#also i set a limit about not making my wife is bad or i am bad punchlines

[cipheramnesia]

My favorite thing about you is your sense of humor. How does it feel to be the funniest person on this webbed site?

Eh, I've seen funnier people.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

Studious IV (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) 18+

You continue reading Aemond's diary. As his true feelings for you become ever more clear, can you decipher your own feelings for him?

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (second person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: Aemond in his smut writer era (semi-public sex, p in v sex, tiddy suckin', riding, fingering, oral sex f receiving, bad sex)

Author's Note: So sorry for the delay! But this baby is 11K words, so hopefully that makes up for it! Also, I tried for a long time to format this like the others, but tumblr wouldn't let me post it if I did, so the formatting is a little different here.

Read Part I Here - Read Part II Here - Read Part III Here

My Masterlist

Taglist will be done via reblogs (there are simply too many of you to fit here)

Studious IV

You were never setting foot in the library again.

Not after what you just read. Not when you were sure that the mere memory of it would have you bursting into flames the moment you crossed the threshold.

Good gods, only a few entries ago, Aemond could hardly bring himself to write the word ‘cunt,’ and now this? What in the Seven Hells were his advisors – Grand Maester Orwyle, Lord Jasper Wylde, and Prince Aegon – teaching him?

You weren’t sure whether the odd feeling in your stomach was due to how much you ate – an entire meat pie and five tea cakes, all washed down with a pot and a half of raspberry tea – or what you had just read.

Either way, it was not enough to stop you from glancing about your bedchamber to ensure no one was watching you and then rereading the entry from the beginning.

The 16th day in the 5th moon of the year.

I have just returned from the library. Grand Maester Orwyle suggested that I consult a book on anatomy. Since there was no business of court I was required to attend today, I asked one of the librarians to help me retrieve the title after I finished my training.

I also found a few books Aegon recommended, only after I dismissed the librarian – I did not want him to know that I took those. Or that I even knew what they were. Gossip abounds in the capital, and I do not wish to be the subject of more than I already am.

By the titles alone, I am surprised Mother allows them to remain in the Keep. I likely will not read most of them. Aegon has already traumatised me quite thoroughly. I see no reason to allow him to ruin reading for me, as well. Although one title, ‘A Caution for Young Girls,’ seems innocent enough.

But the books are not why I am writing now, when my usual routine is to write immediately before I retire to bed. I just… I need to commit this to paper before it leaves me entirely.

On my way out of the library, I saw her. My wife – if I die tomorrow or in a hundred years, I shall never tire of calling her that.

She has quickly found the more private areas of the library, it seems. I would never have seen her if I had not been considering going there to read myself.

It must mean something that she did not choose just any of the countless hidden places within the maze of the library, but my favourite – a secluded alcove along the western wall. An indicator of our compatibility, perhaps. Or even a sign from the gods?

Had the books I’d been carrying not been so… unsuitable, I would have asked to join her.

No, I wouldn’t have. That would require far more courage than I can summon when I see her.

I just stared at her, watching her face as she read. From where I stood, I could not see what she was reading. But I could see her, and that was enough.

She is so expressive! I saw her both smile and frown in quick succession, and once, her entire face scrunched in displeasure as if she had just taken a bite of lemon! Gods, how can even such an unpleasant expression be so beautiful?

Perhaps I should not have watched her at all, for the longer I stood there, the further my mind drifted. And then, I heard Aegon’s voice, as clearly as if he were standing beside me.

‘Don’t limit yourself to the bedchamber brother, or even the bed! A wall or a table serves just as well. And there is a certain thrill to knowing you could be discovered…’

Damn him. Why did I ever ask for his assistance? I would have been better off enlisting the help of an actual whore! At least then, the vulgarity would not come from the future King. Damn him to the deepest of the Seven Hells.

But that stupid advice echoed in my mind over and over. And against my will and better judgement, an image began to form. A dream – a waking dream.

Though my feet remained planted on the floor, I imagined setting aside my books and joining her in that alcove. She would look up and smile upon hearing my approach, perhaps even giggle at my attempt at stealth.

I would sit beside her and ask what she was reading. I might even ask her to read to me. But I would not let her read for long.

I would kiss her while she read. Not on her lips but all over her perfect face. Her cheeks, her forehead, on the tip of her nose. All just to distract her, to make her laugh. Only when she made so much noise that I feared discovery would I kiss her lips to quiet her and finally claim my prize.

The kiss would not be like in the Sept, or in her chambers that night. Instead, she would kiss me back and open herself to me. I would kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Until we were both out of breath but still wanting more.

Seeing her like that, with her lips swollen and cheeks flushed… I would not be able to wait until we returned to our chambers. I would lift her onto that very table, books be damned.

Like our wedding night, we would not undress. We would be in too much of a hurry.

But even hurried, I would be gentle. I would take the time to prepare her, as Lord Wylde said I must do every time. Doing so makes the experience more pleasurable for the woman, he says. And Orwyle added that her enjoyment makes it more likely that the coupling will be fruitful.

Gods, I hardly care about that anymore. Of course, I want an heir, or several. But I want her more. I want her to feel as much pleasure as I do. To ‘peak,’ as Wylde and Orwyle put it. Aegon uses other words, but I find them too vulgar.

And in the library, making an heir would be the last thing on my mind. Even finding my own pleasure would be secondary. I would use my fingers to prepare her – perhaps get her to peak once before I even enter her?

Aegon says women can find release much more than men can. According to him, he once made a woman peak ten times in one night. I would be more amenable to believing him if he didn’t also claim he did so five times. But maybe he is right about ‘practising’ increasing stamina. Though he has had years of practice, and I have had only two days…

But in the dream world where I have the courage to approach her at all, and the gall to bed her in the library of all places (can you call it ‘bedding’ if it is not done in an actual bed?), I also have that stamina. And the skill to indeed make her peak with just my fingers.

I do not know what sounds she would make, as she was entirely silent on our wedding night, but I would want her to make them. I would want her to make such noise that I would have no choice but to kiss her to quiet her and keep her from drawing the attention of the rest of the library.

Even when I was buried within her, I would kiss her. With one arm wrapped around her hips to hold her steady as I fucked her so hard the table would shake, and the other hand tangled in her hair so I could kiss her just as hard.

I want to kiss her so badly. When I finally go to her again, that is what I will do first.

Once we had both finished – for I would ensure she peaked again with me inside her – I would kiss her more, softly, until our breathing steadied. Then, we would simply take our seats again, and this time, I would read to her.

By all the Seven, what has become of me? To not only have such thoughts but to revel in them as I do?

You didn’t bother reading the rest of the entry again before clutching the diary to your chest and staring at the bed canopy above you as a thousand questions burned through your mind and set your heart racing.

Had he been thinking about that the day he came to you in the library?

Was it what he intended to do, had you not reacted so poorly to his words?

Were you really wishing that he had?

You turned on your side, cradling his diary as you once did a small stuffed pony, and noticed for the first time that night had fallen – you had spent nearly the entire day reading. For a moment, you considered running to Aemond’s chambers. But when you looked back at the journal, there were still more than a dozen ribbons shut in its pages.

And if you went to him just after reading what you did…

Whatever was becoming of Aemond, no doubt thanks to the men he had asked for help in better bedding you, by reading his diary and the most private thoughts and fantasies contained within, it was becoming of you too. For when your eyes drifted closed, Aemond’s dream of the library became your dream as well.

-

The next several days of entries were almost identical.

Aemond woke at dawn after a night of dreams filled with you. They were not always of a carnal nature. Sometimes he dreamed simply of holding or kissing you. Once, he dreamed about flying with you atop his dragon. You didn’t know whether the prospect was thrilling or terrifying. Perhaps both.

Each day, he broke his fast, trained, then ate a small meal before joining court.

Before joining you.

When he wrote in the diary after dinner and several hours of studying and ‘practising’ (you still could not determine what that meant), he still remembered every little thing you did. You had never spoken at court – it was not your place to. But he had catalogued your every movement and reaction to the business of the realm. Every raise of your brows, every repressed smile, and every curious tilt of your head.

You thought you were quite proficient at maintaining a regal mask of indifference. Your mother had you practice it on the journey to King’s Landing while she commanded your brothers to shout at you the most outrageous things they could think of (much of which she promptly scolded them for when they were done).

But Aemond saw through the mask. Not only that, but he correctly interpreted every movement you made.

He knew that the twitch of your lip when Lord Bolton made a petition was a sign of your marked distaste for the man. He knew the scrunch of your brow upon the reading of a missive from a Pentosi diplomat was you noticing a contradiction from the previous message and realising the diplomat was lying. And he knew that you stiffened every time he looked at you because you were nervous about what he would say or do.

Aemond knew you. Even then.

And yet you had so dreadfully misunderstood him.

The shame of it was enough to make you set down the diary and call for a bath – a private bath, without any of your maids present even in the adjourning rooms. You gave an excuse that you were exhausted and simply wished to remain alone.

But really?

As part of his study of the anatomy book Orwyle recommended, Aemond had drawn a diagram of what lay between a woman’s legs. And annotated it based on the advice of Lord Wylde and Prince Aegon.

You were curious to see – with the aid of a hand mirror – just how accurate the diagram and annotations were.

-

You awoke the following morning feeling more refreshed than you had since you came to the palace, from both the welcome break in your courtly duties and the exploration you had conducted in the privacy of your bath. Though you were fairly sure you did not reach a ‘peak,’ as Aemond described it, you felt close to the height of something several times. But each time, you panicked at the intensity of the racing feelings within you and withdrew your hand. Still, those few minutes of pleasure were incredibly relaxing.

And as it was Aemond’s notes that allowed you to discover the feeling that your own clumsy attempts had failed to bring, the prospect that you would – eventually – once more join him in his bed became thrilling beyond reason.

In truth, the only thing that stopped you from rushing across the castle the very moment you emerged from the bath was the unfortunate fact that you were still bleeding, though it was light.

More than that, while your body was more than ready to forgive Aemond, your heart and mind were still hesitant. He had hurt you. He made you cry. Reading his diary helped you understand that it had never been intentional. However, you still needed to understand everything before making a final decision on whether to forgive him and if you could, as Aemond hoped in his note, ‘learn to like’ or even to love him.

So, after breaking your fast, you again settled into the couch and turned to the next green ribbon.

The 23rd day in the 5th moon of the year

Were Aegon not my brother and the heir, I would throw him from the top of the Rookery.

‘A Caution for Young Girls’ is no such thing. It is little more than a manual in promiscuity and sin!

But… damn him. It is quite educational.

Unlike the book Grand Maester Orwyle suggested, it is not focused on the science of anatomy or conception. Rather, it is entirely concerned with the pleasure of women. After all, it is the supposedly true story of a woman’s quest for pleasure.

A Wylde woman, if it is to be believed. I may have to ask Lord Jasper about it. Is this why he’s had such success with his own wives?

But that, and indeed the sinful nature of the book itself, is unimportant. What is important is that it may actually be the key to my learning how to pleasure my wife.

It spoke at length of various methods of using one’s fingers. Crooking the fingers while within seems to be crucial, as is locating a ‘sweet spot’ where her walls feel slightly different. That spot, as well as the ‘pearl’ which lays at the top of her sex, is the epicentre of her pleasure.

And, like the others said, preparation is required. This is where the use of the fingers comes into it – as well as various other methods. For example, the book mentions kissing quite often, and not only on the lips. Or the cheeks. Or even anywhere on the face.

I admit the idea, though it is new to me, is quite appealing. The book mentioned several places where women most like to be kissed. The jaw, the throat, behind the ear, the nape of the neck, the collarbone…

There was a spot of ink, as though Aemond’s pen had been resting on the page without moving for a long moment.

…the breasts, and lower.

I do not understand why. Perhaps it is because of Aegon’s incessant comments about the breasts of every woman in the Keep, save our mother and his wife – would that he would also exclude my wife! – but I find myself thinking about her breasts with startling frequency. I did not get to see them on our wedding night after I foolishly forgot to undress her.

There is a story in the book which… well, I find myself wanting to replicate. One which would provide me ample access to her breasts. But more than that, it carries an intimacy which I crave most of all.

When Lady Coryanne was serving as a handmaid to a warlock in Qarth, she often found herself called to help him ‘relax’ after a long day. On such occasions, she would mount him while he sat at his desk and ‘ride’ him while he buried his face in her breasts.

I… it was easy to imagine my wife and me in a similar, though more loving, position. Likely not at my desk, as I don’t actually use it often. But perhaps, here. On my chair by the hearth, where I read my books and write in this diary before bed.

She would come back – for she would be living here, with me, not across the Holdfast and so far away – after a long day. Maybe she would have been in the gardens, or with Mother, Helaena and the children, or in the library for hours. I would have been stuck away from her all day in meetings, court, or training.

Even apart from her for only a day, I would miss her terribly. As I do every hour I do not see her. And she would miss me too.

When she came in, she would press herself against the door as she locked it, then turn to me with a mischievous grin. I would know what she wanted, but I would not play along. Instead, I’d mutter a greeting and turn back to my book, pretending that my blood was not racing at just the sight of her. For I want her blood to be as heated as mine.

You read the last paragraph again, the realisation finally set in that Aemond was about to narrate another of his fantasies. Fortunately, after his previous entry about the library, you decided to be more cautious and had already dismissed your servants until your afternoon meal. You had suspected that there may be more in the diary that was thoroughly unsuitable for prying eyes.

And, thanks to his diligent notetaking, you knew precisely what to do when the feelings such unsuitable words provoked began to burn through you.

You undoubtedly did not want an audience for that…

I would let her tease me, pretending none of it fazed me. When she brushed her fingers lightly across my shoulders, I would not flinch. When she leaned over me further than she would really need to see what I was reading, but wanting me to see that peek of her breasts nearly spilling out from her dress, I would barely look. And when she pressed a kiss, long and slow, to my neck – gods, would I like that too? – I might even pretend it was an inconvenience.

It would vex her that I did not give her the attention she desperately wanted. Not enough to truly anger her, but only enough to make her pout. So that when she took the book from my hands and dropped it to the floor, then sat atop me in the chair with her thighs straddling mine… I would simply have no choice but to grab her little lip as she stuck it out and push it back into place before kissing her.

I would kiss her in every place the book instructs, taking my time to worship every bit of her. I want to drive her as mad as she does me just by her mere existence.

But I know she would not simply let me tease her. She would return each kiss I gave her and more. Atop me, she would roll her hips slowly, purposefully, as if we were engaged in a dance. I would be able to feel her, hot and wet and as eager as me, but each time I rose to meet her, she would pull away.

Gods, am I really wishing for her to deny me? Perhaps practising as Aegon instructed has conditioned me to crave such delays to my satisfaction.

Either way, I think I would break before she did. She is strong-willed, and with as many brothers as she has, I believe she can be quite patient. So, I would beg. I would apologise for trying to tease her and plead for her forgiveness. And for her to…

She would, I hope, without hesitation. She would rise only long enough for her to remove her smallclothes and for me to do away with my trousers. Then, we would both sit again, together, with me gently guiding her down to mount me – Seven Hells, that makes it sound like I’m a horse.

I’ll be whatever she wants.

Again, and as always, I would give her a moment to adjust and make sure she is comfortable. Orwyle’s book said that with well-endowed partners – which, according to the measurements in the book, I am – women may always need that moment.

But I would be glad to give it to her. For it would allow me to unlace her bodice, and like the warlock from the book, I could bury my face in my beloved’s breasts.

I find it hard to imagine what it would be like, how they would feel. Soft, I think. Warm, as she is. And perhaps, if I pressed close enough, I could hear her heart beating.

When I was fully settled within her, would I hear it beat faster? Or would it slow with contentment, knowing she was safe and loved – oh so dearly loved – within my arms. Perhaps it would be like the stories, and I would hear it skip a beat.

Either way, I would be more than content to just sit there, breathe her in, and let her move at her own pace. We would not need to be fast, as we would in the library. In my own rooms – our rooms – there would be no need for hurry. We could just stay there, entwined, or we could move together.

I think I would prefer it slowly. Not even seeking our releases, really. Just… enjoying each other. Enjoying the connection of our bodies, our minds, and our souls. Knowing that we are one, that the gods have made us one, and that nothing can tear us apart.

Although… I do think her legs would get tired after a while. That is something I should perhaps be worried about. Especially if she did want to move, and fast. To seek release.

If she did, I would help her. The book did not detail how, as Lady Coryanne was a servant at the time, but… I could figure it out. I could move my hips up to meet hers, or even lift her on my own? I think doing so with my hands on her hips would give me the most leverage. Or perhaps her rear?

I am very drawn to the idea of holding her close as we reach our peaks. Of feeling her breath on my skin, being close enough to hear each little noise she makes, and the sensation of her gripping me as tight as she can as she comes. Even the thought of her nails digging into me brings a certain thrill. And if I don’t reach my peak with her – which, I think, is very unlikely – we can always continue. Or move somewhere more comfortable if her legs do get tired.

At this point, I think I am more than ready to practice. Of course, this wasn’t my intention when I started writing, but… yes, I am most definitely ready. And anything else I wanted to write about seems inconsequential now.

You dropped the diary onto your heaving chest, the image Aemond’s words had painted still burning in your mind. Seven Hells, you could practically feel his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you to his chest as you moved together, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered words of praise between desperate kisses.

With a hazy smile, you snuggled further into the couch and beneath your blanket. As exhilarating as the descriptions of his desires were, what truly warmed your heart was the way he wrote about you, the two of you together.

The connection of your souls as one? It was exactly what you’d dreamed of when first told of your betrothal. Aemond was what you dreamed of.

Why did he have to stop writing? What in the name of the Seven was he practising that was more important than that?

Frustrated and with your pleasure now truly over, you closed the diary and turned on your side, resigned to simply stewing in your own thoughts for the few hours left until your maids returned.

-

After a light, solitary afternoon meal, you again dismissed your maids. By this point, they were more than a little suspicious about the titleless book you were reading. But, you insisted that you simply wanted to be alone, for your moon’s blood still plagued you. It wasn’t entirely a lie. You did still have some cramping and a slight headache.

In truth, it was because you knew what would happen in just a few entries – your second night together.

It surely wouldn’t be as thrilling as some of his other fantasies. You knew that firsthand. But after learning what Aemond felt for you, you were desperate to know his side of that night.

So desperate, in fact, that you barely skimmed the following two entries in your haste to reach it. Both primarily had to do with whatever smut he had read in A Caution for Young Girls. The first was a rather exhaustive list of all the ways he wanted to kiss you – and there were far more ways than you were previously aware of.

The second caused your most intense blushing yet, for it was near treasonous! After reading another story of Coryanne Wylde ‘riding’ a man, he fantasised about you riding him while he sat on the Iron Throne. It was an intriguing idea, but it seemed a little too hazardous to tempt you.

Finally, you reached what you had been waiting for.

The 26th day in the 5th moon of the year.

I had hoped not to make an entry today – for I had every intention of spending tonight in my wife’s chambers. But she is there, and tragically, I am here.

Tonight was almost worse than our wedding night.

When I saw her watching me in the training yard today, I thought… she was almost smiling – at me! She had no obligation to be there, and yet she was! She sought me out! She wanted to see me!

I had to bite back a cry of joy and relief. I immediately abandoned the rest of my training, nearly impaling the poor squire with my sword for how hard I threw it at him, so I could rush to the ramparts and greet her.

But when I got there, she was gone. I asked a few of the other lords and ladies that were there, but no one knew where she went. Even after speaking to her, however briefly, I still do not understand why she left.

You felt your cheeks flush with shame. Aemond hadn’t grimaced at you that day – quite the opposite. He had been so excited to see you there, and as usual, you had misinterpreted his reaction.

Or, based on how frequently these misunderstandings occurred, perhaps his expressions were merely indecipherable to normal people. Or, more likely, maybe just to you.

You set his diary down, careful to use one of your discarded ribbons to mark your place, and picked up your own. By this point, you had filled several pages with your reactions to Aemond’s writing – some of it sincere, some bordering on humour.

Yet you had no words to express how sorry you were that you had so thoroughly misjudged him. So you wrote nothing and just kept reading.

When I went to her chambers to check on her, I encountered one of her maids, who told me she had retired early with a headache and would not be joining the family for dinner.

Perhaps I should have gone into her chambers then and asked what was wrong. I knew – or at least suspected – that the headache was a lie. An excuse to allow her privacy. I often do the same, citing my scar. Which, as I told her, is not always a lie.

But if I had gone to her, as I wished. I would not have known what to say. Ask her why she ran from the training yard without speaking to me? Or why she wanted to avoid me and the family? Tell her I’m sorry for the disappointment of our wedding night? Ask Beg for a second chance?

I could not do it. I was tired from training and admittedly still somewhat discombobulated from realising she had been watching me. Though I did make it to her door, I merely touched the handle for a moment before retiring to my own chambers.

Now, after yet another disastrous visit… I should have gone to her earlier. I should have trusted my instincts (as Aegon often encourages me to do) instead of allowing my mind to think itself into an inescapable hole.

As I bathed and redressed, and even while attending court and dinner, I could not stop thinking about her. Agonising over what I may have done to make her flee from me?

I never even considered that she may actually have a headache until I was again at her door after dinner. The fear that I was disturbing her, perhaps making her pain worse, was nearly enough to make me turn and flee.

But then, her voice came, soft and light and so enticing. Of course, I somehow managed to answer idiotically when she asked who it was. Though she lessened the sting of embarrassment with a small joke. She is so achingly clever!

I asked her how she was, and her answer made it evident that the headache was a ruse. I am trying not to be too proud that my deduction was correct. She is not used to lying, nor is she good at it. And it is yet another thing I admire about her.

For hours, I planned what I would say to her. It was eloquent and thoughtful – practically poetry.   

The tail of the last ‘y’ extended nearly an inch, and you imagined Aemond just staring at the page, consumed by his thoughts for a moment.

But her room looked different tonight. She finally unpacked.

There is a large tapestry above her hearth depicting her home keep, the field below filled with vibrant pink flowers with bright yellow centres. The same flowers appear nearly everywhere. On framed examples of embroidery, on her curtains, pillows, and even the blanket strewn over the back of her couch.

I must find out what they are, for they are clearly very important to her.

You looked up from the diary, glancing about your room. Indeed, you had not realised how many dog roses decorated your possessions. It was no wonder he guessed they were your favourite.

‘I was quite impressed when you brought me my favourite flower,’ you wrote in your diary. ‘I thought you had somehow read my thoughts. I suppose I made it easy for you.’

She also has a large bookcase in her sitting room, which was specifically requested when her father sent word accepting the betrothal. Since the last time I was in her chambers, she has begun to fill the shelves with books and trinkets. I spotted a small silver bell, a wooden box carved with various birds, and a little glass flower. It was not the same flower that is so prevalent elsewhere in her chambers (this one was a pale purple rather than pink), but still quite pretty.

While pondering that flower, I returned to the couch to compare it to the pink flower on her blanket and saw what she had been reading – “The Last Dragonlords,” my first, and still favourite, history of my house. It is not a particularly rigorous academic work, but I prefer it for the sense of wonder it has for the story of my ancestors.

If, at that point, I remembered any of what I wanted to say to her, the sight of that book, and the knowledge that she was somehow reading my favourite… I lost all words. I fear I fell silent for an uncomfortably long time, for she spoke next.

She wanted to know the reason for my visit. I asked her directly about the ruse of her headache. She seemed nervous, so I told her I do the same and that I often experience lingering pain. I was tempted to remove my patch and show her, but… she was already quite nervous. I did not want to make her more so, or frighten her so thoroughly that she will never warm to me.

What lay beneath his eyepatch that would frighten you so? You had heard many rumours. That his lost eye was nothing more than a pit of darkness. That he had replaced it with a jewel. That an ever-burning fire, fueled by his hatred and rage, burned within.

Despite the stories, you felt a twinge of shame and hurt that, despite his love for you, he did not trust you with seeing him truly bare. He thought you could be frightened away.

Somehow, that shame far overshadowed any curiosity or fear about what lay beneath the brown leather of his eyepatch.

I could already tell it wasn’t going to go how I wanted – she would not meet my eye. So, I offered to leave. I would not impose myself on her when she did not want me to. That is not how I want to start this. Or, start it again.

But she did want me to go! At least, that is what I thought she meant. I am not so sure anymore. She said something about my right to be there as her husband. At the time, I thought it was her shy way of asking me to stay. Now… I think she may have just been repeating something her mother or a Septa taught her.

There was another small patch of angry scribbles.

I’m so stupid! And hardly better than Aegon. No – she may not have been particularly enthusiastic, but I am sure if she genuinely did not want me there, she would have said so. And I would have obeyed. After all, she was quick to ask me to stop some of the other things I tried to do.

She did not like the kissing.

When I first mentioned that I would like to lie with her – which I foolishly reasoned was out of my desire for an heir instead of my desire for her – she simply laid on the bed like on our wedding night. But that is not what I want. I do not want this to simply be a union of duty! At least, not anymore. And I so wanted to kiss her.

So, I beckoned her to me, and she obeyed. My hopes that this would be different were still relatively high. I got closer, touched her face, and asked if I could kiss her.

And she asked, ‘Why?’

I swear that one little word hurt more than any pain I’ve felt in the training yard. Almost more than… well, not quite more than that. But close.

I could not think of any reason other than that she is my wife, and I love her and want more than anything to kiss her. I only told her the former and the latter, for I think if I told her I loved her, she would have been more afraid than if she had seen me without my patch. And the gods must be good, for she said yes.

Then I kissed her. I held her close, and I kissed her.

It was the most wonderful thing! She was soft and warm. And when I laced my hand through her hair, she made the most delightful sound! I could have just kissed her forever.

But then it was over. She shouted and pushed me away. It was… it was just after I tried to use my tongue. I don’t think she liked it.

She asked me why I ‘needed’ to kiss her. She must have disliked it very much.

I had no other explanation than what I had already offered. At least, none that I could tell her without sending her running from me forever. So I stopped and told her I did not need it – the first lie I’ve ever told her.

When she moved back to the bed, I could not help myself. I could not let us be in a marriage where we lie together out of nothing more than duty, fully clothed and anxious to get it over with. It was foolish, and I probably scared her with the request, but I asked her to remove her nightgown. She had already taken off her robe – a massive thing in her house colours that practically drowns her.

You allowed a brief kernel of anger to spark within you, enough for you to pick up your pen and write him another little message in your diary.

‘That robe is dear to me, thank you very much. What is it that makes you hate it so?’

There is nothing more beautiful in the world than her. She puts even the Maiden to shame. I would have been happy to stare at her, to take in that beauty until I had my fill – if I would ever get my fill.

She got on the bed and positioned herself exactly how she was on our wedding night. Not quite how I pictured it, but considering her hesitancy, I did not want to push her.

It took all my control to stop myself from kissing her again when I undressed and joined her. But I did. I also resisted doing anything more than just looking at her breasts.

I sat between her legs and stared at her. While I was more than ready to begin, she was not. At all. Of course, I knew I would have to prepare her, but I hoped she would have had at least some desire for me already.

I started with gentle touches, drawing circles on her thighs. She shivered a bit when I began, but she didn’t ask me to stop. From where I was sitting, I could tell she enjoyed it, even if she didn’t understand it. She did ask me to explain, and my answer was probably lacking – how does one explain why he was so inadequate? – but she gave a small nod when I promised that tonight would be better.

Then I finally touched her where I really wanted to and was delighted to find her… well, not as wet as I’d hoped, but it was an improvement upon our wedding night! I ran my fingers over her entrance, hoping to coax more wetness from her before I truly began. And when I looked at her again to ensure I wasn’t hurting her, she smiled at me!

Encouraged, I kept my fingers at her entrance, not venturing inside yet, but continuing my preparations there while I began to seek her pearl. As the books said, I only had to draw a straight line upward from her entrance to find it.

And, oh, when I found it! Her eyes snapped shut, her back arched off the bed, and the most glorious whine escaped her! It was everything I had imagined and more. Gods, I think I could have peaked just from watching her as I circled her pearl again and again, faster and faster.

But then, she asked me to stop – begged me to.

I thought I must have done something wrong, but she shook her head when I asked if it hurt. And when I asked if it felt good, she would not answer. She merely requested that I get on with what I needed to do and leave, for she was tired. This wound cut even deeper than before with the kissing.

I wanted to prepare her more – I was going to use my mouth on her. To show her how dearly I wish to please her, how much I want to worship and love her, if only she’d let me.

In anticipation of that act, I have been consulting Coryanne Wylde’s various accounts and expert critiques of the act in order to form the perfect strategy.

To begin, I would undress her, as I planned to do on our wedding night, laying gentle, nearly chaste kisses on each new bit of skin I revealed. Once she was bare, I would kiss her. Deeply. To give her a taste of what is to come. Then, I would kiss my way down. Her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, her breasts, and the plane of her stomach.

Once I made it past her navel, I would take her leg in my hand and begin a new trail of kisses upwards. The book says to start at the ankle, but I am too impatient for that – I will begin at the knee instead.

Just when she thought I was finally about to give her what she craved more than anything, I would once again change course to kiss her lips one final time. Then, I would descend.

I would start slowly, experimenting with different tactics to determine what drives her deliciously mad. Once I knew, I would feast. I would devour her like her pleasure was the air I needed to breathe. Like her cries of pleasure were beautiful music, and I would die if it ever stopped.

I would bring her to peak once with my mouth on her entrance. Again on her pearl. Then again and again in whichever way made her scream the loudest.

Only when she was so drunk with pleasure that she could no longer rise to meet my mouth or grasp at my hair would I relent. I would make my way back up to her mouth and soothe her with gentle kisses until she had regained herself and was begging for me to finally fuck her.

But I didn’t get to do any of that.

She asked me to stop, so I did. I pumped myself a little to ensure the disappointment hadn’t rendered me incapable of performing my duty and entered her.

The preparation did help. Entering her was easier, and she did not wince as much as the first time. And she felt even more heavenly somehow. The feeling was so intense that I had to take a moment to remind myself that she only wanted me to finish quickly so she would not have to endure me any longer.

So, I fucked her. I did not make love to her, as is my true desire. I just fucked her, like she was just any woman and not the love of my life.

And then, a miracle! I thrust into her, something about the angle allowing me in quite deep, and she reacted. She gasped, breathless, and her hips snapped up to meet mine. I froze in surprise and elation. I found her ‘sweet spot!’

But when I smiled at her, she turned away and refused to look at me again.

I just kept going. I did not try to hit that spot again, so as to not upset her further. I finished as quickly as I could and left the bed.

It was stupid of me, but I turned back to her after dressing. Everything had gone so horribly, but I still love her. I still need her. So I could not just leave her like that.

I asked if I could kiss her again. She let me. I was quick, as promised.

Then I came back here, once again alone and no closer to earning her love than I was before.

I must meet with my advisors again tomorrow. Perhaps they can help me understand why I keep fucking this up so badly when all I want is for her to let me love her the way I want to and for her to love me in return.

Your heart ached so severely that you thought there might be bruises when you looked down at your chest. But there was just skin – skin that Aemond would have happily kissed, had you let him.

As horrible and confusing as that night had been for you, it had been so tenfold for Aemond. He had wanted a grand, romantic evening, and you had greeted him with only coldness and suspicion.

He called you ‘the love of his life.’ You ran your finger over those words so many times that they became smudged, then went to write something in your diary but halted with your pen hovering over the paper.

What could you write to match what he’d said about you? Even if you could, would it really be true? How many times could you say, ‘I’m sorry?’

Well, at least one more time. ‘I’m so sorry, Aemond,’ you wrote, ‘I didn’t know, and I was still scared. Not of you, but of what I thought my life was to be. If you had only told me… I do not blame you, I swear. I just wish the both of us had been more honest with each other.’

You were far too exhausted to continue. It was not yet midafternoon, and you had already been from the near-heights of carnal pleasure to the depths of your despair that the unfortunate state of your marriage was, in actuality, mostly your fault.

So, after setting Aemond’s diary aside, you picked up your embroidery basket and began to work while your mind wandered.

It was only when your maids arrived to bring you dinner that you realised that, somehow, the dog roses you intended to make had become a sprawling wisteria vine.

-

You dreamed of the castle garden in late spring when all the flowers were in bloom. As you walked down the garden path, you saw every colour imaginable amongst the vibrant greens. But there was only one flower you really wanted to see – and the man you knew would be waiting for you beneath them.

Just as the first purple tendrils came into view, the dream faded, and you woke to see the first hints of dawn still beneath the horizon.

Drawing your blankets over your head, you squeezed your eyes shut and stubbornly tried to fall back asleep and return to your dream – to no avail. You were well and truly awake. And it would be some time before your maids came to dress you for the day.

So, dragging the blanket from your bed with you, you trudged back into your solar and settled into the couch before picking up Aemond’s diary again.

The 27th day in the 5th moon of the year

I met with Lord Wylde, Grand Maester Orwyle, and Aegon this morning. They had advice, but it was not as… straightforward as I had hoped. There is no simple trick to get her to love me. Nothing I can study from a book and then implement with assured success.

I have to woo her. I have to be witty and pleasant and charming and… romantic.

I do not think this is going to work.

Especially not after my first attempt was so disastrous.

Lord Wylde asked that I tell him about her, so I did. When he learned she enjoys reading as much as I do, he suggested I try to find common ground there. So, I went to try and find her in the library.

She was exactly where she was the last time I saw her there, still reading “The Last Dragonlords.” I watched her for a moment, savouring the look of contentment on her face as she read, as well as a few quick reactions to the book. How I love it when her nose scrunches in displeasure!

‘That is quite the odd thing to fixate on,’ you wrote in your diary. It seemed a decent night’s sleep had helped recover some of your humour. ‘What is it, in particular, that you like about my scrunched nose?’

She did smile at me when I approached, but I think she thought I was a Maester, for her smile faltered when I greeted her. And she was so shy. Usually, when I struggle to find the right words, she breaks the silence. Today, she did not.

At least it gave me time to remember why I came to the library. She was still reading “The Last Dragonlords,” so I told her it was my favourite and asked if I could join her. I think she was somewhat embarrassed about reading a children’s book, but I assured her it was no matter and that I would nonetheless enjoy reading it with her, and she allowed me to sit with her.

My plan was to sit with her, discuss the histories, and perhaps, in time, hold her hand as a first step toward genuine affection. But the plan quickly went awry.

It all happened so fast that I don’t even remember exactly what I said. But somehow, I insinuated that she was not intelligent enough to understand the book. The book meant for children – young children.

She was very upset with me. Rightfully so! Still upset enough that she stormed out of the library after making several cutting remarks that proved that she is, in fact, quite intelligent.

After several minutes and a brief reprimand from one of the Maesters, I finally gathered myself enough to realise that she had left the book there. As well as several pages of notes.

Of course, the noble thing would have been to not look and ask a servant to return them to her. But in that moment, I was desperate, not noble. So, I looked.

Her notes were beautifully organised and remarkably thorough – the work of a true scholar! She even crafted a beautiful family tree all the way through Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. Had I not fumbled our initial interaction so entirely, we would have had a wonderful discussion.

You had feared him finding the notes, but you had never considered that he would be impressed rather than arrogantly amused. It made sense now that you knew his true nature. Perhaps, once whatever was between you was resolved, you could have that discussion.

In all honesty, there were a few questions you had that you hoped he would be able to answer. Not least of which being why in more than a thousand years, Targaryens had only come up with a dozen names that they repeated over and over again. You wrote as much in your diary.

It was useless for me to sulk in the library, agonising over what I should have said, so I gathered the book and her notes and left the library.

An apology was more than necessary, so I went to Aegon’s rooms. After all, there is perhaps no one with more experience apologising to women. Even if his apologies are self-serving.

When I arrived, I found Mother had already found Aegon first, and was well into another tirade about his behaviour. Normally, I would be happy to watch Mother yelling at him, but I did not feel I had time to. And Aegon was glad that I granted him a reprieve.

Admittedly, I had not wanted to admit to Mother that my wife and I were… not as close as I wanted. But, as she always is, she was eminently understanding, and far more helpful than Aegon was. His only suggestion was to bring her something nice – jewels, silks, or the like.

On the other hand, Mother gave me sage advice on what to say when I go to her. As my words have been my primary point of failure, I was very grateful for this. She did also say that a gift would not be amiss. An ‘offering of peace,’ she called it. But she advised something personal, not luxurious. If the gift is too valuable, she says, it will seem as if I am trying to buy her forgiveness rather than earn it.

I knew immediately what I should get her. I thanked Mother (and Aegon) and left at once for the gardens.

I found them – the flowers she loves so dearly. Dog roses, they are called. Unfortunately, they do not grow well in our climate, but the Maester’s managed to coax a few to bloom with their various potions and other horticultural creations.

They are almost as beautiful as her.

The Maester I spoke to said that it would be best if I had them cut just before I brought them to her, to preserve their beauty. So that is what I will do.

I will not practice tonight. At least… not that kind of practice. Instead, I will rehearse my apology. I cannot fail tomorrow.

You winced slightly, knowing that the next day would not go as Aemond planned and feeling as though it was your fault. But there was no changing that now. And you had already apologised – often and profusely.

So, you wrote only a simple note: ‘I don’t recall seeing dog roses on our tour of the gardens. Did you pluck them all?’

Looking back at his diary, you took a deep, steadying breath. Only two ribbons left.

The 28th day in the 5th moon of the year

I am the stupidest, most idiotic man in all the seven fucking kingdoms.

All I was trying to do was apologise to her for my unkind – though unintentionally so! – words in the library, but somehow it ended with her crying and me fleeing from her chambers yet again.

You cringed at the memory, almost not wanting to read on.

Aegon gladly offered his explanation, even after I told him I did not want it. He insists that I have so thoroughly repulsed her that she cannot help but burst into tears at the sight of me.

Mother thinks that she is just missing her family and her home, as she said. That she is overwhelmed by being alone in a strange place, and the familiar sight of the flowers – dog roses, as I have learned – brought those feelings to bursting.

Perhaps Mother is right. But her parents left a fortnight ago, and she has shown no other signs of homesickness. And she is not alone! She has the other ladies of the court to talk to, and Helaena and Mother adore her. And me.

If she came to me, I would do anything to cheer her. Not that she would seek comfort from me, no matter how dearly I wish she would. She certainly won’t after today.

After the disaster in the library yesterday and the scolding I received from Grand Maester Orwyle after my training this morning, I knew beyond a doubt that I needed to apologise. I… the shame I feel for having played any part in the state Orwyle described her in is unbearable.

So, I went to the gardens and had a Maester cut the flowers for me and arrange them in a simple bouquet.

She was on her couch when I arrived in her rooms – still in her nightgown and that robe. And again, she did not look at me. She had eyes only for the flowers. I thought then that they had been the right choice.

I apologised, but she did not react. She still just stared at the bouquet. So, I went ahead with the rest of my apology.

Then she touched my hand. It startled me, and I pulled away from her on instinct, dropping the bouquet in her lap. She looked at them like I had dropped a helpless kitten rather than flowers!

And she started crying. Softly, the tears welling in her eyes for a long moment before spilling over. I do not understand what I did to upset her. I said only what I had planned last night. It was so hard to resist brushing the tears away, but she seemed nearly volatile, and I did not want to make things worse.

‘I miss home,’ she said, finally.

It did sting that she does not consider King’s Landing and her life with me her home – it still does. But she is hundreds of miles away from the family of her birth, from the people who have undoubtedly treated her better than I have. I cannot blame her.

I apologised again for upsetting her and left.

At dinner, I had planned to ask Mother and Grandsire if we could find a way to send her home, at least for a little while. So she could be happy. Perhaps I could even go with her. I might have an easier time talking to her without the pressures of my family and the capital upon me.

You smiled at the thought of Aemond at your home keep. Of him in all his black leather among the fields of dog roses. Talking with your father in the library. Him training with your brothers – you were confident he could defeat any one of them alone, but knowing your brothers, they would absolutely gang up on him.

‘One day,’ you wrote, ‘I would love to show you my home.’

I was waiting for the opportunity to ask when she arrived! After this afternoon, I did not think she would come to dinner, but she did! I could have wept for my relief.

And when I offered my hand to her, she took it. Not only that, but she squeezed it – hard. I think believe it was her way of accepting my apology.

She did not speak during dinner, nor did anyone ask her too many questions. Aegon was his typically infuriating self, silently encouraging me to do something with her. What he expects me to do when in front of the entire family, I do not know.

After the meal, I offered to escort her back to her chambers, which she accepted. And once we were alone, she thanked me for the flowers!

It was going unusually well. That is, until I decided to open my mouth. I only meant to compliment her, as she did look quite beautiful, but… I just kept talking. And then I had suddenly insulted her gown from yesterday and her robe.

She closed herself off from me then, shoving away my arm. Why could I not just shut up? I know my words are the source of so many of our misunderstandings, yet I keep talking! At this point, I am strongly considering a vow of silence.

‘Please don’t take a vow of silence!’ you wrote, scrambling for your diary as if it mattered how quickly you got the words down. ‘Your voice is far too lovely for me to never hear it again.’

Tomorrow, I am going to try a suggestion from Lord Wylde. Show her that I am not a failure in everything I do. I pray it works.

You turned the page, expecting to find the entry for the next day, but there was none. There had been a page between the entries for the 28th and the 30th, but it had been sloppily torn out. All that remained was the beginnings of the date in the upper corner.

It was entirely against what you knew of Aemond. The man who had dutifully started his journal on the first day of the year and began each entry on a new page would not do something like this.

What had upset him so? Had you said something to him?

No, of course not. The only time you had seen him that day was in the training yard, and you hadn’t spoken to each other, not after… not after he stormed off. Had he actually been hurt in his fight with the Kingsguard? Or was he just embarrassed that you had witnessed him fall?

Gods, how you wished you had gone to him that night. But perhaps you could make up for it now.

‘After you were absent for dinner,’ you wrote to him in your diary, ‘I almost came to your rooms. I was worried for you. Though I confess, that was the only reason I found myself walking toward you… I missed you, at dinner. I missed you helping me into my chair. I missed your smile. I missed the way you’d hold the plates for me. Most of all, I missed your voice, and your presence next to me.’

You sniffled slightly, staring at a lamp on your wall to dry the tears that were forming before finishing the entry, ‘I’ve missed you these past days, as well. But I’m almost done. I’ll see you soon.’

The 30th day in the 5th moon of the year

I have made my gravest sin yet. And my most foolish.

We had the perfect morning together in the gardens. Silent, mostly, but perfect. She smiled at me! She allowed me to lead her through the gardens on my arm. It was… precisely what I had hoped for.

Until I once again acted like an absolute fucking fool.

Before I had to leave for court, I asked if I could come to her rooms that night. And for one perfect moment, I really believed she was going to say yes.

But then she mentioned her moon’s blood, and I just… panicked. I am not entirely an idiot (though I become less sure of that declaration with each passing moment), I know what that means.

It means that I’ve failed her. In even more ways than I knew.

I have made her miserable. I have made her cry. I have failed in every duty of a good husband, including the most basic of tasks – I have not given her a child.

I cannot go on like this – trapped in an endless cycle of misery where I can do nothing but hurt the both of us. I must do something to free us from this.

It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t love or even like me. I just want her to be happy. If that means that I never get to see her or love her again, I will make myself accept that.

First, she needs to know why I’ve acted this way. To know my true feelings so she can decide what she wants me to do. Gods, if she wanted me to go to Essos and never return, I would.

A blot of ink covered half the page, as though he had simply set his pen down while he thought.

I know what to do. I just pray she understands.

“I understand,” you said aloud, as though Aemond were before you. But, of course, he wasn’t. He was halfway across the castle, a distance that suddenly felt like the Narrow Sea itself. Throwing down your blanket, you shouted for your maids to dress you at once, your morning meal be damned. The moment finished tying off the last lace of your gown, you ran.

You had only been shown where Aemond’s chambers were once – on your first tour of the Holdfast. Then, you did not know whether to be disappointed or thankful that they were far from yours. Now, as your nervousness flooded through every part of your body, you hated the distance more than anything.

Each step was an effort, as with every one, your legs felt heavier and heavier, as if they were made of iron. Your blood felt as though it was rushing dangerously fast, carrying with it a marked chill. Despite feeling frozen within, sweat still somehow beaded at your brow. Yet you could not wipe it away, for your hands were all but stitched to the two diaries you carried.

Was this a terrible idea? Would Aemond laugh at you for all your silly little notes? Would he be angry with you for taking days to fulfil his request? You came to a halt in the middle of the corridor, tears prickling in your eyes as you considered so many horrible possibilities.

No, you thought, the word echoed by the impact of your foot on stone as you took a heavy, sure step forward.

The Aemond you thought you knew would do those things. But that Aemond wasn’t real – and never was. He had only ever lived in your terrified imagination.

The real Aemond was the one who had been so awestruck upon first seeing you that he could not say anything other than your name. Who had fallen for you so quickly and with such intensity that he forgot how to act like a proper person and instead stumbled over his words and actions like a drunk man through a crowded alley. Who had been so desperate for you to return his affections that he swallowed his pride to seek help. And who had finally given you his diary when he could think of no other way to show you how he really felt and who he truly was.

It was the thought of finally meeting that Aemond that made you put one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, until you were sprinting down the halls, only stopping when you came to the door you had seen only once before – his door.

You did not understand how you had found it again after only seeing it only once before. Nor did you remember knocking on the smooth, dark wood.

But then you heard footsteps approaching.

Hastily, you transferred the diaries to one hand and wiped the sweat from your brow with the sleeve of the other. You wanted to straighten your hair, for it had surely come loose from its braid after running so fast. But there was no time for that.

There was the dull, metallic sound of the door being unlatched, and then there he was.

Aemond stood before you, breathing heavily himself as though he, too, had been running. His silver hair was mussed, and there were smudges of purple beneath his widened eyes – his eyes.

He was not wearing his eyepatch.

Your mouth fell open at the sight. At least one of the rumours had been true. Beneath the raised, rough skin of his scar, in place of his lost eye, was a brilliant blue sapphire. It suited him perfectly and was perhaps the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

He looked at you for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile before realising what had caught your attention so thoroughly.

“Oh gods,” he whispered, covering the sapphire with his hands and turning away. He took a few steps into the room before speaking again. “I did not mean for you to see this. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please…”

You said nothing. Silently, you moved into the room and shut the door. Aemond stared at you, his good eye watering as you approached him.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “You should not have had to – ” He startled when you brought your free hand up to his wrist and started trying to tug his hand away from his face. “What are you…?”

When your only response was to continue tugging, he relented, allowing you to lower his hand. He swallowed thickly, fixing his good eye on the wall behind you instead of at you. Seeing his shyness, and now knowing it for what it was, almost made you smile.

But your own shyness took hold of you as you guided his hand down and wrapped it around the spines of the twin journals you held. When you looked back up at Aemond, he was staring at them and the green ribbon that now marked a page within your diary.

“I don’t understand,” he breathed, tightening his hold on the books.

With a slight smirk, you gazed up at him and dropped your hand from the diaries. “It’s your turn.”

[604to647]

Fics that Live in My Mind, Rent Free (Pedro's Version) - Part 2

Welp! It seems there are link and tag limits? Who knew? Not this newb 😂😂 When I said that I've read so many good fanfics, I really meant it. Again, below the cut is a continuation of the list of some of my fave Pedro character fanfics that I've read on this site - ones I think about and revisit often. These are all fics I should have/would have reblogged if only I wasn't so weirdly nervous about it; in 2024 we will muster up some courage and reblog (it will be slow, probably, but I promise I will be trying!). This is a good time for me to also say that one of the reasons I am motivated to step out of my comfort zone on this is because of the genuine joy every comment/reblog/like has brought me this year as a new writer - thank you all from the bottom of my heart for the kind reception on anything I have ever posted. 🥹 ilysm 😘

Anyways, we press forward (Part 1 of Rent Free PPCU fics can be found here):

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian, GOAT)

Of Shadows and Roses by @the-scandalorian (Bodyguard!Din x Royalty!Reader)

All Mine by @mellowswriting (Possessive!Din after Reader uses herself as bait)

Narcissus by @bits-and-babs (Armour/mirror sex)

Looking out for you by @beskarandblasters (Jealous!Din after Reader uses herself as bait)

Cherry Liqueur by @decembermidnight (Reader teases Mando in public)

Breaking in the New House by @beskarandblasters (I love Husband!Din and Wife!Reader fics)

Javier Pena (Narcos)

Sweet Dreams by @javiscigarette (Javi can't sleep)

Phone Sex...amiright? by @tightjeansjavi (Reader calls Javi at work)

Sharing is Caring by @ezrasversion (Corrupt DEA Agent!Javi, Mafia AU!Joel Miller, Reader Threesome)

The Saint, the Sinner, and the Devil by @joelsgirl (Corrupt DEA Agent!Javi, DBF Mafia AU!Joel Miller, Reader Threesome)

MIA by @itsharleystuff (Jealous!Javi with Undercover!Reader)

Surprising Javi P with a Lingerie Set by @swiftispunk

Not here...not now by @gracieispunk (Reader visits Javi at work)

Bunny by @whatsnewalycat (Sex Phone Operator!Reader; Part 2 is great too!)

Ease by @javiscigarette (Javi takes care of Reader after a bad day)

Joel Miller (TLOU)

Say It Right, Peeping Neighbour, and Right Place, Right Time by @chaotic-mystery (All the DBF and BFD fics are amazing; these are my fave)

Quickie by @joelscruff (This falls in the middle of the Boyfriend's Dad series, but it's the first one I read and I was hooked!)

That Funny Feeling by @bluebeary-jay (Joel loves pet names 🥹)

I've Got Lust on My Tongue by @itgetsdark-x (Bratty reader a la Maddy Perez)

The Babysitter, Part 1 by @proxima-writes (There's a Part 2 as well!)

Under the Table by @toxicanonymity (A lot of good Joelkemons, but Speakeasy is a classic and maybe my fave?)

Online Friends, Sticking it to the PTA, and Caught Sunbathing by @walkintotheriveranddisappear (All of Emma's Joel fics are really hot [honestly you can't go wrong], but these are my faves)

Late Night Smoke by @bettercallwillow (Dbf smoking. sigh)

Calling Joel Daddy by @inkedells (I honestly love it when authors bold the dirty talk 🤭)

Gimme What I Want and In the Next Room by @atticrissfinch (The masterlist is some of the hottest Joel fic, if I may say so; these are my faves)

An Open Window by @velvetmud (Joel being a peeping tom; I also always hope for a sequel to this one!)

Crave by @toxic-seduction (Part 2; Reader finds Joel in the QZ)

Good Luck Charm by @javiscigarette (Joel watches the football game)

Ravish by @psychedelic-ink (Webcam Model!Reader; Part 2 is also incredible!)

I Know it When I see It by @bageldaddy (Pornstars!Joel and Readers. This series has me and everyone else, I think, in a chokehold. Reading, as well, the writer's thoughts and feelings about the porn industry and the care put into the characters is such a joy and makes the fic that much more rich)

Chaser series by @livingemkayde (Nanny!Reader and a love triangle; not finished but so good I'm happy to wait forever)

Right my Wrongs by @chloeangelic (Father in Law!Joel)

In A Feud with Her Neighbour by @proxima-writes (Read this delicious fic and the bonus scenes will be the icing on top)

Kiss and Tell by @toxic-seduction (Stepdad!Joel and mom goes away for the weekend)

Peaches and Cream by @javiscigarette (Joel buys reader peaches)

Didn't Cha Know by @chloeangelic (The Joel Reader has been pining for is her boyfriend's brother)

Gif to breakup the text block:

Camgirl by @phuckinphia (Another Camgirl but this time she's Sarah's friend 🫣)

The Right Wrong Number by @proxima-writes (Sarah's soccer coach!Reader)

Nightmares by @fruispunk (QZ!Reader has nightmares that Joel hears and mistakens for something else)

Damage Done by @bluebeary-jay (Joel accidentally triggers Reader; mind the tags. Heavy angst, heavy topic that is beautifully written)

Yes, Mr. Miller by pedropascallme (Babysitter!Reader, Part 2 Thank You, Mr. Miller is also excellent)

How Long series by @gracieheartspedro (Link is to Part 1; series is complete and wonderfully hot and emotional. Reader's boyfriend Tommy is a cheat😢)

Francisco "Catfish" Morales (Triple Frontier)

Fictional Death by @psychedelic-ink (Frankie comforts Reader)

Well Fed by @the-ginger-hedge-witch (Frankie is HAPPY 🥹)

Forest Ranger AU by @the-ginger-hedge-witch (I'm not an outdoorsy person but this AU makes me wish I was)

It's Always the Quiet Ones by @thot-of-khonshu (Frankie surprises Reader)

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

Kinktober 2022 - Breeding by @moralesispunk (Guard!Pero and Royalty!Reader)

Bodily Exchange by @absurdthirst (Mafia AU!Pero and daughter of mafia boss Reader)

Damnation or Salvation by @absurdthirst (Pero is sent to retrieve Reader)

Dying Wish by @absurdthirst (Pero makes Reader's father a promise; okay at this point, just all of Keri's Pero fics 🤭)

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

Beat Poetry on Amphetamines by @psychedelic-ink (Marcus comes home hurt)

[savoytrufflephd]

The questions of Laurent’s being and behavior…

I have been informed, via @thickenmyblood’s asks (since mine were apparently not set to accept anonymous asks – which I have now changed) that my opinion about HIUH Laurent’s character is incorrect. I have been informed that he’s abusive.

My PhD isn’t in English (though it is in the humanities), but my wife was an English major and she has often told me that interpretations aren’t right or wrong, but they are stronger or weaker in the sense that they are supported by the text.

So, let’s go…

First things first. Let me be clear about the following:

The question of whether or not Laurent is abusive in this piece of fanfiction has no bearing whatsoever on whether any person you know in real life is abusive.

Similarly, any arguments that Laurent can change or that Laurent deserves a second chance have no bearing whatsoever on whether any person you know in real life can change or deserves a second chance.

Neither HIUH nor any fic should be taken as a life advice manual. Just because there are therapists in this fic does not mean that @thickenmyblood is a mental health professional or your therapist.

I am also not a therapist, nor am I trying to give you life advice when I speak of my enjoyment of HIUH.

But if I were to give you life advice, it would be this: If a piece of fanfiction makes you so angry that you feel the need to send abusive anonymous comments to the author and/or ask that author to pass on your comment “correcting” the opinion of a reader writing about that story, you should probably stop reading that fic. It is clearly not good for you. Metaphorically speaking, you are in an abusive relationship with that fic and you should end it. Write the story off and move on.

Okay, that said, the question of whether Laurent is abusive in HIUH is probably more of a series of questions:

Has HIUH Laurent engaged in abusive behaviors?

If so, do those abusive behaviors necessarily indicate that he is and will always be an abuser?

If not, what evidence do we have that HIUH Laurent can and will stop engaging in abusive behaviors?

If HIUH Laurent stops engaging in abusive behaviors, what reasons, if any, does HIUH Damen have to return to the relationship despite past abuse?

BONUS:

A. Is an HIUH Laurent who harms Damen through abusive behavior mischaracterized relative to the canon source material?

B. Is an HIUH Damen who chooses to be with Laurent despite past abuse mischaracterized relative to the canon source material?

1. Has Laurent engaged in abusive behaviors?

Yes. Although we are limited by a potentially unreliable narrator (Damen), who does not believe Laurent is abusive, we are clearly and intentionally both told and shown in the text that Laurent has engaged in abusive behavior. We are told when Neo explains as much to a skeptical Damen:

“Then you must know I’m only trying to get a feeling on how educated you are on the subject of abuse between romantic partners.” “But why ? I just told you Laurent and I never—” “Do you know what emotional abuse looks like, Damen?” “Yes.” “Give me a definition.” It’s hot in the room, all of the sudden. “It’s… making someone. Feel bad.” “It’s consistent and repeated humiliation,” Neo says. “Gaslighting. Manipulation. Verbal abuse can sometimes overlap with this. Have you ever experienced this while in your relationship with Laurent?” “We weren’t abusive.” “Did you insult each other?” “No,” Damen says. It was so long ago, it was a lifetime back. He can’t remember. “It’s—not like that. Humiliation? We never—” “You’ve said that sometimes Laurent made you feel as though the things you were feeling were inadequate.” You’re being a fucking idiot, Laurent had said about the pink sweatshirt. “What if he was right?”  “It’s never right to invalidate your partner’s feelings.” “We weren’t abusive.” “Damen,” Neo says, the soft caress before a blow. “What if we think about it from—” “There’s nothing to think about. I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that. How the fuck did you get to that conclusion? Because I complained about us arguing?” Neo ruffles his notes. “Contempt. Shame. Hurt. That’s what abusers thrive on. There’s quite a lot of those things in here.” “Laurent’s not an abuser,” Damen snaps. “Maybe not, but he grew up with one, didn’t he? These are learned traits.” Damen folds forward as though to vomit. That’s—He’s made a mistake. They argued, they yelled, they said things they didn’t mean, but they never hit each other or threw cutlery at each other’s heads. They went to bed angry, and Damen slept on the couch, and there would be rolling eyes and huffs and annoyance in the following days, but that’s not—Laurent is not— You’re sweet, Damen had said, hand to Laurent’s cheek. A sweetheart. He remembers meaning it, remembers Laurent not liking it. He also remembers Laurent’s sweetness, scarcer in the end and cloying in the beginning. Breakfast in bed, letting Damen pick what show to watch, giving up half his trail mix bag because he knew Damen liked the dried fruit pieces most. You’ll do great, you always do great. A protein shake prepped and ready to go, peace and quiet the nights before important court days. But also bigger things, biggest things. There was—and sharing a bed, and curling up under Damen to read, and letting Damen carry Nicaise up the stairs, and holding his hand under the table as firm functions, and kissing just to kiss, just because, just— He’s explained Laurent wrong.

And we are shown in the moments when Damen and Laurent talk and Damen expects a belittling response from Laurent:

“There are,” Laurent starts, stops. Starts again, “I didn’t.” He has both elbows on the table, which he used to despise. Tables are for cutlery and food, not limbs. Something about the way he rubs at the skin under his eyes makes Damen’s stomach cower as if expecting a blow. “Agnes recommended it months before you—came back. It wasn’t my idea.”

“I met him?” For once, Laurent doesn’t mock him for his question. “It was at that school play I couldn’t go to. The one Nicaise got that huge part in.”

“I want to know when the twenty-four hours are up,” Damen says, loudly, too loudly, “so we can go to the police station and report him missing. For fuck’s sake, Laurent, will you stop ? He could be seriously hurt, and you’re sitting here, berating me about the way I phrased a question. Do you even give a shit about him? Do you even—” He cuts himself off when he sees Laurent’s expression. Like he did last time with Nicaise, Damen braces himself for what’s to come, goes over the list of things Laurent can hurl at him, tries to minimize the inevitable damage. The comment will be about Nikandros, about his soft childhood in Ios, about the time he tried to discipline Nicaise by himself and ended up covered in vomit.   Nothing happens. There’s only Laurent, turning his face to the side so Damen can’t stare at it any longer. In the silence of the car, Laurent’s breathing shakes.

“Is his name really Dog?” Laurent says, sitting down next to Damen. Between them, the two cups of coffee and the small pile of croissants both steam. “I didn’t believe Nicaise when he told me.” “I,” Damen starts, lie ready on his tongue, and stops. It’s very meta. “I’m not good with names.” Laurent picks up his coffee instead of agreeing with Damen. Instead of mocking. The space between their bodies is comfortable enough—they’re not touching, not even their knees or thighs. They’re not looking at each other either, not with the entire park stretching green and busy in front of them.

2. If so, do those abusive behaviors necessarily indicate that he is and will always be an abuser?

I take this to be one of the major points of contention on the part of the angry readers. As you can probably guess, I don’t think the text suggests that Laurent in inherently abusive. Besides the stuff coming in my answer to question 3, we have several reasons to believe that Laurent’s abusive behavior is the product of particular circumstances rather than a generalized personality dysfunction.

We know, and Neo just reminded us above, that abusive behaviors are learned behaviors. We know Laurent was abused in multiple ways before he was able to leave his uncle’s house. We know that he is still very young and that it has not been that long since his uncle’s trial. We know he has not been comfortable talking to Damen about his abuse, which gives us reason to believe he still experiences a great deal of shame. That shame is hinted at here:

“He respects you,” Laurent says before Damen has made up his mind about the yelling. “He looks at you and sees a standard to meet. Normalcy. It’s hard to disappoint people you respect. Especially people like you.” “Like me.” “You do things your way. Everyone else does them wrong.” “That’s,” Damen starts. The absolute inaccuracy of the phrase leaves him hanging. “What the fuck?” Laurent ignores him. “He doesn’t respect me, and he also knows I have no room to judge. It’s different. We’re—it’s just different.”

We also know that Laurent is specifically and intentionally not abusive toward Nicaise. We have seen that he has been absorbing a ton of anger, vilification, derision, denigration from Nicaise almost entirely without complaint and without lashing out at Nicaise in return. In fact, after the breaking of the paperweight, when Laurent feels that he might not be able to avoid reacting in a way he will regret, he calls Damen to safely remove Nicaise from the situation. Having taken the lock off Nicaise’s door for reasons many parents would no doubt consider justified, he realizes it was a mistake:

Damen doesn’t look down at the twisted little bolts on the floor. “Actually, you should watch this part in case you ever want to dismantle it again.” “I won’t.” Damen rubs his sleeve over a weird spot on the knob. “You’re betting a lot on Nicaise’s hypothetical good behavior.” “It was dumb, taking the lock away as punishment. I…” Laurent’s thumb glides over the edge of the glass. It traces a full circle before stopping and going white, digging in. His jaw twitches like he’s munching on something. “Privacy shouldn’t be a reward.” “Wasn’t this about safety? He locked himself in, wouldn’t come out or reply when you called…” Laurent’s reply is slow to come. After a while, Damen stops expecting it to come at all. He goes back to testing the lock—twice, waiting for that click sound—opens the door, closes it, and rattles the knob a bit. Just to be sure. “My uncle made it about safety too,” Laurent says. “Locks on doors were for adults. Not children.” The lonely ice cube in his glass floats around aimlessly, not quite touching its confines. “The first to go were the bedroom locks. What if there’s a fire and you can’t get out? What if someone breaks in through the window and—well.” Laurent smiles, small and ugly. “That kind of thing. You know.”

He ensures that Nicaise sees a therapist, meets with that therapist regularly, and follows professional advice about putting Nicaise on medication.

Laurent also maintains a strong friendship with Ancel, whose judgment the text has taught us to trust, through Damen’s evolving relationship with him. Laurent is capable of non-abusive, non-superficial relationships.

3. If not, what evidence do we have that HIUH Laurent can and will stop engaging in abusive behaviors?

From the moment we see Laurent interact with Damen in the present of this story, he is trying to treat Damen better. Not because he thinks he can get back together with Damen, but because he realizes he needs to make a relationship with Damen possible for Nicaise. We have already seen above that most of the time when Damen expects Laurent’s ridicule in this story, he does not actually receive it. In very stressful conversations, when Laurent does lash out, he now tends to pull back or even to acknowledge and apologize:

Coffee. Damen takes two long sips, trying to rinse the bad taste out of his mouth. They’ve had arguments in public before, probably louder than this one. For some reason, the thought isn’t as comforting as Damen would have once found it. They broke up to be better than they were together, didn’t they? They should be better. Except this doesn’t feel better. Or different. Laurent says, “That was out of line.” Now, cooled off, Damen feels clammy. Wobbly. He knows Laurent is right, and yet the thought of sitting through a reprimand makes him want to melt away. “It was.” “I—apologize.” Damen looks up from his coffee to Laurent’s profile. He’s facing the wrong way, Damen thinks stupidly, because the window is to their left. “You apologize.” Half a question. “Go ahead,” Laurent says. “Rub it in.” Damen doesn’t want to. Nausea is curling around him, closing in. “I was out of line too, so.”

And we know now that Laurent has thought through some of his past behaviors toward Damen:

“I was angry at you,” Laurent says, “all the time. Sometimes it was justified, but when it wasn’t I just—I found ways to justify it. That wasn’t fair. Of me.” Damen’s palm is numb around the glass. “Why were you angry?” “Nicaise.” “Justified,” Damen says. “And the rest of it?” Laurent is facing him again. “Paschal says I have a tendency to expect the worst from everyone. Especially you. You’d make comments, and I’d think you were being cruel instead of…” “Instead of what? Ignorant?” Laurent doesn’t reply. “That makes no sense,” Damen says. “We never argued about me being fucking sadistic. We argued about you acting like some things were obvious and I was simply too much of an idiot to get them.” “I never thought you were an idiot.” “You said it often enough.” “I’m—sorry,” Laurent says. “It doesn’t change anything, but—even if you had been the biggest idiot in the world, you didn’t deserve…” A blinking spree follows. “I’m sorry.”

We know that Laurent is still in therapy, and we know that he has been talking about his relationship with Damen there because Paschal has suggested couples counseling for them. And Laurent has invited Damen to do that couples counseling, showing that he wants them to build a better foundation for their relationship  going forward.

4. If HIUH Laurent stops engaging in abusive behaviors, what reasons, if any, does HIUH Damen have to return to the relationship despite past abuse?

Damen is deeply in love with Laurent. At the beginning of the story, he is in denial about this fact, but the uncontrollable flow of his thoughts still shows us how much he feels the loss of their relationship. Once he and Laurent are speaking again, seeing improvements in their communication, and experiencing moments of comfort and fun in their interactions – and once Laurent has broken up with Maxime – Damen admits to himself that he wants to be back together. Neo, as usual, prompts the self-recognition:

“I’m asking you to think about what life might look like in two years,” Neo says, “for you and Laurent. Time does not only pass for you, Damen.” A smile, crinkling the corners of Neo’s eyes. “That’d be ideal, wouldn’t it?”  Two years. Damen sits with the question for a while, looking at it, prodding it. In two years, Nicaise will have gone away to college. Maybe Laurent will move, relocate, start over somewhere closer to Vask. He’ll post about his new life on Instagram, or details of it will make it to Damen as second-hand gossip. They could still be friends, over text or the phone or fucking letters, Damen thinks, yet there’s something bitter in the back of his throat, filling up his mouth like vomit. Maybe Laurent will date again. Probably. Most likely. And Damen— When he looks up from the armrest, Neo is looking straight back.  Damen can’t say it. Earlier today, as he typed his last email of the day at the office, he kept drafting a plan for today’s session. He’d explain his argument with Laurent, then the party at Ancel’s, then the way he keeps looking at Laurent in all the wrong lights, in all the wrong ways, and still finds himself wanting to kiss him. Neo would make a disapproving face, maybe, but it would be easy to brush off; anyone that doesn’t know Laurent would find it hard to understand how easy it is to want to kiss him. Except that isn’t all Damen wants. What Damen wants isn’t a settling of the score, a cleaning of the slate. He doesn’t want to do it once for old times’ sake, or twice out of gluttony. He doesn’t want to make any long-distance phone calls, write any letters, see any pictures on Instagram of Laurent and someone that isn’t him. He doesn’t want things to stay like this, in this careful antiseptic stage. He doesn’t want them to be friends. “It’s not what I want,” Damen says, at last. Neo leans back into his chair. He rolls his wrist once. “You think it’s what I should want, right? Letting go and all.” “I wouldn’t say that,” Neo says. “Should and shouldn’t are very loaded words. It also doesn’t matter what I think you should or shouldn’t do, in general. What is it that you want, since we’ve already established what it is that you don’t?” Don’t make me say it out loud. “I want,” Damen starts, and stops. The words look so stupid, jumbled inside his head. I want him back, like Laurent is a toy someone took away and won’t return. Like Damen is a child, begging. Don’t make me say it.   Seconds trickle by, piling into a minute. Then two. “Do you want to be in a relationship with Laurent again?” “I thought I already was,” Damen says. “A friendship is a kind of relationship. You said that.” Neo closes his eyes, keeps them like that for a while. “I did, yes. Let me rephrase that—do you want to be in a romantic relationship with Laurent? Again?” There is no loophole this time, no two-meaning word Damen can latch onto. The truth sits heavy in him, not on his chest but somewhere deeper, inside a little crevice between some (probably important) organs. Saying no would be lying, saying yes would be diminishing.  “I want things to be good,” Damen says. “That’s all.”

And in chapter 19, Damen is brutally honest with himself about how, even after everything, he still wants Laurent:

“You meet new people,” Neo says. “You go on dates, make new friends, find new interests. Despite what you might think right now, Laurent isn’t your only option. Dare I say, Laurent might not even be your best option.” The room is dark, darker than it was when the phone call started, but Damen’s eyes hurt like he’s been staring at a ball of light for too long. Everything hurts in a strange, modest way. A throb here, faint. An ache there, heatless.  “I don’t want other options,” Damen says. “Well.” “How fucked up is that?” “Pretty fucked up,” Neo says. It makes Damen stop blinking. “Luckily, you’re already doing therapy. It’s only bound to get less complicated from here on. Or more, depending on how you look at it.” “I don’t even wanna look at it, to be honest.” “Then don’t. Take time off, let things cool down, think about what’s been said… No one is asking you to choose right this second.” It’s not that anyone is asking. It’s that it feels like he’s already made his choice. 

“You didn’t tell me,” Damen says before he can think not to. “Tell you what?” “How bad it was.” Laurent’s thumb traces the t in team. It’s a bit crooked, even from Damen’s perspective. “It was pretty bad,” he says, slowly, “before you came back. Things were better once he started seeing you again.” “You call that better?” “Yes,” Laurent says.  I would have come back, Damen thinks, if you’d told me. Except it’s not true; he would have come back for much less. He’s here now, sitting across from Laurent in this mediocre coffee shop, talking things out, making an effort, thinking of reaching out to finally, finally, hold Laurent’s hand.  It’s strange, looking at Laurent and knowing he’s the only other person on earth that feels the same way he does. Where else would Damen go? Who else would he talk to? No one will ever get it, not the way Laurent does. And Laurent knows it. He must, or else he would not be sitting here either. There is only this, Damen thinks. At least for him, there will only ever be this.

So there is that. Damen is hopelessly devoted to Laurent. But that doesn’t make getting back together with him a good decision. Love would not be a good reason to return to an abusive relationship.

Another NOT good reason would be Damen believing the fact that he made mistakes cancels out Laurent’s harmful behavior. The text makes that explicitly clear through Neo:

Neo’s pen hops; a period appears at the end of a sentence. “Apologies can be hard to navigate. It’s sort of like… You’ve wronged me, and you know that you’ve wronged me, and now you’re apologizing for it while expecting me to forgive you. It’s quite a lot to put on a person.” “There are degrees to wrong,” Damen says. His chair feels smaller, like it’s locking him in instead of holding him up. The armrests keep getting in the way of his elbows. “And it’s not like I didn’t have stuff I had to apologize for too. I don’t get why you’re trying to make this seem like a bad thing.” “I’m not.” “Then why—” “Do you think you deserved an apology from Laurent?” Damen leans back and back and back, until his shoulder blades find something solid. Did he deserve…? He’d wanted one, once. In Nikandros’s guest room, with only beige and white and terracotta everything around him, he’d had staring matches with his own phone. He’d thought Laurent might call, at the very beginning. Apologizing. Begging. But Laurent never did. “Yeah,” Damen says.  Neo’s head begins to tilt. “You don’t sound too sure about that.” “I am sure.” “All right,” Neo says. “Why do you deserve an apology?” “I told you already. He treated me like I was an idiot.” “How?” “How—what?” “How exactly did he treat you like you were an idiot? What were his actions towards you?” “I,” Damen starts, but something in Neo’s face makes him pause. “He’d say things when we argued.” “Such as?” “That I was an asshole.” Neo nods. “And how did you feel when you heard him say that? Did you feel like it was fair?” “I felt like he was an asshole,” Damen says. “Sometimes.” “Whereas now you feel like he was right?” He was right about Nicaise. And maybe about Ancel, too. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” “I don’t want you to say anything,” Neo says. “I’m just trying to get you to think about things from a different perspective. Laurent apologized, which is an important—not to say crucial—step in rebuilding any kind of relationship. But it seems to me that you’re holding onto this newly found belief that because you acted a certain way, because you made mistakes, you somehow deserved the way he treated you throughout the last stages of your relationship.” “That’s not what I think,” Damen says.  “All right. Then you think you deserved the apology because the way he treated you was wrong.” “Yes. But…” “But…?” Damen’s face feels hot, the heat lodged right over his molars. “Doesn’t it kind of cancel out? Like, we both fucked up.” “Those are two different issues,” Neo says. “So no, they don’t cancel out. What he did to you and what you did to him are obviously connected, but someone doing something wrong or bad is not an excuse to do the wrong or bad thing back to them.” Neo gives his pen a tap. “Or it does, I suppose. It depends on your belief system. But you don’t strike me as an ‘eye for an eye’ fan.” I don’t want any eyes, Damen thinks. 

I interpret the failed second try (or second strike) of Damen and Laurent’s relationship to have been somewhat based on the “cancel out” reasoning from above. The “cancel out” and move past approach  did not work because they failed to address the many insecurities, communication failures, and problematic patterns that plagued the first time around. A discussion with Neo (again) makes this clear. Damen hasn’t yet learned to listen to what Laurent is saying without letting his insecurities and anger get in the way:

But Damen isn’t in Laurent’s position. You’ll never get it, Laurent had said about Nicaise. Maybe it’s true. “I get why he did it. I’ve been thinking, and it’s not—I get it. Nicaise being embarrassed, wanting Laurent in the room because he was the least angry of—” “I don’t think that’s why,” Neo says. “Or at least, that’s not what you’ve just told me Laurent said about the whole thing.” “What?” “Laurent talked extensively about roles. Did you notice that?” “No.” “He presents himself as the scapegoat for Nicaise’s anger, while you’re the one Nicaise admires and wants to impress.” Tap, tap, tap. Damen imagines Neo’s fingers flying across the keyboard. “It seems to me Nicaise wasn’t concerned about the different intensity levels of your—as in, yours and Laurent’s—anger. He knew you were both angry.” “Laurent was better at handling it.” “Was he?” “I couldn’t stop thinking about the guy,” Damen says. Guys, his brain supplies, helpful as ever. “I still can’t. Even now, I know it’s not—that’s not important. I was yelling at Nicaise. I wasn’t listening.” “And that’s why Nicaise didn’t want you to go with him to the clinic?” Damen closes his eyes. He needs to repaint his ceiling, do something about the lack of texture there.  “Laurent said something about abandonment,” Neo tries. A nudge. “You’ve mentioned Nicaise doesn’t do well with change, that he’s got a tendency to latch onto routines and people. Do you think it might be possible that he was trying to preserve the relationship he has with you?” “By keeping me out of a medical examination room.” “Yes.” “That’s what Laurent said.” “Well,” Neo says. “It sounds plausible.”

Damen wanted magically for them to be over their past:

“Right,” Damen says. “You don’t do should and shouldn’t. I forgot.” “Are you upset?” Are you angry with me? “I don’t know,” Damen says. “We were supposed to be past this, and now it’s out there and I can’t—we can’t—” “How were you supposed to be past this, if this had never been discussed before today?” “You said it’s impossible to discuss everything.”

So, I don’t think it’s a strong interpretation of the text to say that @thickenmyblood is trying to present Damen in an unfairly negative light in order to excuse Laurent’s much worse behavior and thereby make it okay for them to get back together. Cancelling out isn’t what the HEA of the story is set up to be about.

That said – and given the fact that Damen is still in love with Laurent – what GOOD reasons might Damen have to try the relationship again?

For one, he is beginning to understand better what the fights with Laurent about Nicaise were about. Moreover, they have now explicitly acknowledged that they are co-parenting Nicaise and Laurent has expressed a clear commitment to them parenting Nicaise as a team.

For another, Damen has a much improved understanding of the role of therapy and the complexities of mental health. He has a long ways to go on this front, but I don’t think we’ll see him dismissing or belittling Laurent’s mental health needs. Moreover, Damen has ways of addressing his own mental health needs and talking things through with a person who doesn’t share his triggers and emotional investments around Laurent.

For a third, he has made a commitment to working through their issues in therapy and has concluded that he trusts Laurent to try just as hard as he will to repair and strengthen their relationship.

Crucially, Damen has also learned to stand up for himself when he feels Laurent is implying that he is incapable of understanding things. This means he can point it out and Laurent can recognize when he is retreating into a defensive, harmful pattern. This also allows Damen to indicate that something isn’t obvious to him and to ask Laurent to explain it kindly and clearly. I think that is the only way they can reconcile their very different life histories and relationships to social normativity.

ONCE AGAIN, believing this about HIUH Damen relative to HIUH Laurent does not mean that I believe this is something all (or even very many) real life people who were previously in unhealthy relationships should aim for or could achieve.  

Which brings us to our bonus questions:

A. Is an HIUH Laurent who harms Damen through abusive behavior mischaracterized relative to the canon source material?

No, in fact, this is not a mischaracterization. Laurent abused Damen in canon. He took him as a slave. He sought Damen’s public humiliation. He had Damen whipped to an extent that would have killed most other people. He placed Damen in a situation that (for almost any other person) would have resulted in a violent public rape. He also forced Damen to engage in public and non-consensual oral sex. Later, when he understood Damen more emotionally and was feeling insecure or threatened, he lied about his feelings and motivations out of shame and self-hatred and with the aim of hurting Damen enough to drive him away.

B. Is an HIUH Damen who chooses to be with Laurent despite past abuse mischaracterized relative to the canon source material?

Damen fell in love with Laurent after all that abuse because he came to understand its source and because he saw other sides of Laurent that were caring and honorable and expressed a commitment to achieving justice, even if not by fully honest means. He came to understand Laurent as a survivor, even before he became aware of what exactly Laurent had survived. He stuck with Laurent through all of Laurent’s attempts to push him away and fought for what should have been an impossible relationship. And throughout this process, he learned about his own naivete and to question key elements of his upbringing, like the quest for war glory and the belief that “perfect treatment” justified slavery.

Captive Prince is a seductive and enthralling trilogy. And we willingly suspend any disbelief about whether Laurent’s trauma can truly be overcome simply by Damen’s noble nature and magical healing cock.

Why not do the same for HIUH? (Or, you know, just stop reading it.)

Although I do think Maca may owe us some healing cock. Just sayin’.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Stories for the Salt

(Genre: Spooky campfire story urban fantasy, wlw background romance)

Summary: A daughter is visiting her mother to help pack up her house and move her out of the mountains. Instead, she encounters a bedraggled hiker that appeared from the woods.

PART 1

Casper had heard two things since she arrived at her mom’s house: "Don’t touch that." And "Fresh air is good for you." Emphasis on the good like Casper had yet to fully grasp the concept. Casper, however, was discovering a limit for how many times you could stand on top of a mountain and contemplate the meaning of life. Then again, maybe that's what is “wrong with city people.” City people were the third topic Casper was hearing all about since her arrival. 

She sat on the counter, collecting plates from the top shelf of the cupboard, valiantly ignoring the eyes boring into the back of her head. Their cat, Cassie, was unhappily somewhere else and no help whatsoever--sibling solidarity a lost cause.

Her mom cleared her throat. “I love you so much, honey bee. And I am so proud of you.”

Casper groaned at the ceiling. Where was that cat?

“But,” her mom punctuated the word like an airsoft gun release. “I have decided to cancel the movers.” “The movers aren’t canceled, mom.” Casper had checked this morning.

Her mom sat at the dining room table with one foot elevated. Pillows and ice packs cushioned the sides of a gauze-strangled ankle. Casper’s mother crossed her thin arms over her chest. One set of crutches leaned against the table next to her and her other foot was shoved into a muddy boot.

Casper desperately wanted to pack the woman’s hiking boots first, but forced herself to finish with the delicates. She wrapped a plate without looking up, her mom’s eyes weighing her down like cement.

“I’m sure the movers haven’t started up the mountain yet,” she enunciated each word. “Three more weeks, honey bee. The doctor said only three more weeks–that will go by in a blink of an eye.” 

Casper groaned again. Is this what dad had felt like?

She plastered on a smile. “The doctor said some distractions might help too. You know, there’s this great little Greek restaurant that opened up near me. I know how you like Greek food.”

Her mom snorted. “Better than Angelo’s? Have you met my neighbor Angelo? He’s from Greece originally and his wife is from Belgium. Lovely woman and you wouldn’t even notice the false eye. They invite me over some nights in the summer, it’s a summer home and they check in on me now and again . . .”

Ah, Casper noted her mom was returning to her other favorite topic: daughter, there are neighbors. Stop worrying. Casper also wished she could stop worrying. 

She finished wrapping the last of the plates and faced her mom.

“Do Angelo or Martine have medical degrees? Mom, we’ve talked about this. This whole mountain is nearly empty. There isn’t a hospital for forty minutes. People die alone out in the woods like this.”

“Only if they’re dumb. Do I look dumb to you?” Her mom barked, utilizing one of her well-worn Mom Jokes: “Okay, don’t answer that. The point is, I’ve been getting along out here for longer than most ‘solo travelers’ have been alive.” “And even well-equipped and intelligent people make mistakes. When alone. In the woods.” She gestured to her mom’s ankle swollen up to a grapefruit.

“I could just as easily take a fall in the city.” She waved Capser off. “What are we supposed to be so scared of?”

“Bad Cell service.”

“Gloria got taken for all she was worth by a phone scammer just last year. They’re targeting old bags like me, safer to be away from all that.”

“No wi-fi!”

Her mom nodded sagely. “Safer.”

Casper rolled her eyes and started listing, “a fall off the mountain. Stalked by mountain lions. Gas leak. Contaminated water–”

“Honeybee, you must think I’m dumb.”

“Bears!” She threw her hands up. “Eaten by bears!”

Her mom tightened her arms over her chest and made a guttural noise in the back of her throat. “Better than being taken out by serial killers in the city. Or eaten by them! I’d rather be eaten by bears. At least you know what they are thinking. Bear spray works a lot better than pepper spray anyway. Do you know, most attackers use the stuff back on the woman?” Her mom clicked her tongue. “Bears don’t have thumbs.”

Casper collapsed back against the cabinet. She grumbled under her breath like she was a surly teen again, “Not yet they don’t.”

“You know something about bears I don’t, missy?” Her mom raised one eyebrow. She took a deep breath. Casper was in for it. The gusto entered her tone. “You know, last year I saw a mother and two cubs. Right by the Hand Bone's trail. And I said to myself, Isla, you're only going to see this once in a lifetime. Once! You better stay right there. I didn't move a single muscle.

I wouldn’t take the bear spray out for the life of me either. She knew–that momma knew–I had my own two cubs of my own and nothing less.” The chair creaked as her mom sat up straight in it, getting into her primary story-mode. “And you know what?”

Her mom gestured. One of the ice packs dropped to the floor. Casper jumped down from the counter. She grumbled, “You saw them again the next week.”

“Once in a lifetime I told myself, only once, but what do you know, that exact mother and her cubs were crossing Jay Road the next week. I was in my car this time, much safer, but I must’ve stayed parked there for thirty minutes.”

Casper gentled her voice. “You have lived a magical life out here, mom.” And now it’s come to an end.

“No where else like it!”

Casper picked up the ice pack and tucked it against the bandages. Her mom’s ankle was still the size of a small melon and she winced when Casper adjusted the position. 

Mugs and cups next. Shoes and winter coats and sweaters after that.

“It might do you some good to spend some time out here . . .” Her mom commented, probably noting the sheer number of wallowing noises Casper had been making.

Casper tilted her head all the way back and stared at the ceiling. She gathered her strength. “There’s a huge community garden right next door to me. You’ll love it. . .” Her mom gave her plaintive look and Casper mirrored it. “I don’t want to be the bad guy. You know I’d move up here if I could– or get Joey to.”

Her mom patted Casper on the sniffed and sniffed. “Would you?”

“The movers are coming in the morning.” Casper finished lamely. Her mom took her hand back. 

“You both think you know so much more about what’s good for me,” the sour-ness leached through her mother’s words–like they had been a lot lately. Less poetry readings like from Casper’s childhood or bird identification out in the yard.

“And what happens if you get in trouble and I can’t get up here in time?” Casper said quietly, heart squeezing. We could read poetry in Denver, she wanted to say. I could find you birds in the rafters.

But Casper wasn't 9 anymore.

Her mother snorted. “You mean if you can't get up here in time to wrap my plates or hand me two ibuprofen . . . The city? Really? You don’t have to go back either. There’s nowhere like this in the world, honeybee.” Her eyebrows arched. “You might even meet someone.” 

Casper pushed to her feet. “It’s getting dark. I’ll get the cat in.”

“There are plenty of people out here! I’ve been asking around for. Hen, my neighbor with the chickens of all things, has a granddaughter like that." Her eyes sparkled, she laughed. "Gay I mean. Oh, I used to have trouble in polite company, but age cures all foolishness. Gay, lesbian, is your daughter a homosexual? My neighbors, the Dutch woman and the Greek, looked like they’d seen a ghoul when I asked, but they admitted it’s easier to be plane once you’ve started–”

“Love you mom!” Casper called over her shoulder. “Super proud of you. Going to text the movers now.”

She heard her mom groan in the background. 

---------------->

PART 2

When Casper was younger, age seemed to stretch out into infinity. When you are ten there is no such thing as twenty-five and when you’re twenty-five thirty feels like an entirely different planet. You never really expect when your mom gets old enough to hurt and you have to help her to the toilet in the middle of the night. Thirty-two snuck up on Casper.

She ran a hand through her hair, squinting out over the mountains. The peaks were covered in scraggly pine trees and washed-out summer skies. More than a mile high and the air was thin and chilled in her lungs. The sun dipped behind the far mountains and the gorge lit up in oranges and pinks. Dipping and rising, the mountains rolled like ocean waves. Clouds like tides nestled between the teeth of the land, glowing a sun-dipped rose color.

Has anyone else ever felt so miserable staring at something so beautiful? Casper sighed.

Maybe her 16-year-old self had been right. There is something wrong with you. Casper chuckled at the thought. At least she never had to be 16 again.

One or two houses dotted the mountain, but mostly there was nothing but sky and trees clinging to the side of slopes. Pockets of real estate had managed to establish summer homes and outdoorsy Airbnbs, but they were far between. Jay Road wasn’t even called Jay Town after all these years. The neighbors her mom prattled on about lived a mile apart each and some of the cabins didn’t even have running water, just outhouses and wood stoves. Which was fine. It was all fine.

But she was Casper’s mom. Brilliant and impractical. Affectionate and painfully honest. Chatty and yet obsessed with being alone. She was her mom and Casper had to do something about the distance to the hospital. Had to do something about the number of accidents piling up. Had to do something about the isolation.

Casper had unfortunately inherited her dad’s careful nature instead the ability to jump off cliffs into waterfalls or hitchhike across countrysides.

A fire lit in Casper’s belly. Her brother said he’d be back when he could. Australia didn’t have great cell service. Rescheduling flights was complicated. Mom would be fine, she was tough. It was only a few more months.

Casper started walking in the opposite direction of the gorge. She had always been proud to be called “mature for her age” and puffed up when her brother was scolded, told to act “more like your sister.” But it turned out nine-year-old maturity wasn’t something you got dividends on. Figured.

Casper trudged down their long driveway. Gravel skidded with each step and Casper called loudly, “Cassie!” The sound of her voice echoed from somewhere. “Here kitty, kitty!”

For all her mom’s monologuing about the virtue of living by herself, it had not escaped Casper’s notice that she named her cat Cassie. Granted, the cat’s full name was Cassiopeia and her last two cats were Orion and Ursa Major.

“Cassiopeia!” Casper was already going hoarse from yelling. She walked all the way to the road. It was all gravel and dirt and potholes, and the only details of humanity were janky mailboxes lined up in a row. Their wooden posts decaying and metal sagging inward.

A hush settled over the twilight and Casper found herself wandering aimlessly. Tiny stars popped out. She wound all the way toward the cowpaths through the woods–makeshift trails that were more like dusty grooves through the pine needles. They were called Desire Paths for those with a romantic bent.

“Cassiopeia! Cas! Here kitty.”

The pine trees had a malnourished look, thin and brittle, spread far apart from one another like estranged cousins. There wasn’t enough air or water this high up for green grass or big shrubbery and she could see her house through the trunks.

Casper kicked a stray pinecone and gave herself a little lecture: Breathe in the summer pine air. Listen to the birds. Feel the crunch of needles under your boots. Be present.

It was no use, of course, whatever she was supposed to feel out here, Casper didn’t feel it. Plus, there were mugs to wrap and dinner to cook and mom’s impossible house to finish packing up.

A soft meow cane from up ahead.

“There you are!” she called. A small black cat trotted through the trees. Casper knelt down and Cassiopeioa purred loud enough to wake the dead. The cat had a narrow elfin face and impossibly thick whiskers like an old man’s wiry beard. She was a small thing, but could generate a truly astounding loud rumble– a tiny motor trying to terraform the dusty landscape.

“Don’t tell the others,” Casper whispered. “But I always knew you were the smartest.”

Her mom trained all of her cats to come in by dark, but Cassiopioa was the only one that came when you called by name. Her rumble vibrated through Casper’s palm and there was a temptation to just . . . stay there. She could squat in the woods until her heart stopped squeezing and the world stopped spinning.

She scratched the cat behind her ears. “Sorry, bud. The cat carrier won’t be any fun but I promise it’ll be short.” Casper shook her head “Well. Let’s get today over with.” She stood. “Come on, sweetie.”

The cat trotted at Casper’s heel. She was a slow walker and would stop to sniff the ground or pretend she wasn’t following you around at all. Casper wasn’t in a hurry, though.

Twilight left ribbons of pink and purple through the sky and Casper forced herself to think about art and love and buying more plants for her apartment. She tried to listen to the music of nature or whatever it was. Casper stopped. Her skin prickled, the forest was quiet. Birdless. The cat let out a low growl and Casper jerked around.

A hiker stood behind her. The woman was pale and bedraggled and staring straight ahead. One of the hiker’s hands was outstretched behind Casper’s neck, fingers hooker, poised behind her collar.

Casper let out a muffled sound and jumped back, the cat scrambling out of the way behind her.

The hiker’s lips were cracked to the point of bleeding, the skin around her mouth chapped and red all the way to her cheek bones. Her eyes were bloodshot. A red windbreaker clung to her in damp splotches. An enormous pack hung off her shoulders, depleted and torn in parts. She was breathing hard.

The woman’s knees buckled inward. She fell to her knees.

The hiker rasped, “help me.”

---------------->

PART 3

Casper staggered, sweat beading on her brow. The hiker was limp against her side—head lulled onto Casper’s shoulder and eyes half-lidded and empty. Holding most of her weight, Casper was lucky the woman was light as a large pile of sticks.

Gravel crunched under Casper’s shoes and her mother’s robin-egg-blue house drew near. The cat was lashing her tail back and forth at the back door, waiting, ears pressed to her skull.

Casper side-eyed the hiker, dragging her to the door. She wet her lips. “How long have you been out here?” she asked in soft tones, gentled into a nursery-rhyme rhythm. “Do you know where you are?”

The woman’s eyes remained half-open and unseeing. Her lips were parted and cracked to bleeding. Casper winced.

“I’ll get you some water the moment we get in,” she hissed, and the woman closed her eyes.

They crossed the lawn and the hiker managed to prop herself up as Casper ran to get the door open. The cat darted into the house the moment the door was cracked, and Casper called through the hallways.

“Mom!” Casper was suddenly glad she had her mother. “Can you get the first aid kit?”

“What’s that?” Thumping sounds answered and soft “ow.”

Brine filled her nose. Casper swung around and the woman was standing behind her, eyes bloodshot and wide. “Um,” Casper flattened herself to the wall, mind racing. “Do you want to wait outside actually?”

The woman swallowed several times and pointed to her mouth.

“Right, right, right.”

Her mom rounded the corner, crutches clattering against the hardwood floor, expression pinched.

“Who is that?”

“Mom! Stay with, uh, her. I’ll be right back.”

They got the hiker into the house despite Casper’s worry flaring like a rash. She supposed there was no point in talking about the importance of having neighbors if she refused to be neighborly. Her mom shot off questions and then petered off when the woman coughed into her fist, whole chest shaking.

“Where did she come from?” Her voice shook and Casper paused. Isla, of all things, was not known for being fearful.

“I don’t know. I picked her up in the woods.”

The hiker leaned against the doorframe, eyes fluttering shut and muttering strings of hoarse words. Casper darted to the kitchen. The nearest hospital was a long way away. She filled up an enormous glass of water, remembering to add some electrolytes.

“Good lord is that woman alright?” her mother muttered. She stood in the hallway, eyeing the stranger.

Casper glanced between them, her mom’s crutches, the woman’s ragged form. The timing couldn’t be worse. It was just Casper.

“Mom, I may need to borrow the car–”

“Who is that?” Her mom repeated, staring.

“She’s not well. I don’t think ambulances come up this way–”

“They don’t. Casper! Who is this?”

Casper strode into the living room, mimicking how she imagined the ER doctors held themselves upright. Grabbing the couch cushions from the unwrapped furniture, she lined them up on the floor. She tuned-out her mom’s questions and guided the woman across the room.

“Here, ma’am, please lie down.” The woman stammered something back and Casper held her breath. The hiker smelled overwhelmingly of stale sweat. Casper ignored how her own shirt was damp from holding her up and eased her down on the makeshift mat.

The woman pointed at her mouth again and Casper held up the glass, tipping her chin up. “Just a small sip.”

Water dribbled out of the side of hiker’s mouth, running down her cheek. She closed her eyes in the next second and collapsed back. Casper exhaled. Well. Shit.

An image flashed in her mind’s eyes. The woman, standing behind her, hand outstretched, fingers hooked near Casper’s neck and a shine in her eyes. Casper shook her head as to dislodge the thought. She worked in a hospital, even if it was just administration. She knew better than to expect shock to look the same on everyone.

Her mother cleared her throat. “So. Where in the woods?”

“Nearby. She was looking for help.”

Casper stood, knees cracked and back straining. Food would probably help. More water.

“She must’ve gotten lost from one of the trails.” Casper silently urged her mom to not mention solo hikers being “dumb.” She glanced between them. “Or from that big gorge one.”

Her mom pursed her lips, brow furrowing. She looked coolly over Casper’s shoulder. “Dear, which trail were you on? Do you remember?” Casper whipped around and the woman’s eyes were open wide. “What happened to your gear?”

The hiker shook her head, shaking. Casper knelt without thinking and handed over the water. “Here. A little more.”

The woman grabbed the glass in both hands. She tilted her head back and drank like a racehorse, glugging and noisy. Water spilled down her front and Casper politely looked away, some sense of propriety surfacing.

Casper willed her brain to work. Twilight was descending and the roads were awful to drive on at night—she’d have to do something quick.

“Mom, let’s go talk in the other room.” She stood, whispering, “is the truck filled up?”

“The truck?” Her mom frowned. “This young lady should get to decide whether she wants to be forced off the mountain.”

Casper rubbed her temple. “What?”

“She survived this long. Some people don’t like quitting halfway through.”

Casper narrowed her eyes to slits. She couldn’t be serious.

“No!” The hiker spit-up water down her front. “I can’t go back. Look, it’s dark.”

They studied her. The woman’s entire front was wet, straight black hair plastered to her cheeks and chest heaving.

“Easy now,” her mom put out a hand. “We won’t force you. I understand these parts. We can take you wherever your party is or down the road to the sheriff–”

The woman shook her head vigorously. Her pupils seemed to pulse, and she spoke in rapid gulps, “Not back. Not down that way. They’ll come from there.”

“Okay.” Casper put her hands up like calming a spooked animal. “We don’t have to go anywhere just yet. You can rest here, you’ll be safe.”

“No!” The hiker gnashed her teeth and the alertness returned to her gaze. She glanced around, faltering upright and falling back down again. “Where are we?”

“You’re near Hand Bone’s peak. Off the main road,” her mother said slowly.

“Do you know how you got here?” Casper added at the same moment. This might be a worse case than she thought.

“How late is it?” the woman’s chest started rising and falling rapidly. “How big is the moon . . .?”

Casper and her mom shared a look. Her mom recovered first.

“Want some more water, dear?”

The woman pressed her palms to the floor and lifted herself up in a painful lurch. Casper put a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not well,” she murmured. The woman’s shoulder was chilled and shaking under her touch. “Can I get some more water? A blanket?” Casper ran through her mental list: blanket, first aid kit, maybe some bread, a call down the mountain.

Then packing the house. Somehow.

Her mother gasped and Casper wanted to shout, “what now?!” The woman had wrenched the sleeve of her jacket up. Her arm was covered in purpling bruises.

“Casper!”

“I’m on it.” Casper fumbled for the first aid kit her mom dragged out. The hiker went very still.

“It’s quiet,” she said, eyes roving over the room and body taut. Casper remembered the hand behind her collar. “Where is your cat?”

Shock looks different on everyone.

Casper held herself motionless, mirroring the young woman. “What’s your name?”

The hiker’s eyes narrowed. She growled, “Who are you? Whose house is this?”

“Easy now,” her mom repeated. “It’s mine. You’re not feeling very well right now. Would you like some aspirin? We’re going to call someone to help you feel better.”

The woman's forehead was slick with sweat. She itched at her arm and Casper forced down bile. The odd bruises covered her forearm like an abstract painting, purples and yellows molting together.

Casper tore her eyes away and took deep even breaths. The moon was enormous through the window, a perfect yellow disc through the trees.

The hiker’s breath came in rapid bursts and Casper forced herself to grab her shoulder again and ease back down.

“My name is Casper Lake. Do you know what year it is?” Casper asked clumsily. “Do you know your name?”

“My name is Maya,” she said through gritted teeth, lips bleeding sluggishly. “And I am trying to get out of here.”

“We’ll try and help y—”

Maya jerked forward to her hands and knees all at once. Casper put a hand on her back and then recoiled, falling to the floor and paling. Clear water poured from the woman’s open mouth as she puked an endless stream on the floor.

---------------->

[lucy-and-rebecca]

Let's talk about Fairy Tail women.

A while ago I came across an ... interesting post that can be summarised as 'fanservice is bad and hence all the female characters are written badly'. I've seen a lot of takes alonge these lines.

I've said it a million times, I don't like the fanservice in fairy tail but claiming that the fanservice automatically makes the writing of the female characters bad is a very shallow way of looking at the story. The over sexualization of the female characters is only one criteria we should consider while discussing how female characters are handled in the story. Unfortunately most of the time that ends up being the only criteria. I also think a lot of the times this is used as an excuse to hate on the female characters in fairy tail.

So here are some of my reasons as to why I absolutely love the way fairy tail women are written.

Flipping the damsel in distress trope.

During the phantom lord arc Lucy is kidnapped and Natsu went out to save her. A very classic setting for the damsel in distress trope. What makes this moment different is Lucy, the princess stuck in a tower, decided to jump. That moment is so important for her character. Lucy chose to jump because the alternative was having to return home to her abusive father and she jumped because she knew Natsu would catch her. That scene both simultaneously showed the audiance how much Lucy dreaded going back to her father's house and how much faith she had in her guildmate. That scene wasn't there to show Natsu saving her, that moment was there to flesh out Lucy's character.

They Unfridged Lisanna.

Fridged girlfriend/wife is a trope where the female lover of the male protagonist is killed, sometimes even before the story begins and the sole purpose that female character serves is to be a source of angst for the male protagonist. Lisanna was almost that. But she was brought back. Even before that she wasn't just limited to being Natsu's source of angst. She was Mira and Elfman's sister. I don't particularly like Lisanna but she's alive and she's living her life with the people she loves. That will always be a positive thing.

Self sacrifice is bad actually.

A lot of times, especially for female characters self sacrifice is presented as a virtue. It's presented as a selfless noble thing. During tower of heaven arc, Erza learnt that that's wrong. she realised she's loved and wanted. She learnt that her life matters and the people who love her would be miserable without her and nothing good will come from her death. She learnt that self sacrifice will only lead to pain for everyone she loves.

Passing bechdel test in the most unexpected situations.

In case you don't know the criteria for passing the bechdel test are, two named female characters talking to each other about someone other than a man. This test is mainly for movies but we can apply it to tv shows, anime and manga by seeing how often it passes the bachdel test rather than if it passes it. Like how someone did for Doctor Who. (I am genuinely tempted to do this for fairy tail anime.)

Anyway getting to the point, you would think that's very easy to achieve and yet so many stories fail at it so very often. While this test is by no means a sure shot way of measuring how feminist something is, I do think a show with a lot of important female characters who have good relationship with one another will pass the bechdel test a lot more frequently compared to a show that doesn't.

Fairy tail passes the backdel test somewhat frequently, sometimes in unexpected ways.

At first we are lead to believe that Erza and Kagura are connected because of Jellal and Simon. So it's only natural that they will talk about those two men during their fight. And yet their fight during grand magic games passes the bechdel test. Because their relationship goes beyond those two men. Erza knew Kagura from their childhood and she wanted their relationship to be defined by that rather than anything else. Erza didn't tell Kagura how she should feel. She understood and respected Kagura's feeling. All she wanted was for Kagura see her as her own person. The reason why this scene managed to pass the bechdel test was because despite everything Erza and Kagura's relationship is not defined by the men in their lives.

Women with power

Time and time again fairy tail has portrayed women wielding immense power. Fairy tail has also portrayed women in position of power. Hisui didn't just remain a princess, she became a queen. Fairy tail was founded by a woman. Dragon Slayer magic was invented by a woman. Characters like Urtear and Brandish are unmatched in power. Powerful women in fairy tail feel powerful, they don't feel power for a woman or power despite being a woman, they feel powerful.

Future Lucy died in her own arms.

Future Lucy is a characters who went through unimaginable pain and suffering and ended up dying. But she died to protect her past self. She died in her own arms and made the past version of herself promise her that she will fight for their future. Even though we know that our Lucy is perfectly fine that scene hits like a truck. Natsu in that moment remembers how happy Lucy was when she got her guild mark. That's a painful memory in that moment because future Lucy has lost everything. She has lost her guild along with her guild mark. Natsu and everyone else there is sad and angry because future Lucy deserved to happy and that happiness was stolen from her. Even when it comes to showing Natsu's pain it's entirely selfless. Even after all the pain she went through in the end she was at peace and the story made sure we knew that. Future Lucy is one of the few characters who dies in fairy tail and like all the other deaths in fairy tail this too is meaningful. Fairy tail would never kill of a character, let alone a female character for shock value.

Power of friendship but like siriously.

From Erza and Mira's childhood rivery to Lucy and Brandish's current rivery, to Wendy and Chelia's relationship that's two steps away from blossoming into romance fairy tail has so many complex relationships between it's female characters. It is so hard to put into words. I absolutely adore the relationships fairy tail women have with each other. They are sweet, bitter, silly, loving and everything else that you could possibly imagine. While not all, most of their relationship are also build on their own without a male character being involved. What I mean by that very often we will see two female characters being friends because their boyfriends are friends or because they had a crush on the same guy but they put aside their differences or the girlfriend and sister of a male character becoming friends. Those examples exists in fairy tail too but they are just so rare. And because we have so many dynamics between the female characters those type of relationship don't stand out.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Final Problem pt 2

Last time, Holmes turned up at Watson's home having survived three attempts on his life and a mysterious meeting with ex-Professor Moriarty, and invited Watson on an impromptu trip abroad. Watson, of course, said yes. I am absolutely sure that nothing bad is going to happen to either them. Definitely not in Switzerland. Maybe they'll see a nice waterfall, though. I've heard Switzerland is beautiful this time of year.

Watson does very well at remembering Holmes' instructions. I would not be able to do that.

I spent a few minutes in assisting a venerable Italian priest, who was endeavouring to make a porter understand, in his broken English, that his luggage was to be booked through to Paris.

Is Holmes pretending to be an Italian priest? I feel like Watson should be more aware of the possibility of a disguise.

Also, the fact it turns out that Watson's Italian is terrible. Holmes totally chose that disguise to troll the fuck out of him. A+ friendship move, even when running for his life.

"My dear Watson," said a voice, "you have not even condescended to say good-morning."

Yeah, so rude. How dare you not say hello to your friend who is clearly sitting right there and not at all an Italian priest.

"They set fire to our rooms last night. No great harm was done."

First: how dare! Baker Street, my beloved! Second: despite the fact that it has been clearly established in part 1 that Watson is very married and very living with his wife rn, Holmes still refers to them as 'our rooms'.

"It was my brother Mycroft. It is an advantage to get about in such a case without taking a mercenary into your confidence."

OK, so he did appear in this story... actually doing something for once. This is a clear sign that things must be dire if Mycroft has pried his seal-like form from his well worn chair in the Diogenes Club to drive a carriage through the streets of London. Honestly, I feel like there should be a system of measurement for direness that is purely how much Mycroft is willing to move to deal with it.

"As this is an express, and as the boat runs in connection with it, I should think we have shaken him off very effectively."

Because this goes directly to one place and then that goes directly to another place, both of which are official and easily discovered by looking at a timetable, clearly we have escaped the people pursuing us. They will never catch us now!

Watson? I get what you're saying. But please think through the logic a little bit more.

"In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple of carpet-bags, encourage the manufactures of the countries through which we travel, and make our way at our leisure into Switzerland, via Luxembourg and Basle."

Nothing bad ever happens in Switzerland.

"There are limits, you see, to our friend's intelligence. It would have been a coup-de-matre had he deduced what I would deduce and acted accordingly."

We're only playing 3 dimensional chess today, not 4 dimensional. I did wonder.

"I might have known it!" he groaned. "He has escaped!"

He did know you were coming for him. And when... Like. If I knew I was going to be arrested for a certain thing at a certain time, I'd make sure to be somewhere else, too, and I don't claim to be a criminal mastermind. Honestly, this seems inevitable.

"I should certainly recommend you to return to your practice."

Does Watson still have a practice? At what point does it become his neighbour's practice? Will his patients even recognise him?

For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the Rhone, and then, branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass, still deep in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen.

This is the literary equivalent of elevator music.

Doo do doo do dooo dodoododoo doo do doo do dooo dodoododoo

In an instant Holmes had raced up on to the ridge, and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his neck in every direction.

We had strict injunctions, however, on no account to pass the falls of Reichenbach, which are about half-way up the hill, without making a small detour to see them.

They sound lovely. Excellent place for a picnic lunch. Clearly nothing bad could happen there.

Although little sus whoever told them that they absolutely had to go see them. Hm?

It is indeed, a fearful place. The torrent, swollen by the melting snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up like the smoke from a burning house. The shaft into which the river hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged lip.

Delightful. 10/10 would visit again. Love how it's described as being 'half-way up the hill', then 'TREMENDOUS ABYSS'. I know this is Watson's PTSD speaking, but the tonal whiplash is getting me, ngl.

We had turned to do so, when we saw a Swiss lad come running along it with a letter in his hand. It bore the mark of the hotel which we had just left, and was addressed to me by the landlord.

...the die is cast, the scene is set...

The appeal was one which could not be ignored. It was impossible to refuse the request of a fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange land.

Almost like it was... designed...

Along this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly.

There was Holmes's Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I had left him. But there was no sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted. My only answer was my own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the cliffs around me.

Well, I certainly didn't see that one coming.

Seriously, though. This is pretty heart-rending to actually think about. Watson just alone on the cliff side, screaming his friend's name into the tremendous abyss.

Then trying to apply Holmes' methods (because that's always gone so well before). Then finding the letter.

Strangely nice of Moriarty to let Holmes write the letter, but I suppose he thought that when he'd tossed Sherlock over the cliff he could just destroy it anyway.

An examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a situation, in their reeling over, locked in each other's arms.

The inherent eroticism of plunging to your death with your nemesis, locked in each other's arms.

...him whom I shall ever regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known.

Fs in the notes.

So... I guess that's the last one, then. No more Sherlock Holmes stories after that. Nope. Well, that was fun. Thanks Watson, sorry about your friend.

[booktomoviebrawl]

We are not judging how bad the movie is, we are judging which adapted the book the worst. There are good movies that are bad adaptions.

Propaganda below the cut (spoilers may apply)

Fahrenheit 451:

The attempt to modernize the story to include the internet really didn’t work. Neither did replacing the book people painstakingly preserving knowledge with dumb technobabble about rewriting a bird’s DNA to include the text of every book ever written. Worst of all was what they did to Clarisse McClellan; turning her from a blithe spirit who inspires Montag to be a better person into a traitor selling out the book people. They also aged her up to make her a love interest for Montag because of course they did.

Okay so I don't remember the plots that well since I only watched the movie once in middle school BUT I do remember how VISCERALLY ANGRY the movie made me feel. For one, they didn't stick to the plot of the book AT ALL. The movie killed the protag, Guy Montag, at the end, when he got to live and rebuild society in the book. In addition, there was a character, Clarisse McClellan, who was a teenage girl (and possibly a daughter figure to Montag) in the books, but then was aged up to be Montag's LOVE INTEREST in the movie, which felt incredibly gross to me. There are probably other things that I'm missing, but these are the two that I remember.

The original book is a perfect example of what happens when you suppress the written word. It focused less on the relationship with humans and technology and more on the freedom of press access. In a world only a few books are allowed, that would also mean only a few ideas would be.

Now I’m talking about the modern movie by HBO. The wife is gone, who stood as an amazing parallel to Guy Montag’s thoughts of her just being okay with living in her dystopia while Guy questioned it. The girl is now a love interested, while in the book she was there to help Montag explore his worldview more. Also, books was more about censorship than human’s relationship with technology. Yes there are themes of it. But the movie makes Montag into a social media star.

Speaking of Clarisse (the girl), she’s a traitor to the resistance in the movie, she tells Montag where the books of the old lady are. It’s the resistance against a world where free speech is limited. And the old lady goes “heres the code word” *sets herself on fire* while in the book after the books are set ablaze she just burns with them.

the books are also in the DNA of a bird.

Like what the fuck is this movie Fahrenheit 451 is an A-B type of story! If it ain’t broke. Don’t fix it

World War Z:

The only thing from the book in this film is a two minute scene with a guy with the same name as a character from the book who gives basic exposition and only vaguely alludes to the stuff he did in the book. It’s just a bland Brad Pitt action movie that wanted to trick fans of an interesting book into seeing it. I wanted to go see Pacific Rim but my cousin dragged me to this shit instead. And yes I am still mad about it.

It shares almost nothing with the book except the title, the zombies, and a couple of locations

It took a genuinely interesting, anthology-like book that featured incredible scenes (of surviving the zombie apocalypse), and used its name to create a generic snoozefest action movie with Brad Pitt because he wanted to be the main character of a story with no main character. There were like 20+ zombie scenes in the book that I still remember to this day and IT USED NONE OF THEM. Battle of Yorktown? The blind Japanese guy and his shovel? The castle? The zombies crawling on the ocean floor???! NONE OF THEM IN THE MOVIE!!!!!! When will this get rebooted into an anthology TV series we deserve???? WHEN?

[crowtrobotx]

I need to rant about my FIL again.

This man stated multiple times that he “just needed a place to crash at night” and that we “wouldn’t even know” he was here because he was going to be out all day and would only reappear to basically go to bed. We told him that we had a lot going on this weekend both individually and together (which is true!) and wouldn’t be available to hang out/entertain him etc. which he indicated he understood and wasn’t bothered by.

Yesterday I (a morning person, regrettably) woke up and went downstairs at about 7 to relax and have breakfast and just enjoy some quiet time before having to go and set up and teach my class. This motherfucker came downstairs literal SECONDS after he heard me get up and followed me around as I’m trying to get dressed/put on makeup etc. asking me the most boring, asinine questions about “oh so how did you get into crochet” “my grandma used to crochet” “how many students do you have” “you know one time I did cross stitch in elementary school” HOOOLY SHIT. I ended up leaving without breakfast about an hour earlier than I needed to (my workplace/teaching spot is 5 min from my house) because I couldn’t deal with him on top of all the usual pre-class anxiety.

Taught class, came home ready to enjoy some lunch and relaxation time and go to a local event with my partner…. I see this man’s car still parked in front of my house. It is 12:30pm at this point. I come in and he’s just sitting on our desktop computer doing god knows what while my partner is sitting there looking like he wants to die.

Partner follows me upstairs and proceeds to tell me FIL “doesn’t really have plans” today and keeps implying he wants to come with us on our outing we had planned weeks ago. Fuck. No.

We got my brother in law to invite the guy out for lunch elsewhere to buy us some time but he still just sat around the house until after 2pm before actually leaving. We went out but he was back a couple of hours later and just SAT in our living room doing nothing but impeding us until he went to bed. Did I mention he nonstop guilt trips my partner about how he’s “gonna die soon” (this has been going on for years and nothing is wrong with him that we’re aware of. He’s not even 70.) and is totally hyper fixated on the most morbid shit??? My partner apparently tried to assuage him by inviting him to go out to dinner, just the two of them, and FIL was just like “nah.” 😵‍💫

Y’all. He doesn’t leave until Tuesday.

Today we have an honest to god thing we have to go to out of town so he’s gotta be gone by 11 or so and we will not be back until the evening but I still want to scream. I am so thankful I can leave for work Monday and Tuesday and have time away from this guy trying to insert himself into our plans and just generally making it impossible to relax in my own house.

I just. I’m not stupid. I know this is some cry for attention from his son and maybe me to some extent. But instead of flat out asking and PLANNING something, he shows up to our house from Idaho with zero notice and tries to squirm into our schedule. My partner is neurodivergent to some extent (he is functional and doesn’t care for a dx which I support if that’s what he wants) and is admittedly pretty bad at socializing and maintaining relationships long term if the person isn’t physically present in his life all the time and he really could do a better job of dealing with him but I also can’t blame him for not wanting to have this dude talking to him all the damn time! FIL’s wife left him explicitly because he never did anything or went anywhere, never had relationships outside of her, and was so flat and emotionless that it made her insane. And holy shit do I get it! This is agony!

I’m just… so tired. I’ve had so much going on and my anxiety has been a real bitch lately. The last thing I needed was someone invading my privacy and limited free time like this.

Again, this is a man who moved across the country with zero notice and then was mad everyone didn’t fly out to visit him. It’s manipulative at worst and straight up stupid at best. I already told my partner we are not doing this shit again and hosting him in the future, which maybe sounds insane considering he hasn’t “done” anything aside from being annoying but this is purely the latest in a long line of obnoxious behaviors that I am too old to deal with anymore.

[adridoesstuff]

Rant/Roast/Personal thoughts on the 2022 Schönbrunn concert version of Elisabeth das musical

So, inspired by the insightful video on this topic by fellow content creator @fitzrove , I decided to write down all my impulsive thoughts while watching this production, since Fitz's video will probably be the only bearable way I will watch the concert version.

Disclaimer: any criticism in the following list isn't meant as a direct criticism of the actors, they are just on that stage doing their job. But this is mainly a criticism of the creative team behind the production (i.e. director, choreographer, designers, casting directors...etc.), who are the main driving force and reason behind how a show looks and feels.

Disclaimer no. 2: The following text contains swearing. A LOT OF IT. And a lot of capslock. This production brought forth the worst in me while writing this and I wrote this at 4 am in the morning, so, you have been warned.

• Already hating the picture frame set and we didn't even begin

• The choreography for Prolog is already abysmal

• Why are we going off on the pyros? We didn't even get through the Prolog

• Whatever they have the Todesengel doing on the frame is dumb

• THE CROTCH CAM. Who's idea was it, because that is literally the worst angle they could have chosen

• Abla is so cute, but they did her so dirty with that dress and they didn't even try when doing her wig's hairline

• I miss Max wearing hunting clothes :( because where the hell is he going dressed like that?

• Why did they omit the line about Sisi wanting to join the circus if she weren't a princess? (Is it because of that damned swing?)

• Why did they decide to make a 3 year gap between Wie Du and Schön euch alles zu sehen? Because that makes Sisi 10/11 or younger during Wie Du, which just seems like an unnecessary change

• The amount of skirt hiking I see here is already exceeding my limits and we're not even 15 minutes in

• No costumes for the ensemble? I thought this was supposed to be the SPECTACULAR new version

• THE DREADED SWING. And it's even dumber than I expected

• I could already see Mark creeping in the background, so talk about an anticlimactic reveal

• And the inclusion of KKOG, my beloathed.

• The entire staging of KKOG here makes zero sense

• Mark, please get off that fucking swing. I don't care that you can take a seat on it from behind, just get off

• Also, why is Mark in white? Literally, why? When they kept in the lyric "Ich erkenn dich, schwartzer Prinz"? It makes no sense

• Ok, Lucheni on the swing is cute and understandable

• Andre was a good Franz back in the 1st revival, but at this point, he's too old to play a younger Franz in Act 1. If you're gonna split cast Elisabeth, do a split cast for Franz as well.

• And this gets only more apparent with Sophie, since the actress playing her looks about the same age as Andre. They literally look more like a husband and wife than mother and son

• Sophie's dress isn't bad per se, it is just very bland

• The male ensemble got some truly hideous coats for Jedem gibt er das seine

• Why are we skipping over the historical goodies of this scene? Literally, those were the whole point there

• PROLONGED HAND SHOT

• The costume department seems to have bulk bought that chunky gold trim and just said fuck it and put in on everyone's coat

• Abla stealing the conductor's wand and trying to conduct is so cute

• Her dress? Not so much. Very bland

• Literally, why are they cutting so much of the book? And especially Lucheni's lines in the middle of So wie man plant und denkt?

• The age difference is even worse now, that Abla and Andre are standing side by side (not looking forward to Nichts ist schwer)

• I miss Lucheni messing with Helene and Sophie :(

• I didn't think I'd like David Jakobs as Lucheni, but he and Abla are the only saving graces on that stage thus far

• Imagine what David could do with good staging and direction a la 1st revival and a complete book

• I even dare say that he could pull off being a Der Tod in the vein of Martin Markert, because he does have that chaotic "came here to fuck around" energy

• Yep, Andre and Abla look more like father and daughter together than a freshly engaged couple

• Okay, Lucheni holding the box with the necklace while giving the most dead pan face straight into the camera is honestly funny

• That necklace doesn't look the least bit heavy. It's literally just felt with some rhinestones

• They literally couldn't even give Abla's wig some forehead curls to mask that god-awful hairline? And they couldn't even curl it properly?

• Was the budget so tight that they couldn't even give the ensemble ladies ONE DECENT COSTUME?

• And they couldn't even iron or at least steam the wrinkles out of that wedding dress? And yes, I don't like it in all it's polyester glory

• The decision to have Mark's legs framed in the shot between Abla and Andre is a CHOICE

• Also, it doesn't look like Mark will change into the black costume anytime soon. Or at all for that matter. So much for the angels being in black

• Talk about "spectacular concert production". Yeah, spectacular that over half the costumes that should be here aren't even present and the set is amateurish at best

• And did Mark literally only stand there to do that evil laugh and then leave? Couldn't he have done that somewhere else?

• Oh, god, did I already mention that the choreography is bad. I can literally do better in my room at 3 am and I am an utter klutz

• I can't even make an argument for the exaggerated whisper motions being camp, because that clearly wasn't what they were going for

• Those colored gloves on the ensemble ladies are so fugly

• Also, the choice to have Elisabeth present while the entire nobility talks shit about her is a MASSIVE CHOICE

• Did Mark have in his contract that he must appear for a certain amount of time on stage? Because why is he standing there in the background?

• MARK, STOP CLIMBING UP THERE

• Okay, him telepathically controlling Elisabeth like a puppet could be an interesting idea anywhere but in a post 2012 production, where in their last scene together he told her "instead of ruling over you, I will be loved". Just makes Der Tod look like an ass

• WHY ISN'T THE ENSEMBLE FROZEN? WHY ISN'T ANYONE FROZEN FOR THAT MATTER?

• Manhandling your love interest is not the way to go unless you're Maté!Tod, who is essentally a giant cat in a human body. It's understandable then, because it does go along with the characterization there, but not HERE

• That was literally the unsexiest hip thrust ever

• Did Abla and Andre literally just flee the scene so that Mark could have his lead man big number finale moment for himself?

• I don't know how I didn't mention this already but MARK, TUCK YOUR GODDAMN SHIRT IN

• Did they literally cut the entirety of Die Gaffer?

• But when I think about it, it's probably better not hearing about the onsetting wedding night in this casting situation

• But they are doing David dirty by cutting so many of his lines

• And they literally cut the entire first verse of Eine Keiserin muss glänzen. Like, what's the rush, besties? You don't have a train to catch

• That change over between Abla and Maya was interesting, but I still am very much against the split track and plus the place they did it makes zero sense

• Did they hire the shittiest wig makers in Vienna for this? Because Maya also didn't get a wig with a decent hairline

• And they couldn't make the puffed sleeves on the nightgowns any less awkwardly short, could they?

• But Maya and Abla both slayed the vocals

• WHY DID THEY CUT STATIONEN EINE EHE??????!!!!

• If someone were to see this show for the first time here, they must be so fucking confused

• And if they want to excuse that by "oh, we're making it more understandable for a mass audience" BULLSHIT, YOU'RE NOT! You're making it LESS understandable by cutting all the context

• Also, the atillas look hideous. What did they make them out of???? Felt????

• Death now provides coffins for your dead kids! Also, for that coffin to have a 3 year old kid inside, it's kind of small

• That dress Maya got for this scene is so bad and just makes her look frumpy

• Yes, because nothing impresses your lady love like you doing a super manly power stance over her freshly deceased kid's coffin

• Homeboy, you didn't "float in a dance". You first telepathically controlled her movements, then were walking around all broody before you started manhandling her in the roughest way possible

• And yes, nothing calms down your beloved so much like wrapping her up in a coffin cover

• Maya looks so confused and yeah, girl, same

• Didn't they literally have anyone else but Andre available to carry the coffin away? What about the Todesengel? Is their only job climbing onto that frame and slowly spreading a wing each?

• Also, where is Mark walking to?

• DAVID IS BACK <3

• If they dare cut a big chunk of Fröhliche Apokalypse, I will scream

• Did they literally tell the male emsemble to bring their own beige trenchcoat to the job? Because it sure does look like they did

• They cut the second verse of Fröhliche Apokalypse...at this point, I don't even have the energy to complain about that

• At least they kept Lucheni's café apron, but it is kind of out of place since they have no set change to make it look like a café

• The amount of side-eye little Rudolf gives is honestly so funny

• Maya looks rightfully outraged at this production, but at least for once, she gets a costume that isn't outright bad (at least that robe looks decent, because that silky orange-y thing peeking out from under it doesn't

• Okay, that almost kiss was too close for this only being Act 1

• I would have liked it better if maybe Mark just remained sitting absolutely stunned for a moment longer than him immediately standing up after Maya pulls away

• I would have liked more smashing the Milchkannen onto the stage but I'm happy to see David back

• Why are they pouring the milk into mugs if it's meant to be for a goddamned bath? Filling an entire bathtub mug by mug seems kind of counterproductive

• OF COURSE THEY CUT A VERSE OUT OF THE SONG

• The cardboard cover for the frame is such a bad solution here. It literally could have been solved by different blocking and lighting but they did the laziest thing they could

• I feel like too much of the volume of the skirt of the Star dress migrated onto the sleeves. And what happened to making the Star dress looking soft and ethereal? Ever since 2012, the European versions just keep on getting stiffer

• At least the wig looks alright. It isn't the best, but it is, an improvement from that previous one

• They had multiple instances, where I feel a side entrance for Mark would benefit his presence. But this is the only time I feel like the top center entrance would be good, but they manage to screw it up once again and have him come on stage from god knows where only for him having to awkwardly time when to take the stairs to get the high ground while trying not to bump into Maya

• WE'RE ONLY AT THE END OF ACT 1???!!!

• Lucheni strutting through the audience with a hand held mic is honestly a mood, although I don't like the plastic toy crown they gave him

• Also, no Kitsch bedazzled jacket? :(

• And him not actually getting prop souvenirs, but the pictures being shown on the LCD screens seems like a massive cop out

• In short: they are doing David dirty with this staging

• The ensemble with their flags are just so unenthusiastic

• Okay, the carriage is a nice idea and Maya finally got a decent dress!

• But why is she already here? We're literally in the middle of Kitsch. Don't tell me they cut Éljen

• David is slaying, ngl and I would have liked to see more shots of him during Kitch rather than literally everyone else around

• Like, this is his big number, let him have his moment!

• Of course they cut Éljen

• And Mark still hasn't changed costumes, so I guess he's doing the entire show in the white version

• What are the ensemble ladies doing there during Wenn ich tanzen will? They are literally just there to block Maya from twirling in her dress

• Okay, Maya stealing one of their Hungarian flags is nice

• And we have a return of Der Tod telepathically controlling Elisabeth's movements and it's even worse than in Act 1

• I'm sorry, but where is all the spice this song is supposed to have? Maya and Mark literally have so little chemistry as Elisabeth and Der Tod due to this horrid staging

• Why is the lighting so severely purple and blue?

• I miss them flying at one another for that final chorus and pushing one another to the other end of the stage

• The camera operator must really like Mark's legs, because they make a comeback!

• They gave little Rudolf the blandest blocking

• But Der Tod taking Rudolf onto his shoulders is kind of cute

• Wait, I liked that blocking for once! Where are you going, Mark?

• Little Rudolf could literally not give less shits about Der Tod here

• Why did we cut the interlude and Lucheni's introduction to the insane asylum?

• Maya's dress has some nicely pleated cuffs, but that duochrome fabric looks so wrinkly. And her hat literally doesn't match her dress at all

• Okay, what is this weird newly added dance sequence and music interlude? Did they literally cut all the above mentioned songs for this??? It doesn't even sound like it belongs in this show

• That was the lengthiest and most confusing and unnecessary sequence ever

• Why did they light this scene in BRIGHT ULTRAMARINE when the only person on stage is Maya and she's wearing a RED/ORANGE/BROWN DRESS? It just washes her out

• And I forgot to mention that they couldn't have picked a more dull and unflattering brown shade for both Abla's and Maya's wig

• Why did they keep the mad woman there in the middle of the frame for the entirety of Nichts nichts gar nichts?

• DAVID IS BACK <3

• At least Sophie got a costume change and I like it much better than her Act 1 dress

• The return of those ugly out of period men's ensemble jackets :(

• They cut the middle of Wir oder sie. WHY ARE THEY CUTTING ALL THE HISTORICAL REFERENCES??????!!!!

• That was the most awkward transition in between songs ever done

• The female ensemble finally got some form of costume!

• And Frau Wolf is SLAYING

• Why did they cut the first verse of Nur kein genieren? And at this point I am convinced that someone has a last train home to catch and cutting down on the ensemble numbers was the only way for them to make it

• But, I like that we do get chemistry between Lucheni and Frau Wolf and that they got to split the lines in that one verse they kept in

• That fall down the stairs looked like it did take a while to practice

• And with it comes a costume I utterly hate: that goddamn lilac robe with the black lace chevrons Elisabeth wears for Maladie

• They literally couldn't have made that cape Mark wears here any less awkward in the amount of gaping it has in the front?

• Which is made even more awkward by him being in white

• If everyone remembers that gif set of Mark not catching the necklace at the end of Maladie during the 2nd revival: I think that is the reason why they kept him at ground level here

• And he does catch it, but that was literally so devoid of climax

• Sophie gets a nice bonnet/cape combo for Bellaria!

• Background framed power stance, but this time, they at least added some flavor with some contra lights

• At back to cutting more of the book for Rastlose Jahre!

• We finally got to Shatten!

• And Rudolf is a little too tidily dressed for my liking

• Oh, here comes the fishing rod/cat toy!!!

• Why are they sitting not looking at one another?

• Also, why are they literally 5 feet apart? As far as I remember, COVID wasn't that rampant in summer of 2022

• Matching one leg up on a stair poses

• The homophobia of not having the slightest bit of physical interaction between Der Tod and Rudolf

• But either way, I love Lukas as Rudolf. Still great 19 years later

• NO DON'T YOU DARE PICK UP THAT FISHING ROD/WHIP/CAT TOY

• Screaming at each other across the stage just like a couple of guys being dudes

• BEHOLD, CAT BOY RUDOLF. When the fandom said that Rudolf is our poor little meow-meow, we didn't mean this!

• You can tell from both Lukas and Mark's faces, that they also think this is ridiculous

• Why did they cut out so many of the feel good historical bits, but not Hass????? That is literally the only song I would prefer they skip here??????

• Lukas is so good in Spiegel (thanks for the feels!! Finally some good content from this performance!!!)

• And even though I dislike Rudolfs being dressed in Austrian style uniforms, Lukas has an especially nicely tailored one

• Lukas going to the ground to beg Maya????? My heart can't take the feels????

• MARK, STOP CREEPING IN THE BACKGROUND

• Oh, dear, the dreaded no-homo version of Mayerling

• And why did they choose to keep Maya on stage? During this scene? Why?

• Okay, the choreo is dumb again

• WHY DON'T WE GET THE TODOLF KISS ANYMORE VBW?????!!!!!

• AND WHY DID MARK NEVER GET TO WEAR THE MAYERLING DRESSES????

• Maya cradling Lukas's jacket during Totenklage is touching tho

To summarize: I wouldn't pay the insane prices for a ticket to this production for the amount of bad scenic solutions, lack of costumes and some truly abysmal directing choices.

[sapphyreopal5]

So I've seen some posts here in the anti blogs regarding black magic, Akashic Records, things like that and wanted to share some insight I've gained on this tidbit. I realize this might not be in everyone's wheel house at first glance but I thought I'd write about this anyways. I do a lot of divination work using a pendulum and ABC chart, which is how I learned about this and connected the dots with other tidbits of info I've gathered from divination and also online.

I'm sure a lot of you here are aware of what happened with the Rust shooting a couple years ago. I'm also sure some of you know that Jensen made a remark regarding the film Brokeback Mountain and how this movie ruined Wild Western films for him [x]. Now you may be wondering "how are these 2 'unrelated' incidents related"? According to his Akashic Records (aka both Divine Blueprints and Divine Plans), a certain someone's astral body made a tamper in his divine blueprints back in the summer of 2002 that makes these 2 incidents 100% related as I'll explain later.

This person's astral body who is his wife created this tamper and had it to where Jensen was going to die on the set of Rust. It turns out that if someone hits "Enter" while hacking the computer in Gehanna/Cloud Nine that has limited access to the Akashic Records, a lot of things have to be done to "undo" a tamper, or what was not supposed to happen to someone. All magic does is enforce what is in the Akashic Records and essentially is the reason behind why everything works the way it does. Black magic is essentially the enforcement of the magical user's astral self trying to eliminate their own unpleasant events in their divine plans, and at the same time placing a bad event in someone else's divine blueprints. As Arthur C. Clarke once said, "Magic's just science that we don't understand yet".

Apparently, when Jensen made the comment about not wanting to do cowboy movies because of Brokeback Mountain when a fan asked him if he'd ever make a cowboy movie, one of his higher selves (yes people can have more than one) was telling him "I am Hermes, one of your higher selves. I've come to warn you to not pursue any wild west movie roles, as there is a tamper in your divine blueprints [Akashic Records], where you die on the set of a wild west movie called Rust from a mysteriously loaded prop gun going off while being pointed at you and being fired off camera. The same person who made this tamper in your blueprints will prove to be unsupportive in your time of need but should be the most supportive [your wife], should you end up auditioning for this role and end up walking away from this set alive."

So, what was done to make it, so Jensen dodged this bullet and his life spared? A man I went to school with who looked similar to Jensen (same brown hair, green eyes, skin color and skin tone, but was shorter than Jensen) yet behaved and dressed just like Dean Winchester was killed 9 years ago by freak accident while cleaning his own gun; this was coincidentally 2 days after I started to date my son's dad in February 2014. 2 nights before he passed away/when my son's dad and I started dating, I had a feeling something big was set in motion and it would become clear to me very soon what that is. I oddly enough had a big crush on this guy in middle school but this didn't pan out for multiple reasons. Also, it turns out that Dean didn't marry Ellen's daughter Jo on a divine blueprints level. It was also set up to where Danneel played Sister Jo, who Jensen is coincidentally married to. This served as a hint of whose astral body made this tamper in Jensen's blueprints to begin with. It also turns out that one of the last things that had to be done in order to spare Jensen's life was to make it so Dean Winchester died... by being impaled in the back by backing into a rusty nail. Strange way to die by the way, don't you think?

I do hope Halyna and that man are both resting in peace. On a very strange note, Halyna's death happened on October 21, 2021 occurred 2 days before my birthday, which is on October 23. Apparently Jensen does have an important job to complete and needs to be alive in order to finish it afterall.

[violaceum-vitellina-viridis]

actually y'know what on the topic of my darling beloved @queerfictionwriter

i did fully intend to make a very gay post about her on our anniversary, but i was already in the trenches of migraine hell time by then and so all i managed was this, in case anyone missed it:

entangled really is the best description we've got for it, and we don't have time to really unpack all of the intricacies of all of that, but what i am here for is to wax extremely fucking gay about how much i love and appreciate twist

read more specifically so this is not a huge wall of text

look, i could go on for days about how much i adore twist. she's funny and she's sweet and she's petty and she's vicious and she's smart and she's loving and just -- i could go on, i really could. everything she is, even the "bad" things, i just. i love her so much. i've said similar before, but i lured her home a little over two years ago expecting i would get a new fandom friend, and i did! i absolutely got that!

but i also got a twin. a partner, my illegal wife. a cowriter and developmental editor. genuinely, i accidentally came across some kind of soulmate -- someone who has felt, from the beginning, like a home.

and the thing is, none of that has changed, it's only gotten more and more. and right now -- god, right now.

i mentioned in my last post, but i've suddenly developed chronic migraine. 60 out of the last 66 days have either been active migraine attack, or somewhere inside the symptoms. i haven't been a person, i've been a shambling pile of depressive episodes, emotional flashbacks, a whole lot of physical and emotional pain and ongoing crisis. my brain has been trying to self-cannibalize, and also eat anything and anyone i love in the process, and twist has not in any fashion been spared from that. during my worst moments, i have said some incredibly awful shit, implied even worse about her, and it's never been about her, it's always been my brain lashing out at the safest part of my life because i'm in crisis, but it doesn't remove the fact that it's happened. it's happened, and i feel incredibly bad about it, but the thing is that twist has gone nowhere.

there's been new boundaries, and limits, and changes, of course there has; she cannot be the only person dealing with me, when i'm like this, and when i have clarity (rare, for the last 66 days, but getting less so, in the world's tiniest increments) i know that. when i don't know that, well -- spiralling me is a lying whore and we're not trusting them on fuck all.

but twist has stuck around. she's had hard conversations with me, and she's helped me process a lot of what's happening, and she's encouraged me through the worst of the hopelessness about my health and situation. she's assured me again and again that being sick is not a crime, that she's not going anywhere no matter what my abandonment trauma thinks. she's helped me set up ways to cope -- a playlist of songs she's picked that are meant to remind me that she loves me (its title is literally Twist Loves You), pinned messages in discords, willingness to reassure me, tagging in our other loved ones, writing up a document so that they understand how best to care for me when i'm in this crisis. she's encouraged me to go to the ER, encouraged me to get therapy, let me whine very, very loudly and very, very much about everything.

she's been fucking incredible, the entire time, even when it's felt like everything is falling apart -- every time, she's there when i come back to the surface. and i don't genuinely think i can put into words how precious that is, how much it means to me, how much i love and adore her not just for what she does for me but everything she is -- someone who doesn't love in moderation, who is willing to love me like this, who is willing to love me even when the scared-animal part of me is convinced i don't deserve it. someone who loves like that at all, not just me but everyone she loves.

so yeah. idk how coherent this is, and i don't think it matters. i just. i love her so much, and i need to shout it from the goddamn rooftops because she deserves to hear it and everyone else should know how amazing, fantastic, perfect and wonderful she is. fantastic friend, fantastic partner, fantastic writer, fantastic editor, fantastic person overall and across the board.

[diaperedemt]

It’s taken me a long time to finally post something. So here goes. A little background about me. I am a 42 year old male who is happily married, father to a teenage daughter, and has a great career as a EMS provider. I wouldn’t classify myself not so much as a little but more of a diaper lover as I’ve been in an out of diapers since I was 14, either by choice or for medical reasons.

When I was 14 I randomly started setting the bed and would take baby diapers and pull-ups from my younger siblings to prevent cleanup and hide if from my parents. That was until my siblings all grew out of diapers. I was classified as lazy and disgusting once I was caught wetting the bed. I was sent to numerous doctors who all said the same. Oh he will grow out of it. The only problem is, I didn’t. My previous wife (my daughter’s mother) had a bed wetting issue. So I introduced her to diapers for sanitary reasons. Initially it was great and we had a lot of fun with it but the glamour wore off and she refused to wear and chastised me for wanting to wear them. Again I was labeled gross and weird.

I never really had daytime issues and was mostly dry at night until about 4 years ago. I was working a 24 hour shift on an ambulance and while asleep I wet the bed. I was horrified. I now had to clean the bed that is shared with 2 other shifts and hide my wet clothes. (I always had a spare uniform with me on shift. You never know what kind of bodily fluids you can get on your clothes during a medical emergency.) My current wife was made aware of my issues early in our relationship and was accepting. We even had diapers at home in case I found the need to wear or have been drinking. After that incident it work the very next night I wet the bed at home. So I started wear diapers again at night. Mattresses aren’t very cheap.

I made an appointment with my primary care and was referred to a urologist. The urologist did all these different tests and couldn’t find out why I was leaking. She ended up prescribing me with an OAB med to try and limit urine production at night. As for work I immediately put in for a position in the office setting and was awarded a 911 dispatch shift at nights.

So for the past year I’ve been diapered at night where ever I sleep. It wasn’t so bad until about 6 months ago when while doing CPR on a patient I completely wet myself in the ER. Everyone was so apologetic but meanwhile I was completely embarrassed. To make matters worse I was brought a pair of paper pants and a pull-up to wear by the ER staff, “Just in case.” When I got home from my shift I went to take my pull-up off and noticed it was quite wet and didn’t recall actually using it. I wrote it off as maybe I forgot and just peed it. So I changed out of my uniform and into regular clothes. While sitting on the couch watching tv my wife came in and told said, “Uh honey, You’re wet.” I reached down and sure enough I was soaked along with the couch. I went to the bathroom to change and was provided a diaper and sweatpants by my wife. I love this woman. She is so accepting of me and wouldn’t know what to do without her.

Anyways. I fought for months to keep from wearing during the day and would have frequent accidents. She wouldn’t say anything but I could tell she was getting frustrated. I didn’t want to wear a diaper all day at 42 years old. Then one night when working I completely wet myself while in dispatch. Being that our dispatch center is recorded I had to break down and tell my director about my accident. She was also very supportive and offered any help she could.

Another call to another urologist ended in a different test. This time a biofeedback was completed and during the test I started leaking at approx 68.2mls. This is way lower than the typical capacity of an adult of 2-400mls. As he couldn’t see any reason why I was still leaking. He thinks it was a birth defect and my bladder has atrophied so much that I’ve outgrown it. During an IV dye test and MRI he also noticed my sphincters don’t operate properly. I was given a diagnosis of Urinary Incontinence secondary to Bladder Atrophy and Intrinsic Sphincter Deficiency.

I am having a hard time accepting this especially with my career as I still work on ambulance from time to time and am a active volunteer firefighter for my community. Just know that each and everyone that I follow helps me accept this a little more. It makes me happy that at least there are people out there who enjoy diapers and help try to normalize something that is so taboo. Thank you each and everyone of you.

[pruning-the-minds-garden]

Whinging ahead.

Right so I have a thing where I react really badly to cold temperatures. Like, "swell up and chronic pain, rheumatoid arthritis is the start but not the end of it, it'll eventually kill me and oh yeah it also causes cancer" bad. I currently take a medication that makes that better a lot of the time, but that wears off about two weeks before I get my next injection on average... sometimes more, sometimes less. When I'm more stressed, it's more. This past month has been the most stressful and emotionally through-the-wringer month I have had in a loooooooong time. We're not going to get into why right now.

Anyway, years ago when I first started living with my then-girlfriend, now-wife, I said there was one non-negotiable aspect of living with me, and that was that the thermostat could not ever be turned down below 75 degrees. It's not that I don't "like" temps below that point, it is that temps below that point cause me profound, lasting (16-24 hrs after a single exposure) physical pain. It also wasn't a cutesy "oh he likes the thermostat this way she likes it this way" thing, it was something way more serious and I did not want my home to literally be hostile to my existence as a person. I wanted to be able to be comfortable in one place in the world, at the very least, to not need to wear layered thermals in my own house. She agreed to that.

Well, now she is on a medication that makes her feel very hot-natured. It's not painful, but uncomfortable if the temperature is above 72ish degrees. Thus, for the last 12 months, every single day I have come home the house has been 68 degrees or less indoors. That is a literally unlivable temperature for me without two sets of thermals, a hot bath once a day, and three set of blankets on the bed along with a heated blanket underneath those (yes, I realize that seems like overkill. Welcome to my life) at night.

I point this out to her, and have pointed this out to her along with why this matters - several times - and she acknowledges that it is important... and then doesn't change. Or, she'll change for a limited period of time, but go back to having the thermostat set low within a week or two. Or, allow it to slip into lower temperatures by passively forgetting to adjust it as outside temperatures change.

This is my life and my health that is being put at risk, and I have brought this up several times. I'm at my wit's end trying to fix this without being an asshole about it. I realize her health situation has also changed vis a vis her medication and that will of course impact things, and she much more readily agreed to the proviso back when she preferred indoor temps to be about the same as I did. But, still, there is a difference between finding something uncomfortable and finding something unlivable, and right now I have to go to extraordinary lengths just to make it so that she can sleep easily and comfortably at night and lounge around in the clothes she wants to wear at home, while I am dressed like I am about to embark on a trek across the Yukon Territories. It is becoming infuriating to me.

[crumblycornbread]

So here’s a little story all about how social interactions go when I speak with someone who has my personality functions but flipped and turned upside down. 😅

Hi, late 20-something INFJ here who is living in a small, sleepy Appalachian city. 🖖🏻 I’m also a master’s level social worker with a trauma informed and clinical background who recently decided to begin practicing in a medical environment. While the change of pace has been nothing less of exhilarating, there has been the occasional bump in the road while adjusting to the social environment of this workplace. I was quick to recognize/observe questionable relationships between coworkers and knew to be more assertive with my boundaries than usual. However, as always, there’s that *one* co-worker who just loves testing boundaries and thus pushing my buttons. This co-worker is no other than a middle aged ESTP who has been running from himself for as long as I’ve been breathing. So, keep reading if a story about addressing a boundary setting in the most INFJ way possible sounds interesting. (ADHD-side note: This is story is also your sign to make that decision you, fellow INFJ/human, need to better yourself… and always trust your intuition when it comes to speaking your mind.)

I feel the best stories are told when the characters have names. Emphasis on characters and not narrator. 😉 So, this ESTP deserves a name, but not just any name. It should be a name that belonged to a pretty famous INFJ: Remus Lupin. Perhaps, we can just say Lou for short because after all we’re talking about a middle aged man from West Virginia here. If you’re wondering why I feel that Lou should be named after an INFJ, let me tell you why: It is a reminder that the story and details you are about to learn about this person is not limited to a specific personality type. Everyone has their demons, or werewolves. Whatever. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Another character featured in this story is Sybil, an INFP. I actually met Sybil way before I met Lou. In fact, thanks to her I learned more than I cared to before I even met the guy. Like me, Sybil is a social worker but she’s been practicing for a bit longer than myself. She’s also much closer in age to Lou than I am. It would make complete sense for the two of them to be friends. However, unbeknownst to the two of them I had already been briefed on their horribly kept secret office romance. Sometimes I wonder if she would have told me as much as she did, if she had actually known I was much more difficult to manipulate than she predicted. Anyways, Sybil shared legends of Lou that were stained with admiration, obsession, lust, and annoyance. Girl had it bad. Lou was great at letting her feel in control through the use of his apathy. Their relationship was almost villainous. Regardless, I learned a lot from Sybil. She told me about how Lou’s bias towards people who struggle with addiction likely comes from having to overcompensate as a parent due to his ex-wife’s alcoholism. (His daughter is 5 years younger than me btw.) Repressed resentment can do a lot to a person, but I knew it could not be the source that created the wounds that afflicted Lou so apparently. Sybil is an incredibly resilient and intelligent woman, but she is incapable of seeing this man for who he really is. Whereas, I saw him for who he was the moment he said his first sentence to me.

There is nothing more irritating to me than having the ability to see so clearly through an ESTP’s bullshit while everyone is left stunned and fumbling while trying to follow their stuttering Ti. 🤬 They’re not THAT brilliant y’all, but god are those weasely fuckers good making you think otherwise. (I clearly have an almost visceral love/hate relationship with ESTPs. Please reference the Elena, Bonnie, and Damon trynamic to understand Sybil, myself, and Lou here.) On the day I was first able to put a face to Lou’s name, I think he must have grown two inches the moment he saw a new member in his audience. He flung the office door open as an entrance and I could almost smell the God complex roll off from him as he strut past me like an English Bulldog on a leash sizing up a fire hydrant. He was then of course too impatient and did not allow me the time needed to prepare in introducing myself to such organized chaos. He took it upon himself, gladly. It was quite frankly disgusting. I loved it. 😂 Lou is low key Nurse Ratchet at our place of work which is rather ironic. Our jobs are interdisciplinary in nature where we alongside and act as gatekeepers deciding who will and will not be admitted to our psychiatric unit. Though we always deflect by making the psychiatrist sound like the all great and powerful Oz. We, meaning Lou and I, are still the information gatherers and boy do we gather information differently.

“I’ll lead this one, okay,” Lou sharply spurts out as he reaches and swiftly pulls to open a privacy curtain. I think I’ve lost count how many times this man has said this to me as we prepare to assess a patient. It’s been very hard for us to establish a good working rhythm. It’s unclear to me if he’s uncomfortable with our power dynamic because I have more education while he has more experience in this position. Or, if Sybil has told him about how I prefer to take my time during assessments so I can gather as much information as possible for diagnostic purposes. I wonder this because it seems Lou likes to rush through questions because he’s already came to a conclusion before having even set eyes on the patient. He ironically voices this same frustration with other coworkers. It is glaring how blind he is to himself.

In between assessing and staffing patients to psychiatrists, Lou is bombarding me with personal questions hoping to probe himself into a debate. He’s also doing the whole damaged-goods-eliciting-rescue routine that I’m sure works on a lot ladies, like Sybil for instance. It’s not doing him any favors with me though because it’s only pissing me off. Can’t a woman just write out her note and process information so that she can come to her own conclusion in peace? 🙉 I can tell he both loves and hates that I can’t immediately agree with him. His inability to get a good read on me though seems to keep him curious and engaged. In the span of a week this man had revealed an ungodly amount of personal information to me, intentional or not. Here’s a short list of things I learned about the guy:

-His dad was a WWII veteran that was abusive “but” not nearly as abusive as father was to him.

-He was married once and has a daughter from that marriage.

-He gained two cats from the divorce and he expected me to be shocked that he had two cats for some reason.

-He was a respiratory therapist (RT) at a major trauma/research hospital in the Midwest for many years before deciding to go back to school to become a nurse, and ultimately starting his life completely over.

-I asked him to tell me about the grossest thing he had ever seen as a nurse. Ya know, expecting to have a humorous conversation about poop or something, but no. Lou proceeds to tell me three extremely gruesome and graphic trauma stories he witnessed as a RT that happened more than 10 years ago. This man- this father has witnessed more children die than any father/man/human should have ever seen. He apathetically laughed while being able to recall the sight of brain matter collecting on his shoes, completely unphased.

-He boasts of the multiple failed relationships and flings he’s encountered (many with coworkers) as if to make himself sound alluring. He regrettably tells me the story of the woman who broke him and how he’ll never be able to love again but he doesn’t know why...

What unfolds next is eerily reminiscent of the Twilight scene where Edward broods just enough to persuade Bella into saying the “V” word (and no I don’t mean virgin). Lou repeatedly and admittedly tells me he doesn’t know why he can’t fully connect/trust others, over and over. It was as if he was waiting for another response to attack and defend for the victory. But let’s just be human for a second. I’m a trauma therapist. If you probe a trauma therapist enough she’s going to say the “T” word. I looked at him square in the eye and said:

“It’s sad to me that you don’t see yourself as deserving of love and other positive feelings. Though I’m not surprised these are the results from your line of thought. If you believe, consciously or not, that you are stupid and undeserving of love you will never allow yourself to receive a love that is unconditional and long lasting. That is a self-fulfilling prophecy that prioritizes your safety over loneliness. To be completely honest, you sound like someone who has been traumatized.”

He became speechless. Suddenly, he had no rebuttal. It’s as though some of the fog had finally lifted for him. I continued:

“From what little I’ve learned about you, I’m not shocked by this. Your job as a RT was hard. You saw things no human should be made to witness. And you know what? The way you’re responding to that trauma is a completely human response. It is not your fault that you did not receive the support you needed in that profession to not still carry around some battle scars. You deserve more.”

He became very teary eyed and lost the ability to keep eye contact. I averted my gaze and began respectfully distracting myself with my note until I (finally) finished it. I felt like gloating in that moment. He spoke up a bit later to talk about his shock because he didn’t know it was even possible to become traumatized by one’s profession. We also talked about how complex trauma is and how it’s never truly “one thing”. I then covertly educated him on trauma responses and interventions/treatments while also normalizing his experience. He is one of many medical professionals who are living with PTSD. Mind you, the Covid epidemic has also exacerbated this lived experience too. Nevertheless, given the fact that Lou is a man of his age living in Appalachia and has his own particular set of life experiences, he lacked the emotional intelligence and self-compassion to sit with his pain long enough to see it for what it is and what it’s not (anger). He just needed a little direction and borrowed patience from another human. We all need that from time to time.

With all that being said, you now know that this INFJ’s response to the exhaustive boundary-testing ESTP, Lou, was to do a quick patch on some deeply rooted trauma and therefore silencing him just long enough to finish doing my fucking job. Don’t fuck with me, Lou. Listen, this bastard was brazen enough to be on a phonecall with one of his coworkers that he canoodles with (not Sybil btw) while sitting next to me in our office. He clearly underestimated the abilities of my youthful ears which meant I had to overhear a jealous woman ask about his feelings towards me, a woman he very nearly met. He responds by laughing and I can I tell from my peripheral vision he’s waiting for me to look at him but he again runs out of patience before saying, “I don’t think she has daddy issues.” I sure as hell ignored his existence after that until he later apologized for his inappropriate comment. But also- how kind of him to assume I don’t have any daddy issues after having a father that was an ESTP.

P. S. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t an ego boost to render such an argumentative person speechless and then seeing them on the verge of tears because they finally got the courage to not run from the mirror when they were really just tryna get them some. 😈

P. P. S. Casual not so casual reminder to treat people as the humans they are and not the roles they fulfill, including yourself.

[vvatchword]

I'm Gonna Die Mad about It

So: I finished Stephen King's It.

This book was nearly "perfect" with a capital "P." So fucking close!! I cannot begin to explain to you how pretty the prose was, how well-written and unique the book is on a technical level, how neatly the research and symbolism and theming all fit, the Grade-A characterization and setting.

Just one element holds this book back: his treatment of women is fucking dire. Just the worst thing you've ever seen. If he were a shitty writer, you could just chalk it up to him being shitty, but--like I've said in a previous post--his second-rate treatment is obvious precisely because of his god-tier skill.

Spoilers follow.

Women Are Cardstock

I have been reading this book in chunks over the past six months to a year--I don't even remember when I started, now--and for a while I took my time because I enjoyed it so damn much. On two occasions, I had to put it down for a few weeks because I got so fucking mad. Beverly and Audra are treated like sexual objects over and over and over, which is a big deal because Beverly is our major female character and Audra is as close as we get to a second.

Oh, actually: there's another major female character. You just didn't realize it. The monster It was female, and part of the story involves the main characters curb-stomping her eggs before they can hatch and escape.

There's nothing wrong with It being female. In fact, thematically speaking, this fits. There's just one problem, and it demands just a little explanation: you know how most Stephen King stories have two-dimensional characters, usually in villain roles? They're just nasty for the sake of being nasty, and they do horrible over-the-top things to other people, and we get to clap when they die in horrible ways. Some good examples would be Henry Bowers and some of his friends.

Well, King doesn't do this to just any character. Most of his characters are well-rounded, and even minor characters feel like someone you might meet on the street. Frankly, I enjoy his villains. It is definitely an acknowledgment that every now and then you get an awful human being, and it's enjoyable from an entertainment standpoint.

In a story that is absolutely filled to the brim with supporting characters, most are male, all with a variety of roles, jobs, personalities, and so on. But absolutely every single female character is reducible to a two-note role. Beverly and Audra are two-note good because they're sexually available and pretty; Mrs. Kaspbrak is two-note bad because of her comical ugliness (read: you don't want to fuck her) and behavior and is as close as we get to a fourth major female character. The other reoccuring female characters are so minor that they are essentially two-note themselves. Women fill very limited roles, perform very limited tasks, and are mostly notable in stereotypical ways--Mother, Grandparent, Wife, Nurse, Teacher, Clerk, Waitress, Sexual Assault Victim--all the way up to the monster, who is Itself a two-note Evil.

Looking in the Mirror

Sometimes, when a book has an obvious flaw, it's just a small comment on the author, and you can go on. It's not really worth talking about because the Yikes isn't always foundational. But Its sexism is astoundingly foundational. It's downright thematic. Women are represented as wellsprings and sexual, almost magical in Bev's case. Don't do that, jesus christ. A "good" stereotype is just as bad as a bad one. You shouldn't reduce Native people to "noble savages," you shouldn't reduce Chinese people to "always savants," you don't do "magical heart of the family" women. Part of equity is recognizing that people can be bad and complicated. ALL people.

A good example would be the underage sex scene. Now, it wasn't as bad as I expected it to be--only King could have fucking pulled this off without making me throw the book across the room--but I am also going to say: the reason he wrote it was extremely suspect. See, it was clear he had a hard-on for Beverly as a character--constantly noting her sexuality both as an adult and as a prepubescent, which went to skin-crawling levels--and he wanted her to be fucked. Oh, god, he needed her fucked so so bad.

Now, the ending of the childhood arc could have ended with the children cutting their palms and holding hands. This would have satisfied his need for a symbolic illustration of the Circle, the joining of the wheel, the coupling of the links, and, I guess, the exchange of fluids. But, true to form, he wanted something with a bit more pizzazz--most specifically, to show the death of childhood. Now, I'm not sure how else to do it--and it's certainly possible that sex could have played a role--but he did NOT need Bev to fuck everybody. It was transparently clear that he wanted everybody to fuck her for other reasons, and I must stress: she was a fucking child, and would be one for some time afterward.

I feel like I could go on for about ten paragraphs about the meta of a book--why authors choose the characters, subjects, problems, symbols, and contexts that they do--and when those choices become transparent and reveal the magician behind the curtain. See, there are moments where It becomes more about the author than the story being told. That's the gross factor, not the fact that underage sex occurs. It doesn't mean that authors can't write about underage sex or unfaithful spouses or kids being motherfuckers or use those elements symbolically. I mean, those things absolutely happen, and harsh truths are some of King's calling cards, and I am grateful to him for that. What is gross is an adult getting a hard-on for a baby and wanting that baby to get fucked.

Why Fucking?

As we all know, fucking is not in and of itself a sign of childhood's end. Why couldn't Bev's period be just as symbolic, for example? Well, we can't use that, because boys don't have periods, so how else do we show that everyone has stepped up out of their old roles into new ones, preferably simultaneously and directly after their first encounter with It?

I'd argue that the act of leaving childhood is a number of life experiences that put the Fear of God into you, and that you really only hit adulthood sometime in your 30s, and some people never hit it at all--due to anything from limitations of intellect and dogma to the cushion of wealth. I'd argue that trying to illustrate it by sex is extremely simplistic and even a bit insulting. I mean, you've never seen dumbass teens flying after that forbidden fruit? Do you ever think, "Yeah, that sure isn't a child! That highly unstable horny motherfucker right over there."

First of all: King used this as a way to show the kids stepping over the boundary from childhood to teenhood. To which I say, as a lifelong asexual: lol. But I guess that's 80s America for you. Sex was a bigger deal back then.

Secondly, he used this to show the Losers as binding to each other--joining the circle, in essence. Okay, then why didn't all of the characters fuck each other regardless of sex? This would have been as equally symbolic of the joining, if not MORE so, because the Losers' linkage should have been about the union of EVERY MEMBER, not of everyone unifying to fuck the same person. Why was Beverly's fuckhole more sanctified than, say, Bill's? Or P in V more noble than a handjob?

Here's where we see that double standard in action: Beverly was an object to be fucked and romantically desired, but the male characters were fully-fledged beings whose sexuality was one part of several parts. She was only there to fulfill them. They were not inherently sexually desirable--only she was. They are certainly spoken of sexually in the book, but these descriptions tend to be obvious, clinical signs of puberty for the most part. They're treated respectfully, in short.

(Notable, too, that Mike Hanlon and Stan Uris--as the other token minorities in the group--get more explanations of and respect for their backgrounds than Bev does. If you don't think I'm taking this lesson to heart...)

Thirdly, it's a sign of how 80s-era King saw sex and women: as symbols of life, with the act of procreation in the face of death and destruction. That's not necessarily incorrect, but it can be taken to a regressive place, and he went there. I'm just gonna say that the death of the only obvious gay character in the book becomes a little more interesting with this reveal.

This also makes It more interesting as a character: It reproduces asexually. I suppose it is also possible that it can't create anything of its own--perhaps It consumes children to create its own? Regardless, this implies that the act of fucking itself is something more than the act. Now, by the end of the book, King defines the true life drive as "desire"... not sure I followed him there, but then again I did read the book over an enormous period of time and probably missed a lot of connecting tissue. I'll have to come back to this.

I'm Coming Back to This

As mad as Its stances on sexuality and women made me... this book is incredibly fucking good. I already want to read it again. King is a master of the craft. Not many people can do this shit. The very act of intertwining the childhood parts with the adult part, which could have been clumsy or terrible in anyone else's hands, works perfectly here. His prose is beautiful and there are lots of wonderful lines. He fully develops every character and setting. I want my own copy to scribble in.

My favorite part was when King brought each adult characters' fears to life. Up to this point, I may have been a little, uh... well, I may have laughed a few times. King has this one stylistic fetish where he gets gratuitously gross and there's a point where it's not scary, it's just kinda stupid. It's the equivalent of an 8-year-old boy with his sleeves folded over his hands coming up to you and slapping a frog into your open hand. Like, yep, honey, that's a frog. Put it back.

So while there were a couple of monsters that definitely gave me chills, for the most part I was like, "Ohhhh are there worms in his mouth now, Stephen? Are you gonna talk about exposed intestines now, Stephen? Is the head leaning halfway off the neck with an eyeball hanging out, Stephen? Hurrrrr that's not how bodies work hurrrrr"

Needless to say, because I wasn't scared, I was basically doing that thing where I was thinking: "Well, if I saw this monster in quite this way, I would have done this or this or this."

But with the appearance of one of Its final forms, it clicked. I got it. And I was able to extrapolate from the fear a character felt to some fears in my own life. It was remarkably powerful. Its appearance was perfect in that moment, and a lot of the book slotted into place for me. I was able to look at my own fear in the face--realize what shape It would take in adulthood.

That right there is the magic of literature, lemme tell you. I had a healing moment last night.

I highly recommend giving It a read.

As for me, I'm about to read a LOT more classic King. Stick around to hear me huff and puff about Carrie or something, idk