I think for a lot of white people, when you call them out on their casual racism (microagressions and non-overt things), they see it as a case of hurt feelings from your point of view as opposed to a discussion of harmful practices that aid the vehicle of racism. So in response, they take it as a personal attack, rather than a learning experience, and go on the defensive by bringing up a time that you made them upset as leverage. Or they defend their actions by doubling down on the behavior at hand and dismissing your criticism as over sensitivity and emphasizing their “harmless” intent. And I think that is one of the reasons why it’s so hard to address casual and interpersonal racism with the general white population (and also other poc tbh).
Rereading The Hunger Games books has made me realize something. A good piece of media makes me think about what it would be like to be a character in that story, in that world. I pictured myself at Hogwarts and in Resident Evil’s Raccoon City and as a Warrior Sister and as a Runner in The Glade, and as various other people in various other fictional places, fighting monsters and dragons and the evils of the world in many forms of media for as long as I can remember.
The one thing I never pictured myself in was The Hunger Games. I never wrote one shots about Panem, in fact it’s probably the only piece of media I have never consumed a single fanfic about. Not only did it feel wrong but I plain didn’t want to.
Katniss told us what it was like in a way that left very little to the imagination. Yes, she’s kinda obtuse in some instances but she’s also a literal teenage girl and as a prior literal teenage girl, sometimes you overthink the things that don’t matter and underthink the things that do.
The point is: Suzanne Collins did a really good job writing a piece of media that forces you to experience the story in a way that I’m not sure many others do. Yes, you experience the story but I feel like Collins was very effective in making you feel it too. She told the story and made you feel it, made you understand it. You witnessed all of the brutal and unholy horrors that the Capitol subjected each of the districts to. She didn’t allow for a single word to be wasted over-explaining to the point of boredom and she certainly didn’t allow you to look away from the monstrosity.
I’ll admit, I fell victim to the “the new books are a cash grab” mindset when Ballad was released, although I did borrow it from a friend a few weeks after release and ate my words for it. Granted, the narrator was the most unlikable character in the entire series so it’s not one I can really say I enjoyed. But the story was consistent with the original trilogy and the change from first person to third person was masterfully executed and a very interesting (in a good way) stylistic choice. Perhaps I brushed it off and didn’t give myself as much time to digest it as I did the original three, and maybe one day I will and I’ll decide I like it more.
However, Sunrise on the Reaping really sealed it for me. I think it is easily the best book in the entire series. And even then. Even laying beside Maysilee and Hamitch in the bed of katniss in the arena, even then I never thought, “I wonder what that would be like.”
Because Suzanne told us, and Katniss told us, and Haymitch told us, and, hell, even in his own twisted and distorted way, Coriolanus Snow told us:
Sejanus Plinth, Lenore Dove, and the Impulsive Rebel
Both Sejanus Plinth and Lenore Dove rebel impulsively. Sejanus, foremost, enters the arena with the intention to give last rites to Marcus. He begins to act in accordance with other rebels in District Twelve, but his trust of Coriolanus becomes his downfall. Lenore Dove takes to the stage to sing about the injustice of oppression. It was not her singing that necessarily got her arrested, rather, the crowds that gathered. Both characters suffer from impulsive and emotional rebellion, which often befalls the characterization of immaturity. However, in the context of an oppressive and isolating Capitol, their Bradburian rebellions, akin to Guy Montag’s rebellion in Fahrenheit 451 and Winston’s in 1984, speak to Plutarch Heavensbee’s greater continuum of revolution.
Sejanus Plinth
In The Rebel, Albert Camus defines a rebel as “a man who says no, but whose refusal does not imply a renunciation”. In that, a rebel is someone who recognizes the authority has moved beyond the limit of its power. It has begun to encroach on the rights of others. However, the rebel is also someone who believes that there is moderation in which the authority has power before said limit. (This definition hinges on the difference between revolution and rebellion, but for the sake of the scope of this essay, I will omit Camus's broad section on the differences. It's long enough already.)
For example, Sejanus Plinth rebels against the idea of the Games and the inhumane treatment of the districts. He believes instead of punishing the districts, the Capitol should seek to protect everyone in Panem, but he still believes in the government having power. The line for him would be the abuse of the districts.
Sejanus represents John Locke’s idea of natural law, which denotes that people are born with natural rights to life, liberty, and property. Any government must then recognize said rights, and it cannot expect obedience from people who have not freely consented to its rule.
This encompasses Sejanus’s impulsive rebellion:
“But if a long train of abuses, prevarications and artifices, all tending the same way, make the design visible to the people, and they cannot but feel what they lie under, and see whither they are going; it is not to be wondered, that they should then rouze themselves, and endeavour to put the rule into such hands which may secure to them the ends for which government was at first erected.”
In the Capitol, Sejanus is isolated in his perception of injustice. Unlike his classmates, he has insight into the humanization of people beyond Capitol borders. He recognizes they are not animals, like his classmates believe, but instead, people born with rights just like him. He must grapple with the knowledge of the harm the Games are doing and the conflicting role of being a mentor- a cog in the machine of the Games. Still, he is around people who do not perceive the “long train of abuses”, and thus feels he must convince them of the prevarications.
“Hardly rebels. Some of them were two years old when the war ended. The oldest were eight. And now that the war’s over, they’re just citizens of Panem, aren’t they? Same as us? Isn’t that what the anthem says the Capitol does? ‘You give us light. You reunite’? It’s supposed to be everyone’s government, right?”
“That’s the general idea. Go on,” Dr. Gaul encouraged him.
“Well, then it should protect everyone,” said Sejanus. “That’s its number one job! And I don’t see how making them fight to the death achieves that.”
“Obviously, you don’t approve of the Hunger Games,” said Dr. Gaul. “That must be hard for a mentor. That must interfere with your assignment.”
Sejanus paused for a moment. Then he sat up straight, seeming to steel himself, and looked her in the eye. “Perhaps you should replace me and assign someone more worthy.”
He wants to be freed from the Games. He expresses this proposal to Dr. Gaul, who refuses to oblige. Yet, even Sejanus knows freeing himself from the Games is not something that would end them. Even after he no longer has a stake in the Games when Marcus goes missing, he continues to show up to classes and chime in to discussions on the Games. He rebels through free thought, as it is the only rebellion he can manage under the oppressive restrictions of the Capitol.
Returning to Camus’s The Rebel, he writes that to remain silent means to consent to the malpractice of the authority:
“To remain silent is to give the impression that one has no opinions, that one wants nothing, and in certain cases it really amounts to wanting nothing. Despair, like the absurd, has opinions and desires about everything in general and nothing in particular. Silence expresses this attitude very well. But from the moment that the rebel finds his voice—even though he says nothing but "no"—he begins to desire and to judge.”
Sejanus rebels through continuing to show up. He earnestly believes that speaking in front of his classmates and Academy staff will change someone’s mind. He believes if he can convince someone to understand, then maybe, he will make a dent in the Games. It is why Lysistrata’s speech when Jessup dies is impactful. Lysistrata, who was born and raised in the Capitol, begins to see the people in the districts beyond their characterization as animals.
“What I’d like people to know about Jessup is that he was a good person. He threw his body over mine to protect me when the bombs started going off in the arena. It wasn’t even conscious. He did it reflexively. That’s who he was at heart. A protector. I don’t think he would’ve ever won the Games, because he’d have died trying to protect Lucy Gray.”
“Oh, like a dog or something.” Lepidus nodded. “A really good one.”
“No, not like a dog. Like a human being,” said Lysistrata.
While I do not intend to reduce Lysistrata’s revelation to a sole factor, Sejanus’s insistence must have impacted her thoughts. She shows empathy towards his rebellious outburst after Sejanus sees Marcus in the arena. She even attempts to get Snow to console him. Snow, in fear of association, the opposite of Lysistrata, refuses.
We see more emotional rebellion in Sejanus when he attempts to give last rites to Marcus via the breadcrumbs in the arena. The rebellion of this act can be construed two ways: a boy trying to give someone passage into an afterlife, or a rebellious student attempting to humanize someone in front of the Capitol and willing to die for it. Both of these options convene in emotion.
Dying in the arena as a sole rebel will not accomplish the same messaging as working strategically with a team of conspirators. Rather, his emotional rebellion is personal and impulsive. He cannot depend on anyone to rebel with him. Again, he is isolated from any inklings of rebellion or rebellious thought leaders. Any time he attempts to bring the ideas to the classroom, someone shuts him down. Therefore, he deems it necessary to act in accordance with his own ideologies even if it means going at it alone. To him, a fleeting rebellion is better than none at all. There is no greater conspiracy other than the ideologies in his dialects: people deserve rights.
When he sprinkles the breadcrumbs on Marcus, he accepts his own death. To him, as to Camus, rebels who are willing to die recognize that some causes transcend that of a single man:
“If he prefers the risk of death to the negation of the rights that he defends, it is because he considers these rights more important than himself. Therefore he is acting in the name of certain values which are still indeterminate but which he feels are common to himself and to all men. We see that the affirmation implicit in every act of rebellion is extended to something that transcends the individual in so far as it withdraws him from his supposed solitude and provides him with a reason to act.”
Sejanus’s impulse is driven by the idea that rights (or, rites) are more important than himself. He has accepted death, even if his actions will not lend themselves to a greater movement. He acts on his own, isolated from his district and alone in his ideas. He recognizes that he must act, even if it will end in his own death. The injustices occur before his eyes, and he realizes he cannot wait to recruit more people to his cause. He has tried and failed, and now his friend is dead. He cannot wait for a rebellion. To him, there is no such thing. Of course we as readers know about Plutarch and the later rebellion, but Sejanus is not given such insight. Nor is he aware of anyone who may even consider the district citizens as humans. To him, he is alone in life and thought, and thus he accepts this as true and rebels on his own.
It is why, in District Twelve, farther removed from the Capitol’s watchful eye, he feels more emboldened. He latches on to the first signs of rebellion and devotes his life to it. He works with Billy Taupe and the rebels to try to free a prisoner, because once again, he believes people have rights. With people behind him, he has something he has never had before- a community of like minded people.
For the first time, he is no longer alone. He realizes his ideas all along can come to fruition. While his tactics are unrefined, such as drawing a map in the dirt where anyone can see, his rebellion is still appropriately limited.
Sejanus’s rebellious plot lacked a direct attack on the Capitol. While he believed in ending the Games, he set the bar lower. He likely realized the Games were too big of a target, and, unlike in the Capitol, escaping became a viable option. His goal was never to blow up the arena or free the tributes. He just wanted to get the imprisoned girl and run.
His greatest fault was trusting Snow. To him, they are brothers. He has been his confidant before, and Snow has saved him countless times. He refused to graduate unless the academy allowed Snow to graduate, too. Inasmuch, he is misled to believe he can tell Snow the plan.
For once, Sejanus found people who believed in the same things he did. Had he not told Snow, his rebellion likely may have worked. However, just like Guy Montag in Fahrenheit 451, he placed his trust in someone he believed to be his brother, and it got him killed. He felt emotionally compelled, just as he did in the arena, to give a final goodbye or an explanation. He trusted Snow, and it got him killed.
Lenore Dove
Lenore Dove’s acts of rebellion are reactionary, but still emotional. She does not act without a cause in front of her.
Assuming she was the one to cut the gallows rope and burn the flag, her actions of rebellion are always focused on one event. She sawed the rope to permit it to snap, and she burned the flag to create drama around the reaping ceremony. Neither of these events end with anything other than someone getting arrested. She acts out of necessity, but her acts are impermanent. Like Sejanus, she lacks an overarching goal and an overall movement.
However, unlike Sejanus, she is raised with rebellious media- books, free thought, and music. She idolizes the raven on the tree that can say what she desires. She admires people who can speak freely, going so far as to tell Haymitch she hopes to be able to speak her mind when she’s older:
“And nobody tells them what to say. That bird is who I want to be when I grow up. Someone who says whatever they think is right, no matter what.”
No matter what. That’s the part I’m worried about. That she might be saying something rash. Or even doing something beyond dangerous words. Something the Capitol won’t warn but whip her for. The year she turned twelve, she crossed that line twice.
Yet, Lenore Dove respects the wishes of Clerk Carmine by singing only in the meadow. She complies with her uncle's wishes by refusing to play the Goose and the Common in public. She censors herself, and she will not sing in public because she “says it makes her too nervous to sing in front of people. Her throat closes up.”
However, her ultimate rebellion has her doing both things: Freely singing what she wants and gathering a crowd in the square. She immediately gathers like minded people:
“Less about what I played, more about how it drew people. Everybody’s real upset this year, so many kids. They needed a place to be together, to raise their voices. Sometimes the hurt’s too bad to bear alone.”
So it wasn’t just her, playing her heart out in front of the Justice Building. A crowd had gathered. Sung the forbidden songs. “Did they say the charges?”
“Disrupting the peace or something. And you know, ‘No Peace, No Anything.’”
She became, for a moment, a voice for District Twelve, who sang along with her forbidden songs. Had this occurred during the 75th Games, when tension was already high, it may have spawned something greater. Instead, with the ever present threat of the peacekeepers and propaganda in the square, the people complied by dispersing without issue. There was no compelling call to rebel. It was, as Camus says, “Rebellion is, by nature, limited in scope. It is no more than an incoherent pronouncement.”. She struck a spark that did not catch. However, in doing so, she placed herself, literally by being on the reaping stage, on the same level as the Capitol’s propaganda. She demanded respect for the ideas present in her songs.
To return to Camus:
“The act of rebellion carries him far beyond the point he had reached by simply refusing. He exceeds the bounds that he fixed for his antagonist, and now demands to be treated as an equal. What was at first the man's obstinate resistance now becomes the whole man, who is identified with and summed up in this resistance. The part of himself that he wanted to be respected he proceeds to place above everything else and proclaims it preferable to everything, even to life itself. It becomes for him the supreme good.”
Lenore Dove’s emotions drive her rebellion, and, like Sejanus, she doesn’t think about the consequences until they occur:
“No, darling, that’s not how it went down at all. I overstepped, just like my uncles always warn me about. I lost my temper and started hollering and now you’re — oh, Haymitch . . . I don’t want to be on this earth without you.”
Both characters do not consider the consequences because they act according to the urgency of the situation. They recognize no one else is making a move to rebel, and they rebel without support, because to them, none exists. To them, it is better to rebel than to sit by and watch, even if the fall out is worse than staying silent.
Haymitch says it best:
“It’s not like she’s part of some big conspiracy, so, hopefully, they won’t use methods to force her to talk. Just view her as an emotional sixteen-year-old whose boyfriend got reaped.”
She is not part of some “big conspiracy” because she is not given the opportunity. To both, there exists none. There is not even a chance, nor the liberty of joining. Their acts, then, are often mischaracterized as immature. Rather, the existence of the acts themselves is enough of a threat for the Capitol to silence them. Sejanus’s intrusion into the arena is never shown, and Lenore Dove is arrested. Their acts are significant in themselves, as they exist as moments of rebellion. The existence of rebellion itself is dangerous, as Drusilla says:
“You can’t say that!” Drusilla protests. “You’ll spoil the brilliant work I did covering up the riot!”
“What riot? Woodbine ran and your people shot him.”
“I know a riot when I see it! Never mind. That’s forbidden. It won’t win you any points with the audience anyway. They’ll respond to a bad boy, not a rebel. You need to be naughty, not dangerous.”
Any instance of rebellion is dangerous for a tyrannical authority, monumental impact or not.
Bradburian Rebellion
Both Sejanus and Lenore Dove rebel in a very Bradburian way- impulsive, emotional, and immediate. In Fahrenheit 451, Guy Montag begins to read directly from banned books, one in the same as Lenore Dove’s banned songs. Both acts ultimately lead to stamped out embers of rebellion. Montag’s fruitless rebellion results in the death of an innocent man. Lenore Dove’s rebellion results in a fortification of the state. Through her, the peacekeepers send a message of free speech and free thought are not allowed, as they disturb the peace. Sejanus’s rebellion culminates similarly to Montag’s in that he ultimately trusts someone who betrays him:
“Millie?” He paused. “This is your house as well as mine. I feel it's only fair that I tell you something now. I should have told you before, but I wasn't even admitting it to myself. I have something I want you to see, something I've put away and hid during the past year, now and again, once in a while, I didn't know why, but I did it and I never told you.”
He took hold of a straight-backed chair and moved it slowly and steadily into the hall near the front door and climbed up on it and stood for a moment like a statue on a pedestal, his wife standing under him, waiting. Then he reached up and pulled back the grille of the air-conditioning system and reached far back inside to the right and moved still another sliding sheet of metal and took out a book. Without looking at it he dropped it to the floor. He put his hand back up and took out two books and moved his hand down and dropped the two books to the floor. He kept moving his hand and dropping books, small ones, fairly large ones, yellow, red, green ones. When he was done he looked down upon some twenty books lying at his wife's feet. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't really think. But now it looks as if we're in this together.”
Mildred backed away as if she were suddenly confronted by a pack of mice that had come up out of the floor. He could hear her breathing rapidly and her face was paled out and her eyes were fastened wide. She said his name over, twice, three times. Then moaning, she ran forward, seized a book and ran toward the kitchen incinerator.
Montag, Lenore Dove, and Sejanus Plinth are all impulsive rebels. Their emotions and personal constitutions compel them to act. In every case, they do not fight with a greater cause, because the rebellion is so subdued they perceive no other choice than to act alone. They see the urgency in their situation, and they act accordingly. Often, as we see in both 1984 and Fahrenheit 451, this type of impulsive rebellion does little in the grand scheme of things. It is fleeting and, in the case of Winston, completely quelled into naught. However, in the context of Plutarch Heavensbee’s continuum, every act of rebellion is important, even the fleeting one-off ones. To put it simply, it all adds up.
As Camus continues:
“Rebellion is, by nature, limited in scope. It is no more than an incoherent pronouncement. Revolution, on the contrary, originates in the realm of ideas. Specifically, it is the injection of ideas into historical experience, while rebellion is only the movement that leads from individual experience into the realm of ideas. While even the collective history of a movement of rebellion is always that of a fruitless struggle with facts, of an obscure protest which involves neither methods nor reasons, a revolution is an attempt to shape actions to ideas, to fit the world into a theoretic frame. That is why rebellion kills men while revolution destroys both men and principles.”
Yet, all three characters rebel due to hope for a better future, because hope is all they have:
“The slave and those whose present life is miserable and who can find no consolation in the heavens are assured that at least the future belongs to them. The future is the only kind of property that the masters willingly concede to the slaves.”
The purpose of the Games, according to Snow, is to give the districts hope, and they do. To Sejanus and Lenore Dove, they hope for a better future, and they both rebel under the idea that their acts may have no greater consequence than an “incoherent pronouncement”, and yet, they are compelled to act.
Because, finally, as Camus says:
“Better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees.”
I blame the cowards at Netflix for not allowing del Toro to fully develop the sick and twisted BDSM dynamic that existed between the scientist and his creation in Frankenstein 2025.
★ cockwarming simon whilst he’s watching a football match
“stay still, love.” his gravelly voice tickles the shell of your ear. “‘m watching ‘ere. can’t focus if y’r bouncing on my cock, can i?”
a hiccup leaves your lips, body too full to have room for anything other than his veiny cock. “sorry, si. just feels too -mm- good.”
you were supposed to behave today. he’d warned you long before the two of you ever got together: game day is sacred. simon has never missed one — he couldn’t, not when it’s the only real reprieve from the weight of his missions. and you were planning to listen. you swear!
intending to give him his space, you were just going to make some snacks, ready a pack of beer, and leave him to it. but then, you saw his spread legs, the way they looked so thick and sturdy in his sweats, and salivated. he’d pavloved you. it’s really his fault, now that you think about it. especially considering that he had chosen to forgo boxers, leaving the long length of his soft cock visible in his pant leg for you to ogle.
simon cocked a brow when you came crawling, eyes focused on one thing and one thing only. he patted your head as you rested it on his lap, lips grazing the tip of his dick through the material. “what’d i say, woman? hmm? told you not to be botherin’ me, didn’t I? needy little thing can't follow simple instructions, can ya?” he tuts.
“please, si? i won’t distract you, promise. you won’t even notice i’m here.”
he sighed, hand dragging down his face. “go on then. sit yer ass down. can't just stand there, blocking my view.”
of course, he won’t admit that he’d been waiting for your resolve to snap, that he’d been eyeing you from across the room all this time, and that the fact you lasted till half-time had him damn near ready to stalk across the room and pin you against the nearest wall, ramming the reminder that you’re his no matter what into you.
that’s how you ended up here, with the commentators’ discussion going through one ear and out the other, droning on in the background whilst filthy squelches are wrung out from where you’re connected. you’re leaning against his chest, holding tight to the sinewy arm he has draped over your hips. it pins you down, keeping you from grinding in tight circles like an iron bar.
“thirsty, love?” simon grips your jaw, turning your head towards him so you can see him pour beer into his mouth. he doesn’t swallow. you know that look in his blue eyes — without needing him to say the word, you open up. tangy, wheaty alcohol pools inside, dripping down from his lips onto your awaiting tongue, mixed with the distinct taste of him. calloused, he palms your throat, making sure you swallow every drop. “good girl. stay just like this, alright? ah, who knows, maybe you’ll be my lucky charm.”
giggling like you’re already drunk, whether from the beer or the delicious way his cock is stretching your gummy wall you can’t tell, you wonder, “si? what if i’m bad luck? what if your team loses?”
the deep rumble of his chuckle vibrates against your back.
“better hope that doesn’t happen, lovie.” the pads of his fingers seek out your pulsing clit, not rubbing but the mere threat sends your back arching and your pussy clamping down on him. you moan. “for every goal the other team scores, that’s an orgasm your poor cunt’ll be missing out on.”
Simon didn't do aftersex talks. Hookups stayed that way—In mornings, he stayed silent as they slipped away, finding their things, letting out hushed breaths, exchanging awkward words, and finally the click of the door that announced leaving.
Or sometimes when he could no longer wait for them to leave. He asked rather bluntly if he could drop them home or get them breakfast on their way home.
So it was surprising when he found himself kissing you in the morning dawn, twisting against the sheets, legs all tangled.His mouth endlessly hungry to get as much taste of you—nibling, biting, smiling into the sleep soft skin. Pressing you underneath him as his hips rolled and he fucked you again, the again of many agains.
It's even more surprising when he listened like a scared deer, as you murmured this and that on the small couch snuggled with him. Empty coffee cups and crumb smeared plate on the table. Because he was afraid going out meant losing you—that if he breathed too hard, looked at the door too long, you might remember to leave him.
“So I got it,” you snorted, nose pressed against his naked bicep—“Just to wash my back. God I love burning my money sometimes.”
Simon played with your hair, all messed unlike last nights lustre. He loved this. He loved the sound of your laughter, “I can't reach my back, because...well because.”
You chuckled at him. Ofcourse. Big man.
“I can do it for you.” you said then, “You know what, let's take a bath, I feel like I stink.”
“Ya' smell sexy darling.” Simon said. He wondered if this is what it should be all about.
“Shut up, do you have those all in one like most men?”
—
It turned out Simon actually didn't do things like most men. Like he was honest.
“They were on sale,” he said, a bit nervous to sit naked in the tub. His knees shot up at awkward angles, looking awkward—too big—and he didn't know why he let you see all the pieces. Bedroom naked was different than this. He felt your hands gliding across his shoulders and it made his heart quicken.
What must you see?
Was he ugly? Was he disgusting?
In this bright yellow light you could see him all, his threads, the fading red slashes, some already silver.
You said nothing about it. Later.
“Good deal honey,” you touched the knot at the back of his neck, “And aloevera...smells nice too!”
“I know the place, would get it for you...if ye’ like it.”
“Thanks.” you ran your fingertips there before the soap foamed loofah smeared white in bursting small bubbles. Back and forth as he talked, mostly replied, hesitant, rather fast. Then his shoulders relaxed and words eased into calm.
“L—” he started, “O—”
You grinned. Making V on his soaped back
“V...E.”
“What is it?” you asked, pouring water now and his skin glistened under it. Shoulder balls looking like rubbed orb.
“Love.” Simon said. Wasn't it?
Who would sit here in the water with him and wash his back and speak sweet nothings, if not love.
Do you think the houses of the veil in ninth house and the babel tower in babel kinda do similar things in their respective stories? added magic and metaphor of an already non-magical problem that the protagonist can battle in a satisfying arc because the real issues can’t really be dealt with
Not really, Leigh Bardugo seems more interested in corrupt institutions/systemic injustice as something that is intractable and basically impossible to meaningfully defeat— to the extent where that’s a point of frequent criticism of her work. She’s also said multiple times that she deliberately never actually kills off her most evil characters, as an explicit element of this. The houses in the veil specifically are also like actual secret societies that exist at Yale, she just fictionalized them by adding magic. But the magic isn’t necessarily a way to take them down either, certainly not on a systemic level. And the corruption very much extends to the magic itself! It’s not used as an easy out to fix everything wrong with fucking American imperialism lmao
Ninth House is very much about the characters trying to assimilate into a system that hates them, hoping that if they play their cards right, they’ll be safe. And basically discovering that nothing will sway these institutions to protect them. Magic provides plot, and it provides interest, but it’s not necessarily a silver bullet. So I don’t think it’s really used in the sense you’re suggesting? And, thus far, the series hasn’t really attempted to tackle large scale systemic change. The scope has been interpersonal
Babel meanwhile invents its magical element with the singular intention of giving its marginalized characters an edge. Creating infrastructure that depends nearly entirely on bilingual POC (which dovetails oddly with how it portrays and glorifies privilege) in ways that seem frankly unbelievable! So that when the characters realize that violent revolt without any nuance, concern for one’s own wellbeing, or even strategy, is the only way to be a good person, they have something they can actually leverage for direct and immediate results. The book hinges on a single department in one university bringing the entire British fucking empire to a grinding halt! It’s doesn’t really function as a metaphor either, rather than patently refusing to engage with the real world!
What is it about Darlington being animalistic that you find uninteresting? I hope this question makes sense
It is in part about what the story set up. He’s called a “Gentleman Demon,” there are implications that he’s turned into something cruel and arcane. He’s left puzzles for them, and advises on a supernatural murder with riddles, etc. The series itself is about like. the evils of institution and the false faces of legacy, and wealth, how predatory they are. Having him just be randomly bloodthirsty sometimes but otherwise nice and himself feels like a shying away from what’s already been set up, both thematically, and for his character. It’s a much more complex problem if he’s fully cognizant but warped beyond recognition. Especially if basically a demon has fully possessed and consumed him, and what exists of his personality is entirely vestigial (obligatory: or so the demon thinks and there’s grappling with that) The narrative set this up. Explicitly! I’m not making this up just because I thought it would be interesting!
Setting up a genuinely difficult and layered scenario and then doing something much simpler is inherently going to be boring to me. Additionally I think “man must subdue his Urges” is just incredibly stale territory. And on a personal taste level I just… don’t like it. It does nothing for me!
I have personal interest in explorations of calm and controlled cruelty, characters with skewed and specific moral frameworks presented unflinchingly. So stuff about characters fearing a loss of control and doing harmful things in that moment are boring to me! Especially when it feels like it’s a way to remove culpability and keep them from being too morally ambiguous— which imo is very much the case with Darlington
The thing about Darlington is at first glance he seems so much more tame and straight laced in comparison to Alex, and, like he is to an extent, but its all about the packaging. (And isn't that the thing between these two anyways from the very start?) I just always get reminded how many of his character traits aren't some dignified or morally superior dichotomy to Alex and her ruthlessness. The thing is, Darlington is just as ruthless and ambitious, he just didn't have to confront it until Hell. The desperate, starving, consumption motif is so clear from Alex's very first chapter but it's not til later that you realize Darlington is the exact same way, just about things other than the extreme level of survival Alex had to endure. Instead, Darlington was able to scrap by and keep the legacy going, serving something and keep the roof over his head. It makes it less obvious then that he is also a survivor and has that same drive.
You can especially see it in the way he tries to prep himself (the exercises, the learning, the training) for the long awaited "grand adventure," the way he treats his study of the arcane (I mean seriously, you cannot paint that boy as the lawful good archetype if he decided to devote himself into brewing a mythic possibly fake archaic drink that might MIGHT let him see the great beyond just because he had to believe there was more to this life, he had nothing left to lose, and he just had to find out and couldn't be satisfied with only some instead of all), and even more clearly, the dream vision he is granted in Hell. Dawes gets a dream of academic success, Turner professional success, Darlington has a dream where his house is never empty and there is always more people, knowledge, and he finally knows the secrets of every mystery in the world. He just hides all this better. He has the polish, the East Coast rich vs LA rich, and the austere Puritanical upbringing that makes him seem as Alex puts it, "expensive." But the reason these two work (and the reason I am insane about it) is because of this shared character trait of never being satisfied and always wanting more (what's really interesting is Alex seems to want more comfort and security and Darlington wants more risk and adventure and that's what drives the conflict). I'm drawn to the parallel someone on here once said about how Darlington is a sword and Alex is a cannonball. Same effect just different methods. Different packaging. Add in the questions of who is the rabid dog, who is the soldier, the servant, the monarch, Dante, Virigil, Beatrice, Orpheus, and Eurydice? I just love how these two characters seem SO diametrically opposed at first glance but are actually so alike in childhood, character, and ambition.
Do you think Alex will become Virgil next year in the third book? Would a new Dante be introduced, and if so, what would that mean?
Hello friend! Actually Alex is already referred to as Virgil which is honestly self contradictory. I’m not sure if Leigh Bardugo changed her mind or just forgot but she says in Ninth House that the Lethe delegate is referred to as Dante until their senior year when they become Virgil, move into that room, and pick a Dante.* Darlington explicitly tells the reader this in his narration regarding how he no longer got to choose his Dante. However, in Hell Bent, Alex’s narration describes how to the new delegates she is the only Virgil they know of and that Dawes flinches every time she’s called Virgil. Alex’s mixed feelings about this don’t seem to stem from someone else making a faux pas and calling her the wrong name but from the fact that she has taken over Darlington’s position and has a healthy dose of grief and regret and inadequacy about it. So it’s currently canonically unclear when and how someone becomes Virgil (personally I’m partial to the Ninth House way)
I don’t really think Alex would have a Dante in the books, at least not as they stand now. Definitely don’t think Walsh Whitney would allow Darlington and Alex and another player in the house when there’s already confusion over what to do with Alex as a half trained Dante and Darlington as a semi absent Virgil. Plus story wise I’m not sure that would be fruitful for tying up all the other complicated threads and character arcs that need to be solved. There is a world where we could metaphorically view Mercy as a Dante like figure and Alex as a Virgil, but this is complex and a post for another day.
*fascinated by this, the book’s explanation for why it’s only young people that can perform magic is the magical toll and cost on your body. We see characters grow out of it and miss it wistfully like Sandow or characters dread it softly like Darlington. And if we think about Dante and Virgil from Inferno, Virgil exists to act as Dante’s guide for a place he cannot go. Virgil isn’t even in hell proper, he’s with all the nonsinning (according to Dante) pagans on the outskirts who can neither enter hell or purgatory or heaven. And so the transition between being Dante who is welcomed and lead and granted access to that of an aging out Virgil who must lead and guide for what they no longer can access is just both intertextually fascinating and heartbreaking and I love it.
I know most of those following me know this, but just to make it super clear. An Gorta Mór (The Great Hunger/the Great Famine) was a deliberate genocide of the Irish people. There was enough food grown in Ireland to make sure everyone was alive and healthy and survived. Instead it was exported, sent to England and elsewhere for profit while men, women, and children starved in the streets. While the English landlords fucked off and evicted starving families who couldn’t afford rent. While babies were too weak to cry and died at the side of the road.
They tried to kill us, but they did not succeed. And we owe so much thanks to the other oppressed peoples, in particular the Choctaw Nation and the Masai, who sent money and grain to us.
Let me repeat that. The Choctaw Nation who had just gone through the Trail of Tears sent us money to try save Irish lives. It’s led to an understanding between Irish people and Native American tribes, most recently when we donated to the Navajo and Hopi fundraisers for COVID-19 relief, because while it may be a different tribe, Irish people will never forget those who helped us and we’ll help back.
The entire population of the island is less than seven million people. We’re still a million less on this island than pre famine. And it’s not that long ago. My grandmother’s grandparents lived through it. We’ve told the stories, it literally changed the DNA of the country. We have a national fear of renting, because so many people were evicted. People joke about Irish people always offering loads of food, but it’s because there’s that cultural memory of not being able to.
They tried to kill us, but they did not succeed. We will not let them take our lives, we will not let them take our language. We lost so much, but we will not lose it all.
This is why I get so angry when people say “it was the potato famine, it was because of monoculture/microbes.”
Nope. The potatoes were the only thing Irish people were allowed to fucking eat, because as pointed out, the rest of the crops they were growing were for their landlords to ship to England. So when the one “worthless” crop they were allowed to eat rotted in the field, the English crown, empire, landlords, all shrugged and carried on. People starved to death lying next to productive fields.
cw : reader is on the chubby side, toxic ex, low self esteem thoughts, hint of eating disorder, sexual theme
ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤcollection
the elastic of the frontal lamp was starting to itch around his ears. his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, his hand steady after years in the military. this was his most precious project, after all.
lovely flowers were adorning your hip as you lay there in simon's tattoo shop. he still remembered the first time you crossed the door; the entire shop thought you were lost. a sweet little lady like you had no business in this tattoo shop. but you explained that you saw a flower design you liked a lot, and it turned out the tattoo artist was the ghost that's why you were here. simon had remembered then that he had indeed designed "traditional" tattoos when he started, to try and gain a bit of visibility. but that was a couple of years ago. and yet, here you were.
of course, he had tried to explain that his style had changed, that he wasn't the right tattoo artist for this, that he mostly tattooed military men who were after 'harder' designs. but you were dead set on getting those flowers he drew, so he said yes. when you told him, all puppy eyes, that it was your first tattoo, his whole demeanor changed. he made it his primary project, without really understanding why. but you were just so lovely, all shy in your cute little dress.
the first session had been a mess. you were a bit shy. simon could tell you were not confident in your body, which was a shame, because if he was being honest, your curves had been driving him crazy the moment you set foot in his shop. you decided to have the flowers on your hip, meaning you were pretty undressed in front of what you considered to be one of the most handsome men you had ever seen in your life. you kept trying to hide your stomach, pulling your dress down. you moved a lot from the pain but also from the embarrassment. simon had to put an end to it, quick, because he hated the way you acted. he was not angry at you per se; he was angry at the fucker who had put those ideas in your head. he would have bet anything on the fact that your lack of confidence was the result of a man's words.
and he had been right. this tattoo was a way of reconnecting with your own body. after your breakup, your ex's words had taken a hard toll on you. you remembered all those times he said you needed to eat less, how you should join him at the gym, and how he was always a bit ashamed to tell people you were his girlfriend. but it was not as if you had gained weight while in the relationship; you had always been chubby, so he knew what he was getting into.
"count your calories", "this looks ridiculous on you, baby", "it's not because you bake as a job that you should taste everything you make, you know?" and he said all those things so casually that you believed him. you started starving yourself, which did more damage because you would eat a lot more afterward.
simon still remembered when he told you he was done, that this was going to be a multiple-session tattoo with how much you were fidgeting. the reaction had been immediate; big tears had filled your eyes, and apologies spilled out of your mouth in seconds. you were so ashamed, he hadn't even finished one flower. it had barely been 30 minutes. you were already ready to find another tattoo artist who would be willing to finish this because there was no way you were ever coming back here.
however, simon had other ideas in his mind. he couldn't help but imagine you with him. not just sexually, but in every other aspect of his life.
"taking you out tonight, lovie." he'd said, dismissing your apologies as he cleaned his hands. "so you can tell me why you're so dead set on hiding a body like that, aye?" there was no room for questions or refusals.
simon was a blunt but simple man, if he liked something, he took it. and he liked you.
still now, as you lay in the shop with simon's focused eyes on your tattoo, you still felt the same butterflies you felt those couple of weeks ago. the start of the night had been awkward, but after a couple of drinks and a bit of sweet talking, you told him everything. and it had felt good; you hadn't realized how much it had been eating at you from the inside.
thing is, simon riley wasn't good with words, so he did the next best thing he was really good at. he fucked you that night, praising you so much that you almost passed out. ever since that moment, simon had been in your life-reminding you to eat, always eager to try your pastries as long as you tried them with him, grabbing your hips every chance he got. he loved it, and deep down, he felt he was starting to love you.
after years in the military, he was happy to finally have something soft by his side, and god, if you weren't the softest thing he had ever had.
Telling Ghost/König you are too heavy for him to pick up or sit on his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first so you think he just accepted it even if your heart kinda twinged a little in pain because you know you are just not skinny enough-
Only for him to send you a video the next day: in the gym, looking mighty hot in a compression shirt and sweatpants just a touch low on his hips, and lifting a bar with ease. On a closer look? The weighs attached to the bar weigh far more than you do. And he so easily maneuvers and controls and manhandles it…
Between the heat curling in your stomach, face pink and thighs clenched shut, you almost miss the incoming text.
The knife in your hand isn’t for Simon, but the thought is tempting.
You stand at the kitchen counter, grip tightening around the handle as you glare at the absolute disaster he’s made. Flour coats the counter like a fresh dusting of snow, and a broken egg dribbles off the edge onto the floor. The sink is full of bowls, one of which contains what you can only assume was an attempt at pancake batter—though it looks more like concrete mix.
Simon, standing in the middle of the chaos, holds a spatula like it’s a foreign object. He stares at you, unbothered, as if he hasn’t just committed a war crime in your kitchen.
“I’m running out of reasons to not stab you,” you say.
He blinks slowly, like a cat. “Use me ribs, love. Less mess.”
You slam the knife down on the counter and point a finger at him instead. “What the hell is this?”
He shrugs. “Breakfast.”
“This is arson with extra steps.”
Simon tilts his head, gaze flicking to the stove, where a pan sits abandoned with something charred beyond recognition. He considers it for a long moment before turning back to you. “S’not that bad.”
You stare at him, then at the kitchen, then back at him. Your blood pressure rises. “What part of this is not that bad?”
Simon, the six-foot-something god of a man who has probably stared death in the face more times than you can count, has the audacity to smirk. “The effort.”
You exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Simon, I love you, but if you ever—”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
He says it so easily, with that gravelly voice and the hint of amusement curling the words, and you hate that it works. That it softens the sharp edges of your irritation, even as you glare at him.
He takes a step closer, crowding your space just enough that you feel the warmth of him. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Was tryin’ to do somethin’ nice.”
You cross your arms. “This was not nice. This was a health hazard.”
He leans down, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, then mutters against your skin, “Go sit down. I’ll clean it up.”
You hesitate, watching him with narrowed eyes, then sigh. “Fine. But if I find one speck of flour on the ceiling, I’m stabbing you.”
His chuckle follows you as you leave the kitchen, and you don’t have to turn around to know that whatever punishment you think you’ll deliver, he’d let you do it with a smile.
I may be a woman, but I am no better than a man... @imwinningatthebishit - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
