to properly play the full game myself) and how it’s sort of a conclusive happy ending and sort of not. to our knowledge the bad guys are defeated and the good guys are safe and happy, kind of mostly uhh. ignore the people who were desperately trying to be human (again) who got crushed into oblivion. you know how it is
and i think they couldddd have ended the series there on that bittersweet tragic solemn but peaceful ending. depressing as it is it would have worked. but they kept going. they walked it back they said ‘actually no this is really messed up we can’t accept it like this we need to fix this.’ and that to me is like
you know how sometimes irl you think you’ve made peace with something you think you’re happy now and only after some time do you realize just how hurt your heart still is. you already smiled and told everyone you were fine and cool with it now so it’s a little awkward and embarrassing to have to come out and say ‘actually i’m still in pain this situation isn’t nearly as liveable as i thought it was can you come save me after all’
that’s like how it is with roxas on a meta level i think. he made peace with his fate in the moment but he comes crawling back up from the depths later. the destiny trio themselves aren’t quite satisfied yet with their sense of adventure later either. those who died without a true chance at life need to be brought back and properly resolved. etc. it’s ok to want more it’s ok to say ‘no i regret having settled i deserve better for myself actually’
