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#at no one in particular just been reading book reviews
recallthename · 2 years
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reading goodreads reviews of beatles books is just like
person a: this had way too much information on the beatles, i’m just a casual fan, i didn’t need to know all of this
person b: i’ve read hundreds of books about the beatles, this had absolutely no new information
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headspace-hotel · 10 days
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I looked up some stuff about the "domestication syndrome" in animals because I read a couple times in books the idea that domesticated animals are neotenous, meaning they retain juvenile traits into adulthood. The idea being that humans have essentially created more helpless, more exploitable versions of wild animals to "dominate" and abuse nature.
I thought, "Okay, that sounds like something that couldn't be proven. How much do we even know about the juvenile brain development of, say, wild goats or boars, anyway?"
So I found this review of the literature that goes back to the fur farm fox domestication study and it's even worse than I thought: We don't even know that a 'domestication syndrome' in animals exists at all, let alone whether it is a retention of juvenile traits into adulthood.
So the fur farm fox domestication study: you may have heard of it, it claimed to have demonstrated that within a few generations, by selecting for tameness, the researchers bred "domesticated" foxes with a whole suite of traits that appear in many domesticated animals but seem unrelated to tameness, such as piebald coloration and floppy ears. The idea is that the genes for tameness and for these other traits commonly seen in domestic animals are linked, that is, an animal that inherits one is likely to inherit the other.
There's some major problems. First of all, all the foxes used in the study were from fur farms, and had already been selected for some level of docility and for coat color variation. The foxes didn't get white spots on them because they were selected for tameness, instead the pre-existing population they were selected from had those genes in it to begin with. Also, the effective population size of the foxes in the study was pretty small, meaning a small amount of genetic drift could have a big impact.
Second, there isn't very much evidence for most of the "domestication syndrome" traits in most animals. Even where the "domestication syndrome" traits can be found, they are often particular to specific breeds, and it's unclear whether they are linked to domestication as such or just the development of that specific breed.
This study only deals with a few animals, mostly small animals. It would be even more interesting to see a breakdown of even more animals (particularly more large animals). Off the top of my head, almost none of these would apply to horses, and only in specific cases would apply to cattle. Even in dogs, extreme changes in skull morphology have happened relatively recently with breeders in modern times going after extreme phenotypes.
Particular to cats: extreme skull changes and floppy ears occur as part of some "breeds" because they are specific painful genetic disorders that breeders of cats decided to perpetuate VERY recently. Scottish Folds were deliberately developed from cats that just so happened to have a disease that causes them to be in constant suffering due to their messed up joints, it's not just a variation that regularly pops up in cats to varying extents. Likewise with the smushed-face Persians. Their brains are getting squished into where their spinal cords should go because their skulls are so messed up from selective breeding for an extreme look.
What domestication means has been majorly shaken up in the past hundred years. With companion animals, breeders are in a race to make the most screwed up animal with the most extreme, striking traits possible, and with livestock animals, lots of heritage breeds with more variations have straight up gone extinct because they've been flattened into industrial monocultures to produce meat and milk as efficiently as possible, health and genetic diversity be damned.
To study domestication itself, you would have to study landrace breeds, right?
Basically there isn't one thing that domestication is
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etirabys · 1 month
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meandering post about reading Orson Scott Card again
I've been offline starting at 9pm every day (except once. I was drunk at karaoke and asked for anons at 8:30pm) for six weeks, with the result that in befuddled boredom two nights ago I picked up Orson Scott Card's Songmaster from the house bookshelf.
I read Ender's Game and three sequels when I was a teen thought the books were mid. Since those are OSC's best works I assumed he had nothing more interesting to offer me and didn't try more of him for fifteen years, but Songmaster was compelling enough that I immediately afterwards picked up The Memory of Earth, the first book of a pentalogy.
TMoE is extremely my jam: after humanity blows itself up on Earth, AIs monitor thriving human civilizations in the planets that survivors managed to escape to, and suppress any tech that enables large scale violence by exerting low key mind control via satellites. But forty million years pass, many of the satellites break down, and the AI needs help from humans to restore capabilities. Because as its control wanes, people are starting to e.g. conceive of airplanes or bombs again, and override the injunctions against entering military alliances more than two edges of connection away.
The AI is worshipped as a god all over the planet, but the fourteen year old protagonist that becomes one of the AI's agents tells the AI from the beginning that he'll break with it if its morality seems wrong to him. I like the fourteen year old – unlike Ender or Songmaster's protagonist (adult minds piloting ten year old bodies), he's a normal gifted kid who's unpopular 50% due to his ego and big mouth and 50% because he's socially inept and offends people even when he's trying to be nice.
Songmaster is also partly about a permanent solution to large-scale violence, albeit through one guy who establishes a monopoly on violence and sweeps in pax galactica. Both it and TMoE are preoccupied with the eradication of suffering from evil / human violence, which is closer to my resonant frequency than narratives about defeating particular people or ideologies. At the moment I can't think of any other book with such an insistent focus on the matter than T.H. White's The Once and Future King. It's hard to make a compelling story out of, and I don't think Songmaster really succeeds, but TMoE's premise is well suited to explore that. (I'm also enjoying the matriarchal culture where everyone is expected to have multiple serial-monogamous marriages.) After reading 70% of TMoE last night I wrote:
Usually when I read fiction there's a small part of me going, how can I use this as fodder for my own growth, how can I remix or improve or react against this, how do the author and I measure against each other? (If the quality and content are at an anti-sweet spot, the small part becomes quite large and I feel all teeth towards the author.) But on occasion I read something so close that the absence of that measuring-feeling is its own sensation – ego departs, or at least is split across two bodies. There's just amity and recognition
And it's pretty interesting to feel this way about Card for, well, the reasons.
(If you're familiar with Card drama none of the following will be new to you; I'm coming to it fresh so the rest of this post is me going "uh... wow")
I vaguely knew he was a homophobic Mormon who'd gotten into fights about gay stuff, but I couldn't tell from the Ender books I read. But in Songmaster his issues spring off the page in such a weird way. Every fifth Goodreads review of this book is "Card, u gay?" because, well,
(One review, possibly from a fellow Mormon, that went "Card, it's so sinful of you to be this gay in your novel". Why did he write this book that would predictably make everyone mad...)
it's full of gay male desire. The protagonist (Ansset) is approximately a castrato and characters notice him sexually a lot. The first and only time Ansset has sex it's with a Kinsey 4-5 male character he loves, who's married to a woman but has fallen in love with Ansset. It turns out the drugs Ansset took to prolong his singing career painfully and only-kinda-figuratively explode your balls when you have your first orgasm and you'll never feel sexual desire again. (You'd think his loving teachers would have warned him of that, but, whatever, they didn't.) The other guy is literally castrated in punishment for inadvertently torturing a highly valuable castrato. It's pretty bald: GAY SEX IS ALMOST IRRESISTIBLY TEMPTING BUT YOU SHOULDN'T DO IT.
(Sidenote: both Ansset and the guy's wife are very close and have a "there's enough love to go around" attitude about the gay sex initially, before they go "wait Josif is a SERIAL MONOGAMIST... he can only love one person at a time... the moment he had the gay sex his marriage was destroyed". It's funny in a mildly stupid way that Card would set up this parable of homosexuality destroying lives and a marriage but almost everyone involved is peacefully ready to sail into an open marriage. I guess it makes sense if you want to say very clearly that THE GAY PART IS THE BAD PART)
which is fascinating to me, because... why would you tell on yourself like that
(81k also told me secondhand of an essay? interview? where Card openly says "we have to stand against legalizing gay marriage because everyone will get gay married and society will collapse", so that's informing my read of Songmaster as well)
I am pretty dang open about my personal life online but if I had a lot of feelings I thought were disgusting and immoral I would not write a novel dripping with those feelings before pointedly castrating the leads for them. Especially if it wasn't relevant to the actually highbrow themes of (checks notes) winning over your adversaries with kindness and never relinquishing your monopoly on violence. I would be so so so so embarrassed to let this go to print, it's so psychologically transparent, what was he thinking
(Well, I assume he's a very different person with different social incentives. For all I know, people in his church went "hey Orson we read your book and it's clear that you're gay but signaling strongly that you won't give into the gay feelings, we're here for you, it was really brave of you to publish this".)
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transmutationisms · 5 months
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Any tips for reading academic/dense texts? I’m out of practice and without the guide of a professor to patiently explain every single thing it’s pretty hard getting back into it. Got any advice for improving one’s reading/comprehension abilities? I was reading Gramsci the other day and gave up. So we are talking pretty dire straits.
read a few book reviews or a secondary essay that summarises the text's arguments and significance. these readings are not definitive and you may very well end up disagreeing with them, but knowing what someone else made of the work can help you know what you're looking for when you read it yourself
read the introduction and conclusion first, then tackle the body chapters. this is similar to the above strategy in that it can clue you in to the main arguments and significance of the text before you delve into specific details and arguments. it helps keep you oriented if you know generally where a chapter is going and why. where applicable, you can also read the intro and conclusion to each chapter before reading the middle bits
academic texts are context-bound just like any other writing. if a book is baffling you, it can be clarifying to ask questions like: whom is this trying to respond to? why is the author setting these particular parameters of debate? what arguments or events is the author building on, answering, or taking for granted a reader's awareness of? you don't have to become an expert in every author, their political context, or their intellectual influences, but it often helps to pick up the broad strokes
keep a running lexicon of any specific jargon, vocabulary, or neologisms the author introduces. get into the habit of 'translating' sentences, at least in your head, by replacing all such terms with their definitions when necessary. sometimes you might even find it helpful to draw up some kind of diagram showing how terms relate to one another, like a taxonomical tree or other scheme
don't be afraid to skip around. if a chapter or section is particularly dense, baffling, or irritating, it might make more sense if you come back to it later, after reading other bits of the argument. academic non-fiction follows varying organisational schemata, and often chapters and sections stand on their own (& may even have been written as separate pieces, for instance intended for journal publication)
annotate (i like underlining and scribbling in the margins) and take notes (i like to remind myself what page number i can find a specific topic on) as necessary. the goal is not to disrupt your reading flow, but to give the future you the ability to look back and quickly identify what you thought was important or interesting in a text
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mangomonk · 7 months
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i've been dreaming
↳ summary: read this drabble and pt. 1 first! remus deals with the repercussions of falling in love too late. ↳ content: angst, happy ending, mentions of eating/sleeping properly ↳ a/n: get comfy, this is a long one! i really appreciated and loved each comment from pt. 1, it made my day to see y'all scream heartbreak. would love to hear your thoughts on this one : D anyways, i went back and forth on my characterization of remus a million times, but i hope this version of him resonates and i hope you enjoy :") tense/grammar is all over the place, minimal proofreading but i've stared at this for too long. p.s. i'm kinda proud af about connecting the titles, they're from ivy by frank ocean.
Remus has been dreaming. Every time she had looked at him, he had felt like he was dreaming.
There wasn't a moment in particular that Remus could name when he realized he wanted her to look at him. He was in the middle of it before he even knew he had begun, though maybe a part of him had known it would have been futile to resist when she looked at him like that.
Or maybe it had been an accumulation of moments of Remus longing for her to look at him.
Maybe it had been when they had started their fourth study date together when Remus had decided he needed to act like a normal person and have strict boundaries instead of casting sidelong glances at her over the top of his book. He couldn't help but look at her as he tried to figure out why in the world a girl like her would ever agree to date him in the first place — he had only really asked so that he could be rejected and put the whole thing behind him.
But it wasn't his fault that the more glances he stole at her, the more he noticed the way her expression changed with each new story she read. It wasn't his fault that her lips parted when she was concentrating too hard on Ancient Runes. It wasn't his fault that her lips were the same color as his mother's tulips. But she never noticed when — or how — he looked at her, to his mingled relief and disappointment. It wasn't his fault at all, he reasoned — anyone would notice these things if they just looked at her properly. It baffled him a little how no one else seemed to have noticed this things about her yet.
It had been that day that Remus had decided he needed to start acting normal. He needed to learn how to control his eyes before he bore holes through her face. So he had focused on reviewing his Magical Theory textbook. Even though he had been rereading the same line for over five minutes. Even though he was so painfully aware that if he moved his leg out just slightly, his knees would knock against hers. Even though he could begin to feel her glancing up at him from across the table. When had he become so attuned to her gaze?
But he hadn't looked up, frustratingly going against every fiber in his body, because he needed to be normal and have boundaries and this was temporary. Even if she was looking at him like that. Remus Lupin, with his ever so strong willpower, hadn't looked up to meet her not-so-secret secret glances and had scribbled a note on his scrap of parchment and slid it over.
Hogsmeade this weekend?
Or maybe it had been when they had gone to Hogsmeade, the first time they had done anything together outside of studying. Asking her to go was a stroke of madness, but Remus had reasoned it to be a healthy show of their relationship, no matter how temporary it was supposed to be. It wouldn't make sense if they were dating and only ever studied together, right?
Right.
He had thought about sending an owl to cancel, even as he tried on Sirius's shirt for the second time — the night before, he had come to the sobering realization that all his clothes were plain. He had thought about telling her that he caught a cold, even as he let James slather Euphemia's silkifying potions through his hair. He had still been thinking about canceling even as his feet took him to the entrance gate—
—and she had been wearing a skirt.
It had been one of those long and flowy Muggle skirts — Remus had never before paid attention to women's fashion, but after that moment, he realized that maybe he ought to subscribe to one of Lily's Witch Weekly magazines so that he could get her more skirts, or rather, more of anything, he thought she'd look pretty in anything. Had he said pretty out loud?
Remus Lupin didn't have butterflies in his stomach, he had damn hummingbirds.
"Hi," he had said, a little too tersely and sharply.
"Hi," she had said back, all smiles. Despairingly, he had noticed that she was wearing lipstick. When he stared at her a little dumbly and didn't say anything back, her smile turned nervous as she fidgeted with the collar of her blouse. Impulsively, his eyes darted to follow the motion. "So... Hogsmeade?"
He wasn't going to tell her she looked pretty because he had laid out his boundaries. And if he started, he would never stop— "You look preautiful," he had blurted, stricken.
Her eyes had widened a fraction before she broke into a laugh. A proper laugh, not the quiet, library huff type of laughs he had grown fond of hearing. The warmth in his chest had spread all over and it had felt like it got to his head as a fog, rendering him unable to think. Remus had no idea what to do with the new, dizzying knowledge that she looked absurdly stunning when she was laughing, but all he could think about during their walk to Hogsmeade was how he might make her laugh again.
Or maybe it had been the first time he had properly introduced her to the Marauders. She had stepped closer to him instinctively — perhaps nervously, because Sirius was staring at her too appraisingly with narrowed eyes — when the back of her knuckles had brushed against his. Remus had nearly jumped out of his skin. Sirius's gaze had darted to him swiftly, his gray eyes knowingly bright with interest.
"Pleased to meet you," Sirius had said a moment later, his face breaking into a warm smile, but Remus wasn't paying attention anymore. He was just trying to figure out how he might hook his pinky with hers.
All this to say that there hadn't been one particular moment Remus Lupin could have pinpointed that had sealed his fate of wanting to be under her gaze.
The first time she looked at him, it was the start of nothing and when she looked away that night, it was the end of everything.
Remus wished she yelled at him. Hell, he even wished she had called him a monster, cursed him, hexed him. Remus thought that he would have been happier if she looked at him with contempt and disgust in her eyes, which only weeks ago had been his greatest fear when he considered telling her about his lycanthropy. The thought back then had kept him up at night, but Remus found himself dreaming for it now. Anything if it meant that he didn't hurt her the way he had. He found himself dreaming that she would just look at him again.
If Remus thought he had been panicked that night, it was nothing compared to the next day when he realized she was avoiding him. She hadn't shown up to the Great Hall — Remus knew this because he got there the moment the doors opened to make sure to catch her — and she didn't show up to any of their classes for the remainder of the day. The Marauder's Map showed that she was unmoving in her dormitory. When Remus finally did catch sight of her the next day in the Great Hall, he burst to his feet but froze a moment later. She walked past him, her expression one of unfamiliar blankness.
"Y/N!" He called, lurching forward towards her.
When she turned away from him to avoid meeting his gaze, Remus felt something like dismay sink so heavily and swiftly in his chest, like a stone thrown into a calm lake. The idea that Y/N wouldn’t look at him again drove him half-mad with a panicked disquietude that sent him scrambling to find a way to talk to her again. 
He tried in the Great Hall, but she stopped coming. She would arrive just late enough that class would start and would disappear the moment class ended. She stopped going to the library. Even with the Marauder's Map, he had no luck. The closer he tried to get to her, the further she stayed away.
Remus thought he was dreaming when he saw her alone in the corridor one Hogsmeade weekend when he couldn't bring himself to leave.
"Y/N," he said instinctively, hopefully. She looked up, her surprised expression immediately shuttering close. "Can we talk? Just for a moment?" He asked, stepping towards her. When she didn't move away, he straightened, encouraged.
“I know,” Remus began, his throat bobbing as he swallowed back the jolt of despair when he realized that she still wasn't looking at him. The despair only grew into a gnawing worry when he noticed the way shadows lined her eyes, the planes of her face hollower. Was she taking care of herself? "I know you don't want to see me anymore, cariad, but—"
"You don't get to call me that anymore."
He sucked in a breath, steeling himself before continuing. "Okay," he whispered, "Okay. I know. And I'm sorry, Y/N. I've never been more sorry in my life. And I won't ever ask you to forgive me. But, but I'm selfish because I want you to know that it was real for me."
She looked like she was folding in on herself as she clutched her forearms. "It wasn't real. You don't actually like me, Rem— Lupin," she said evenly, her tone neither cold nor warm. "It could have been anyone else."
"No, I do, I do," Remus lurched forward, desperate and earnest and wishing. "I like you, and maybe it wasn't real in the beginning, but it's real now. Like isn't even a strong enough word for how I feel about you, Y/N. I lo—"
"Don't." At the harsh steeliness of her tone, Remus froze, stricken, his heart dropping to his feet. "Don't say it."
"But it's true," he whispered entreatingly, imploring her to look at him again. "It's been true for awhile now."
"I don't believe you."
Each word hit him in the chest like a sharp pang, the stricken feeling in his chest clenching around his heart. "Okay," Remus swallowed back the crumpling sense of despair as he nodded earnestly. "That's okay," he whispered, as if not to spook a wild animal. "I... I'll show you." He had so much he wanted to say, so much that he wanted to show her. If he had been honest since the beginning, he wouldn't have hurt her. But maybe if he was honest now, it wasn't too late — he could still fix things. "You have my heart, Y/N," he continued softly, "—and you can break it, if you want, if you'll give me another chance—"
"I don't need it," she said quietly, looking away from him again. "Nor do I want it."
— — — — —
Remus stopped dreaming as he stopped sleeping.
"You should get some sleep tonight, mate," James said as he edged near his friend. "Full moon coming up."
Remus grunted in his response as he continued writing at his desk.
"Prongs is right," Sirius agreed, exchanging a quick look with the others. "She'll come around soon, anyone with eyes can see how you look at her. And how she looks at you."
"Why don't you talk to her again?" James suggested gently as he sat on the edge of Remus's bed.
"She doesn't want to," Remus said quietly, a blot of ink pooling at the end of his quill as he tried not to think about their last conversation.
"Why not write her a letter then?" Sirius asked. "Look, Moony, we're worried about you..."
A letter, Remus thought dimly as he stared down at the parchment in front of him.
Cariad, he began before setting his quill down to stare at the word. The first time he had called her cariad had been a slip of tongue. When he was younger, before his father had burnt himself out trying to find a cure to his lycanthropy, his father used to call his mother cariad. It was like a gentle period at the end of each sentence, an endearment that said everything all at once.
It had slipped into the end of his sentence one morning when he had asked her if she wanted orange juice or apple juice. Maybe it was too early to confess love, but it had slipped out, subtle and quiet like their time together.
"What's that?" She had asked, her attention now caught. "Car-iad," she said slowly, as she tried pronouncing the word carefully. Remus had thought he could have kissed her then.
"It's Welsh," he had said, keeping his tone light and casual as he reached for her cup.
But she had been as attentive as ever, her eyes seeing right through him as they tracked across his face carefully. It didn't help that he could feel his ears begin to burn. Despite himself though, Remus delighted being under her attention, and had relished it even as she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. "For?"
Remus had schooled his expression carefully. "For 'Y/N can never pick between orange juice and apple juice,'" he had deadpanned, inwardly delighting in the way her lips twitched as she huffed, unconvinced.
"Today is an orange juice day," she had declared finally. Remus had bit back a smile as he poured her juice. When she took it, she had smiled at him around the rim of the cup. "Thank you, cariad."
Remus had thought that he was dreaming.
Remus picked up his quill again and got a fresh sheet of parchment. Dove, he began again before promptly crossing it out. A new piece of parchment. Y/N, he started again. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. He missed saying her name. When the squeeze in his chest got too tight to ignore, he set his quill down and rested his forehead against his desk and closed his eyes. He had hurt her so terribly, the person he loved. And Remus resented himself for it. He didn't have the right to call her cariad or dove or darling or anything anymore. He didn't have the right to wallow in pity. He didn't have the right to try to fix things when she so clearly didn't want him anymore.
"Remus Lupin," a voice snapped sharply as the door to the dormitory flew open with a boom. "How could you—"
“Lily!” James blurted in clear alarm. "Lily, what are you doing here?"
"I'm here because you lot have really gone too far this time," Lily seethed, her eyes as fiery as her hair as she stalked into the room. "Remus, I thought you were better than this! Y/N hasn't—"
"Lily!" James jumped to his feet in a rare show of courage against the witch. He let out a nervous laugh, but to his credit, stood firm even as Lily rounded on him. “You’re making him feel worse!”
For a moment, Lily turned on James, an incredulous expression on her face before her gaze slid over to Remus, who still hadn’t looked up during the exchange. She faltered, her scowl softening as her gaze darted back to James who gave her an encouraging nod. But then the fiery-haired girl straightened. “He should feel bad,” she admonished, though the venom had begun to dissipate from her voice. 
“And he does,” Sirius supplied helpfully from his corner of the room. “Moony hasn’t really, er, moved or spoken in days, really. We’re all getting concerned.”
"Well neither has Y/N," Lily grumbled, though her tone was beginning to soften rapidly.
This caught his attention. Remus lifted his head to look at her. "Has she been taking care of herself?"
Lily narrowed her eyes at him, a crease forming between her brow as she looked at him assessingly. "Have you been taking care of yourself?"
Remus didn't say anything to this as he turned to rummage through his desk. "Will you make sure she eats and sleeps properly?" He said before finding the stack of parchment he had been looking for.
"It took me nearly an hour to get her to understand that I wasn't a part of the mess you had created," Lily said, though not harshly. Remus ignored the look of pity in her eyes as he busied himself with cobbling together a few more sheets of parchment. "I think you should be the one making sure she's alright."
At this, he paused to look down at the parchment. “She doesn’t want to be in the same room as me, let alone speak with me,” Remus pointed out, his voice unsteady. In a quieter voice, he added, “She can’t even stand looking at me.”
The room fell silent. Then finally, Lily spoke up again. "Fine. I'll check up on her but not for you, but because I'm her friend. And if you ever considered her at least a friend, you ought to do it too sometime and have a proper conversation with her."
Remus bit the inside of his cheek as he turned to proffer the stack of parchment to Lily. "Can you also give these notes to her? It's for Ancient Runes. I charmed the handwriting so she won't know it's from me, but—"
"Remus," Lily sighed, but took the notes anyways as she looked down at his desk curiously before sitting down on the edge of his bed. A pause. Remus could feel her eyes seeing right through him. "Were you ever going to tell her?"
Remus tried not to look like he was unraveling. "I don't know," he admitted honestly. "I wanted to and I didn't want to all at once all the time."
He had thought about telling her before. But to do so meant that he would have to tell her about his condition, and that had sent him into a stricken spiral every time he had thought about it. He had thought that if he told her, she would look at him differently, with pity or repulsion in her eyes. He had been so afraid, so, terrified, of that look that every time the truth nearly bubbled out of his throat, he'd choke on it. But now Remus knew that the worse thing wasn't that she would look at him like he was a monster. It was that she wouldn't look at him at all.
It had always felt like he was running on stolen time, but each grain of sand in their hourglass had felt so startling incandescent that it had been easy to pretend that they weren't trapped in a fragile glass of his own making.
Every moment he had thought to tell her, she would turn and look at him with such fond adoration that Remus would swallow the words back in. She always made for such an arresting sight that Remus felt his breath still as affection would bloom so violently, so dizzingly, so distractingly, in his chest that it became hard to say anything at all.
He was distracted by the way little crinkles would form on her nose when she was thinking too hard. He was distracted by the way he could hear her smile in her words. He was distracted by the way she breathed and walked and loved, slow and steady, to a silent metronome.
And the honest truth was that Remus was more than happy to be distracted by her.
— — — — —
When Remus woke up from a dreamless sleep the morning after the full moon, he found himself, predictably, in a bed in the Infirmary. It must have only been dawn — he could tell the room was still dim behind his eyelids as he did his mental check of his limbs. No new scars please, he thought wryly once he confirmed all his limbs were in place, albeit sore and strained. Remus sighed. Then came the more dreaded question.
"Did anyone get hurt?" He asked, his voice hoarse from his transformation.
He expected one of the boys to respond, but when no response came, his eyes flew open in a panic. They normally stayed the night in the Infirmary to get their checkup from Madam Pomfrey — Remus knew they were just there to keep him company, though they always deflected when he tried to usher them back to the dorms — and they were normally the first to assure him that no one had gotten hurt. Alarmed, Remus sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed hastily to look around, his joints groaning in protest.
"Are you hurt?" A voice next to him asked.
He was dreaming again.
Y/N was sitting in a chair next to his bed, alarm quickly breaking through the remnants of the sleepiness that clung onto her eyes as she scanned him hastily as if to ensure he was still in one piece. There was an imprint of his blanket on her cheek. Remus's fingers twitched to rub it when she spoke up again. "Should I call Madam Pomfrey?"
So it wasn't a dream.
At the sobering realization, Remus shook his head hastily. "No, I, uh, I'm fine," he said, the words faltering on his lips. Suddenly he felt very seen. He had never wanted her to see him after a transformation, especially not then, when he was all fresh scars and worn bones. He felt like a shell of himself. "What are you doing here?" He asked quietly, fixing his gaze on his hands and noticing a new scar across the back of his hand, still red and shallow. He couldn't quite look at her now as shame and mortification flooded his system.
For the first time in his life, he wished she wasn't looking at him.
"You guys normally come back earlier on full moons," she said, still looking at him. "I was worried that..." She fell silent. So she had even known their schedule, he despaired.
"I see," Remus said tightly, feeling drained.
When he didn't say anything else, she spoke up again tentatively. "Sirius told me to tell you that no one got hurt—"
Chagrin and shame roiled in his stomach as he stared at the new scar on his hand. "You can go back now," he interrupted, grasping the blanket tightly. He wished she wasn't looking at him, he wished that he didn't have a new scar, he wished that the floor would just open up and swallow him whole.
He wished this was all just a bad dream.
"I'll go if you want me to go," she said quietly. Remus couldn't tell what expression she was making because he couldn't bare to look at her. Pity, fear, disgust. He was sure he'd never recover if she was looking at him like that— "But I... I don't want to go."
His gaze darted from his hands to her face. She was biting on the inside of her cheek, her eyes wide and imploring and distracting. Slowly, it became easy to breathe again. The imprint of the blanket was fading from her cheek. Remus still wanted to rub it off.
"Okay," he acquiesced, the word coming out as a soft breath. She relaxed back into the chair. "I never wanted you to see me like this," he murmured quietly, feeling all too cracked open under her gaze.
"Remus," she began, also whispering as if not to break the fragile peace between them. His heart stuttered dangerously at the sound of his name from her lips, but he shouldered forward, adamant to not let himself start dreaming again.
"Have you... been well?" Remus asked, first as a deflection before he took in the shadows on her face. It was like once he started, he couldn't stop. "Have you been eating properly and sleeping enough—"
"Remus," she said again, this time more urgently and softly. "I got your letters."
Remus paused, his dry throat clicking as he swallowed. "So you knew the notes were from me," he murmured, rubbing at the base of his neck. "Sorry, I thought they would help, but I'll stop if you're uncomfortable—"
"No, I mean, I got your letters," she said, reaching into her book bag.
To his horror, she pulled out a stack of parchment. Some of them had were heavily creased from being balled up, but someone had carefully straightened them and piled them up. "You weren't supposed to see those," he blurted, mortified now. "I threw those away."
"I know," she said, her gaze fixed on the letters. They weren't really letters at all — he had never been able to get past how to address her. He could catch glimpses of his chicken scratch handwriting. Y/N. Dove. My sweet girl. Cariad. My love. Cariad. Cariad. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. "Lily gave them to me. She also gave me this—" Carefully, Y/N pulled another familiar piece of parchment from her bag. This one was filled and messy with different colored inks across time.
Remus's mouth went dry. He didn't need to look at it to know what it was because he had it memorized.
Ketchup and pepper with eggs (prefers sunny-side up)
Three younger brothers
Likes mum's knitted sweater the most -> owl mum how she did it??
No favorite color, but it's probably green and yellow??
Needs a midday nap most days
Likes long skirts (or is it because I complimented it?)
Y/N is Sisyphus and the question of orange juice or apple juice is the rock
Peonies
Chocolate frogs (non-jumping)
Always needs hair ties -> ask Lily if Hogsmeade has any
Tea = 3 sugars, lots of milk (prefers juice though)
Give notes for Ancient Runes
Find out if there are hair tying charms
Jane Austen
Christmas ideas: skirts, cat, necklace, journal, hair ties
"You weren't supposed to see that," he said again dumbly.
"I know," she said again. A pause. "I believe you."
Remus's head snapped up to see that she was looking at him. He was dreaming again. He shook himself out of it. "No, you don't have to," he said hastily.
"No, Remus, I believe you that it was real," she said, her words choppy as she wrung her hands together. He wanted to reach out and cover her hand with his but instead he sat perfectly still. "But I— But I was so hurt by you," she whispered.
"I'm so sorry," he said with every fiber of his being. "I was afraid and selfish and I hurt you and there's no forgiving that."
"But Remus," she said, looking up at him finally. "I've missed you. I miss you so much and I don't know what to do—" Her voice cracked. Remus felt like something in him cracked open again.
"Oh, cariad," he breathed. "Can I—" He faltered, but miraculously, she picked up on what he meant. Wordlessly, she surged into his arms and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe again. "I'm so sorry, my sweet girl," he murmured into her hair as he breathed in her familiar scent. "If... if you'll have me again, can we start over?"
"Only if it's for real this time," she mumbled into his shoulder with a dry huff of a laugh as she clutched him back. God, he missed her laugh.
He pressed a kiss against her temple, the first of many. "It's real. Very real."
Remus prayed he wasn't dreaming anymore.
— — — — —
a/n: thanks for reading :^) would love to hear thoughts! my masterlist here
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fatesundress · 11 months
Text
⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader
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summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.
tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.
note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty
word count. 6.4k
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The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.
“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."
“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"
“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”
He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.
“Is there anything you're looking for?"
“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”
“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.
You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task." 
It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.
“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.
It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.
“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.
You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."
You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."
He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”
You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it. 
“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."
“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."
“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."
“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.
You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."
"Do you not?"
You scoff. "Of course I do."
“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."
You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”
“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"
“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.
It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.
So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky. 
And you do it. 
You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.
You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.
You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.
“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.
You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”
“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.
You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.
“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.
“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”
You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.
When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.
It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.
“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"
He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”
Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”
The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.
“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”
You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”
Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours. 
You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”
“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.
He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not. 
The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.
And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”
You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?
“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”
He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him. 
“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”
“Well-thought?”
“Quite good, yes.”
“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."
Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”
Is he pushing too? That could be fun.
“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”
“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”
You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”
“As close as anyone else.”
“And by that you mean to say—?”
“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”
“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”
He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”
“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”
“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”
“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”
“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”
You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”
“At present. Is it subject to change?”
“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.
“Elaborate...”
“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”
He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”
“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”
“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”
You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”
You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.
“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”
“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.
“And he would need to be rich.”
“Naturally.”
“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”
“I should not expect anything less.”
“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.
“What age would do well?”
“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”
“For health,” he agrees delightedly.
What the hell are you talking about?
“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”
“And of his character?”
“Most agreeable.”
“Docile?”
“Hm, docile, yes.”
“It is a long list.”
“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”
Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.
“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.
You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.
“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.
“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”
You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”
He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”
His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”
“And that matters to you?”
He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.
He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”
It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?
“Excuse me?”
“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”
“Riddle—”
“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”
“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.
“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”
It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.
You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”
“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.
“I’d hate to debase you further.”
He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”
Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.
“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”
You do not.
“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”
He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”
You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m a quick learner.”
“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.
“I’m good at my job.”
And then he stands.
It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.
“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.
“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”
“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.
It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.
Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.
“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”
“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”
Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”
“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”
You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.
“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.
He is most obliging.
His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.
Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.
“That’s two.”
Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.
There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.
So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.
“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.
But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.
And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.
Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.
The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.
There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.
He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.
Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.
Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.
He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.
His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.
“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.
Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”
“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”
You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"
You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"
“Will you thank me after this?”
Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”
“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.
You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.
But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.
Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.
You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.
His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.
His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.
Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.
He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.
You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.
Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.
And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.
Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.
“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.
“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”
“Win?” 
His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions. 
“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.
You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.
“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”
He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.
“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation. 
You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”
He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.
“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.
“Just… um, just…”
“Hm?”
“I win... s’just… cheating…”
You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”
And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt. 
It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.
You don't win.
If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.
And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you. 
You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.
“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.
“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.
You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.
Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.
He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.
“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.
And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.
When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”
Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.
Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.
You stay like that for a long time.
He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.
Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.
But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.
There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.
“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”
He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.
“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”
You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him. 
“I think by Christmas would be fair.”
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dedalvs · 4 months
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Hey! I'm David Peterson, and a few years ago, I wrote a book called Create Your Own Secret Language. It's a book that introduces middle grade readers to codes, ciphers, and elementary language creation. The age range is like 10-14, but skews a little bit older, as the work gets pretty complicated pretty quick. I think 12-13 is the best age range.
Anyway, I decided to look at the Amazon page for it a bit ago, and it's rated fairly well (4.5 at the moment), but there are some 1 star reviews, and I'm always curious about those. Usually they're way off, or thought the book was going to be something different (e.g. "This book doesn't teach you a thing about computer coding!"), but every so often there's some truth in there. (Oh, one not 1 star but lower rated review said they gave it to their 2nd grader, but they found it too complicated. I appreciate a review like that, because I am not at all surprised—I think it is too complicated for a 2nd grader—and I think a review like that is much more effective than a simple 10+ age range on the book.) The first 1 star rating I came to, though, was this:
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Now calling a completely mild description of a teenage girl who has a crush on another girl controversial is something I take exception to, but I don't want to pile on this person. Instead I wanted to share how this section came to be in the book.
The book is essentially divided into four parts. The first three parts deal with different ciphers or codes that become more complicated, while the last part describes elementary language creation. The first three sections are each built around a message that the reader can decode, but with language creation, the possibilities are too numerous and too complicated, so there isn't an example to decode, or anything. It would've been too difficult.
For what the messages to decode are about, though, I could do, potentially, anything, so at first I thought to tie them into a world of anthropomorphic animals (an ongoing series of battles between cats and mice), with messages that are being intercepted and decoded. My editor rejected that. Then I redid it so that each section had an individual story that had to do with some famous work of literature. My editor rejected that as well. He explained that it needed to be something that was relevant to kids of the target age range. I was kind of at a loss, for a bit, but then I thought of a story of kids sending secret messages about their uncle who eats too many onions. I shared that, my editor loved it, and I was like, all right. I can do this.
The tough part for me in coming up with mini-stories to plan these coded messages around was coming up with a reason for them to be secret. That's the whole point of a code/cipher: A message you want to be sure no one else but the intended recipient can read in case the message is intercepted. With the first one, two kids are poking gentle fun at a family member, so they want to be sure no one else can read what they're writing. For the last one, a boy is confessing to a diary, because he feels bad that he allowed his cat to escape, but no one knows he did it (he does find the cat again). For the other, I was trying to think of plausible message-sending scenarios for a preteen/teen, and I thought of how we used to write notes in, honestly, 4th and 5th grade, but I aged it up a bit, and decided to have a story about a girl writing a note to her friend because she has a crush on another girl, and wants her friend's opinion/help.
Here's where the point of sharing this comes in. As I had originally written it, the girl's note to her friend was not just telling her friend about her crush, it was also a coming out note, and she was concerned what her parents would react poorly.
Anyway, I sent that off with the rest of my draft, and I got a bunch of comments back on the whole draft (as expected), but my editor also commented on that story, in particular. Specifically, he noted that not every LGBTQ+ story has to be a coming out story, the part about potential friction between her and her parents because of it was a little heavy for the book, and, in general, not every coming out story has to be traumatic.
That was all he said, but I immediately recognized the, in hindsight, obvious truth of all three points, and I was completely embarrassed. I changed it immediately, so that the story beats are that it's a crush, she's not sure if it'll be reciprocated, and she's also very busy with school and band and feels like this will be adding even more busy-ness to her daily life as a student/teen. Then I apologized for making such a blunder. My editor was very good about it—after all, that's what drafts and editors are for—and that was a relief, but I'm still embarrassed that I didn't think of it first.
But, of course, this is not my lived experience, not being a member of the LGBTQ+ community. This is the very reason why you have sensitivity readers—to provide a vantage point you're blind to. In this case, I was very fortunate to have an editor who was thinking ahead, and I'm very grateful that he was there to catch it. That editor, by the way, is Justin Krasner.
One reason I wanted to share this, though, is that while it always is a bit of a difficult thing to speak up, because there might be a negative reaction, sometimes there is no pushback at all. Indeed, sometimes the one being called out is grateful, because we all have blindspots due to our own lived experiences. You can't live every life. For that reason, your own experience will end up being valuable to someone at some point in time for no other reason than that you lived it and they didn't. And, by the by, this is also true for the present, because the lives we've lived cause us to see what's going on right before our eyes in different lights.
Anyway, this is a story that wouldn't have come out otherwise, so I wanted to be sure to let everyone know that Justin Krasner ensured that my book was a better book. An editor's job is often silent and thankless, so on Thanksgiving, I wanted to say thank you, Justin. <3
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spocksmagicfingers · 8 months
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Spirk shippers ahoy!
You're probably already aware of this book, but HOLY SHIT, have you actually read 'The Price of the Phoenix' by Sondra Marshak and Myrna Culbreath???
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Rambling review with passages included below (mild spoilers)
I heard this was gay but I really had no idea. This is GAAAAYYYY. A big Strong man has kidnapped and cloned Kirk to use/sell as a punching bag/sex slave and Spock must rescue him with the help of the Romulan Commander from 3x02.
I really love the way the Romulan Commander was portrayed, let me say. She deserved to get to kick some ass after being screwed over in The Enterprise Incident. She gave Kirk and Spock so much grace in this book while maintaining her authority and I loved it!
Now, on to the good stuff:
If you like erotic mind melds, whump, hurt/comfort, and Kirk in skimpy outfits, this book is for you. It's very romantic and almost overtly sexual.
It was suspenseful and enthralling.
At times the writing style could leave something to be desired, but mostly in differentiating between the POV of original Kirk and clone Kirk in one particular fight scene. It gets easier when clone Kirk starts being referred to as James.
Here are some of my favorite passages:
Here, Jim Kirk's body has just been recovered (seemingly)
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Oh god my heart
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Yes. Kiss him awake, Spock
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Spock is Heaven to Jim. Canon.
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THIS WHOLE SEXY ASS MIND MELD (during which, Jim is completely naked btw)
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Spock is the best man in the Galaxy to Jim
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Kirk on his knees for Spock
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Jim flirting with Spock psychically and picturing him in a sexy outfit (also calling him his Vulcan)
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Eyes only for each other
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In conclusion: Get thee to a used bookstore and find a copy.
You can find most Star Trek books on thriftbooks.com
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Book Review: Wild Witchcraft by Rebecca Beyer
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TW: Alcohol mentions and tallow mentions. Poison Path things as well. This is: Wild Witchcraft by Rebecca Beyer Rating: 9/10 Pros: An amazing outlook into animism, herbalism, and foraging in a safe, sustainable and non-appropriative way! The instructions on how to garden were very to the point and explained some complicated ideals in an easy to digest way, I think one of my favorite quotes from the book that stuck with me while reading was,
“Just when I think magic has been cut down and paved over; a dandelion has pushed it’s way out of the cracks in the cement.”
I hope that quote helps you understand what sort of writing to expect out of this book! As someone that grew up learning planting from my Papaw who took classes on the subject after getting out of WWII through a governmental program and was a farmer before that, some of the information on growing was things I already knew. But for a beginner just looking into ‘wildcrafting’ or foraging or just plain growing your own herbs for witchy things?
Get this book.
The author, while an herbalist, breaks down each plant she mentions and includes plenty of warnings and suggestions for use both magical and holistically. She covers the poison path in a very easy to understand way while making sure you understand it’s not a beginner’s thing, and certainly not one to take without serious consideration first. The author takes careful note of Indigenous practices and makes sure to drive it home that their voices are to be heard over anyone else’s when it comes to taking care of American land. There are so many rituals and remedies included in this book that I have a feeling I’ll be referencing it quite a lot, and not just for the gardening and foraging tips!
Did I mention the entire 11 pages of a bibliography in the back?? No? Well there’s that too. My academic heart is thrilled.
Cons: Honestly? The only real con I have is that the author spends a chunk of time going over the Wheel of the Year which is a wiccan construct in a book that otherwise doesn’t have any wiccan imagery or practices up until this point. It feels…weirdly thrown in? But she also includes multiple folk traditions that were common amongst those particular time periods so…it is worked in but it still feels a little odd and jarring to me.
The author also mentioned the use of tallow as a commonly used oil for salves, which is correct but some people are uncomfortable with the idea and I understand that! Since the author has tincture recipes as well she does mention the use of alcohol in steeping purposes.
Overview: Animism, foraging, herbalism, and being safe to the environment. Good stuff all around!
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miraclesabound · 8 months
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Spoiler-Heavy Review/Thoughts on "The Last Voyage of the Demeter"
The crowd at the theater grew to about 15, so still pretty quiet.
Short version is that I enjoyed this movie thoroughly, but it is truly gruesome. The entry will start below the cut with spoilery warnings, because even having read the book, there were some things that caught me off guard.
Warnings for this film include:
trafficking of a young woman as a blood bag/bride for Dracula
Use of racial slurs against both a Black and a Romani character
deaths of all animals on board, including livestock and a young boy's beloved dog - shown with full gore
death of three crew members by burning in the sun after vampiric possession, including the young boy (the captain's grandson)
One of those three choosing sunlight as their method of suicide rather than allowing themselves to fully turn into a beat.
In fact, no one dies peacefully - this version of Dracula is emphasized as truly beastly, relishing the fear of his victims.
I know we've all been rooting for the Captain (named Captain Elliot in this version), but the true protagonist is Mr. Clemens, played by Corey Hawkins. We never get his first name, but we learn that he's a Black English doctor making his way home from Bulgaria/Romania, and he offers his services to Captain Elliot when a previously hired hand refuses to touch anything marked with Dracula's symbol - the stamp of a black dragon.
Other characters include: Captain Elliot and his young grandson Toby, Anna, the young woman given to Dracula as a captive by her village, and the men of the crew, all of whom have sailed with Captain Elliot before.
Then of course, there's Dracula himself. I saw some reviews saying he's shown far too early in the movie - but it worked for me. We find out that Anna was locked in his coffin with him and was meant to sustain him for the whole voyage - so when we see Dracula, he's weak and wracked with hunger for losing his food supply when Clemens finds Anna and starts treating her. Since we see him like that early, there's room for him to grow to almost full power as he burns through the animals and then the crew.
I enjoyed just about every performance in the film, but Corey Hawkins (Clemens), Javier Botet (Dracula), and Woody Norman (Toby) were particular highlights. Clemens is your classic cynical scientist with a heart of gold, Dracula speaks less than you would expect but still has that taunting air, and Toby doesn't read as older than he's supposed to be.
As story beats go, I think I appreciated Anna's the most. I've said in my reread of Dracula that I wish modern adaptations did more with the people of Transylvania hating Dracula, and this version presented that in Anna's character. She's lived under Dracula's shadow as long as she can remember, even before her village elders handed her over, and once she's freed and recovered some of her strength, she's finally able to fight back. I'm a sucker for a character who knows they're doomed but still tries to do the right thing, and Anna is that in spades.
THE LIGHTING IN THIS MOVIE WAS ACTUALLY EFFECTIVE!!!! The daytime scenes were vibrant, and all the nights scenes are lit by an enormous full moon and several stars. It makes the shadow work less muddied than you might see in a more modern-style horror movie.
The movie ends with Clemens technically surviving, but still deeply traumatized and literally scarred - he and Anna scuttle the ship and jump overboard, but not until after Dracula has drunk enough from Anna to curse her and he's badly hurt Clemens' neck. Anna gives herself over to the sun so that Clemens can get to shore, and the closing scene is clearly a sequel hook as he hunts for Dracula in London - or perhaps the Count has already realized that Clemens is on his tail. This worked for me because the film stuck with Clemens. I kept expecting him to run into one of the core Dracula characters, and I'm not sure I would have liked that.
This is all a very long-winded way of saying that this was a film I truly enjoyed, and it is a LOVE LETTER to the book's thesis - the supernatural may have come out of hiding, but if we band together, evil may be halted - even for a little while.
Rating: 8.5/10
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reviewsthatburn · 6 months
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THE WITCH KING by Martha Wells is excellent and I had a great time reading it. The worldbuilding is nuanced and well-developed, with factions and history in a way that implies much more going on, but not getting bogged down in little details that don’t matter to this particular story. It deals with colonization and empire from the perspective of a quasi-immortal character (Kai) who has not been around forever, but has been around long enough that things which are part of his culture and history are now details that would fascinate only historians. The narrative shifts between two time periods in his life. This means that some events are mentioned before they were actually shown, but it was generally in a way that made the whole thing easier to follow. The two timelines are connected, as the main characters are trying to figure out whether the plan they were working on when they were betrayed is still salvageable. 
Full Review at Link
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literary-illuminati · 2 months
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2024 Book Review #6 – Exordia by Seth Dickinson
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This is a book I have been looking forward to for quite literally years, from someone who is easily one of my favourite working authors. I also read the short story the book was expanded out from before I even knew it was going to be a book, and so went in spoiled on the broad strokes of what turned out to be the climax of the whole thing. All to say my opinion on this is unlikely to match that of the typical reader, I guess.
Anyway, Exordia is a glorious spectacular mess that has no right to cohere anywhere near as well as it does. It’s target audience is small, but I’m certainly somewhere in it. Please ignore all the marketing it’s so bad you have to wonder if someone at Tor just has it out for the author.
Exordia is a, well, a profoundly difficult book to give any sort of plot summary for. The first act involves Anna, a 30-something survivor of the Anfal Genocide now living a rather unimpressive life in New York City, until one day in the early 2010s she sees an alien eating the turtles in Central Park. Then there’s a cat-and-mouse hunt between terrifying alien snake-centaurs for the future of free will in the galaxy, and the plot jumping to kurdistan, and six more POV characters from as many different nations, and nuclear weapons, and oh so many people dying messily. The first act is an oddly domestic and endearing piece of table setting, the second is (to borrow the idiom of the book’s own marketing) Tom Clancy meets Jeff Vandermeer or Roadside Picnic, and the third is basically impossible to describe without a multipage synopsis, but mostly concerned with ethical dilemmas and moral injuries. It’s to the book’s credit that it never bats an eye at shifting focus and scale, but it does make coming to grips with it difficult.
This is, as they say, a thematically dense book, but it’s especially interested in the fallout of imperialism. The Obama-era ‘don’t do stupid shit’ precise and sterile form of it in particular – the book’s a period piece for a reason, after all. The ethics of complicity – of being offered the choice of murdering and betraying those around you or having an alien power with vastly superior destructive powers inflict an order of magnitude more misery to you, them, and everyone in the same general vicinity to punish you for the inconvenience – is one that gets a lot of wordcount. It is not an accident that the man most willing and able to collaborate with the overwhelming powerful alien empire in hopes of bargaining some future for humanity is the National Security Council ghoul who came out of organizing surveillance information for the drone wars. It’s also not a coincidence that the main (if only by a hair) protagonist is someone with a lot of bitter memories over how the US encouraged Iraq’s kurdish population to rebel in the ‘90s and then just washed their hands and let them be massacred (the book couldn’t actually ship with a historical primer on modern kurdish history, so it’s woven into the story in chunks with varying amount of grace. But it is in fact pretty thematically key here).
Speaking of complicity, the book’s other overriding preoccupation in (in the broadest sense) Trolley Problems. Is it better to directly kill a small number of people or, through your inaction, allow a larger number to die? Does it matter is the small number is your countrymen and the larger foreigners, or vice versa? What about humans and aliens? Does it matter whether the choice is submitting to subjugation or killing innocents as a means to resist it? What about letting people around you die to learn the fundamental truth of the cosmos? Does the calculus change when you learn that immortal souls (and hell) are real? This is the bone the story is really built around chewing on.
All that probably makes the text seem incredibly didactic, or at least like a philosophical dialogue disguised as a novel. Which really isn’t the case! The book definitely has opinions, but none of the characters are clear author-avatars, and all perspectives are given enough time and weight to come across as seriously considered and not just as cardboard cutouts to jeer at. Okay, with the exception of one of the two aliens who you get the very strong sense is hamming it up as a cartoon villain just for the of it (he spends much of the book speaking entirely in all caps). There definitely are a couple points where it feels like the books turning and lecturing directly at the reader, but they’re both few and fairly short.
The characters themselves are interesting. They’re all very flawed, but more than that they’re all very...embodied, I guess? Distracted with how hot someone is, concerned with what they ate that morning or the smell of something disgusting, still not over an ex from years ago. Several of them are also sincerely religious in a way that’s very true to life to actual people but you rarely see in books. The result is that basically comes as being far more like actual humans than I’m at all used to in most fiction (of course, a lot of those very human qualities get annoying or eye-roll inducing fairly quickly. But hey, that’s life). Though that’s all mostly the case at the start of the book – the fact that the main cast are slowly turning into caricatures of themselves as they’re exposed to the alien soul manipulation technology is actually a major plot point, which I’m like fifty/fifty on being commentary on what happens to the image and legacy of people as they’re caught up in grand narratives versus just being extended setup for a joke about male leads in technothrillers being fanfic shipbait.
Part of the characters seeming very human is that some (though by no means all) of the POVs are just incredibly funny, in that objectively fucked up and tasteless way that people get when coping with overwhelming shock or trauma. It’s specifically because the jokes are so in-your-face awful that they fit, I think? It manages to avoid the usual bathetic trap a lot of works mixing in humour with drama fall into, anyway.
Speaking of alien soul manipulation technology – okay, you know how above I said that the points where the book directly lectured the reader were few and far between. This is true for lectures about politics or morality. All the freed up space in this 530 page tome is instead used for technobabble about theoretical math. Also cellular biology, cryptography, entropics, the organization of the American security state, how black holes work, and a few dozen other things. This book was edited for accuracy by either a doctoral student from every physical science and an award winning mathematician, or else just by one spectacularly confident bullshitter with several hundred hours on wikipedia. Probably both, really. I did very much enjoy this book, but that is absolutely predicated on the fact that when I knew when to let my eyes glaze over and start skimming past the proper nouns.
The book has a fairly complete narrative arc in its own right, but the ending also screams out for a sequel, and quite a lot of the weight and meaning of the book’s climax does depend on followthrough and resolution in some future sequel. Problematically, the end of the book also includes a massive increase in scale, and any sequel would require a whole new setting and most of a new cast of characters, so I’m mildly worried how long it will be before we get it (if ever).
The book is also just very...I’m not sure flabby is the right word, but it is doing many many different things, and I found some of them far more interesting than others. I’m not sure whether Dickinson just isn’t great at extended action scenes or if I am just universally bored by drawn out Tom Clancy fantasies, but either way there were several dozen pages too many of them. The extended cultural digressions about the upbringing and backstories of each of the seven POVs were meanwhile very interesting! (Mostly, I got bored of the whole Erik-Clayton-Rosamaria love triangle Madonna complex thing about a tenth of the way into the book but it just kept going.) It did however leave the book very full of extended tangents and digressions, even beyond what the technobabble did. Anna herself, ostensibly the main protagonist, is both utterly thematically loadbearing but very often feels entirely vestigial to the actual, like, plot, brought along for the ride because she’s an alien terrorist’s favourite of our whole species of incest-monkeys. The end result is, if not necessarily unfocused, then at least incredibly messy, flitting back and forth across a dozen topics that on occasion mostly just seem unified by having caught the author’s interest as they wrote.
It’s interesting to compare the book to Anna Saves It All, the short story it was based on – quite a lot changed! But that’s beyond the scope of this already overlong review. So I guess I’ll just say make sure to read the book first, if you’re going to.
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benkyoutobentou · 3 months
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12 Books for 2024 (Japanese Edition)
You may have seen my post about the twelve books I read in 2023 (here), and I thought it would be fun to follow it up with a little tbr for 2024! Ideally, I'd like to read more than twelve books in 2024, but twelve is enough for now since I've got some series on this list that I'd like to either make some serious progress in or finish up completely. This list is in no particular order!
地球星人 - 村田沙耶香: I read コンビニ人間 by Murata a few years back and loved it, and this one has been high up on my tbr for a long time now. With how many people say they're completely traumatized by it, it sounds like the perfect book for me. The only reason I haven't read this yet is because I've hyped it up so much for myself.
生命式 - 村田沙耶香: A short story collection by Murata? Sign me up ten times over. This one sounds weird and gruesome and right up my alley.
本を守ろうとする猫の話 - 夏川草介: Another cat book, who can blame me? This was also touted as being perfect for book lovers, and I haven't heard a bad review yet.
吾輩は猫である - 夏目漱石: Keeping with the cat theme, this one I actually have planned in tandem with a challenge I have to read twelve big ass classics throughout the year. Between the sheer size of this and the fact that the text is so densely packed in, this book kinda scares me. I'm planning to read it in December of next year so that I have as much time as possible to prepare haha.
世界から猫が消えたなら - 川村元気: Last cat book, I promise, but I had to keep them all together (it's actually not about cats, though). I've had this one for a long time and just picked it up on a whim. I've heard a bit of mixed reviews, but the premise sounds interesting enough, and it seems to be pretty popular.
博士の愛した数式 - 小川洋子: This was one of the first books I bought in Japanese, so it's high time that I get it off my tbr. I've seen so many people love this, in and out of the language learning community. This author also has a bunch of other popular works, so I'd really like to jump into her books and experience the hype for myself.
告白 ‐ 湊かなえ: I've seen a bit of buzz about this book in the language learning community, but what really convinced me on it was seeing people outside of language learners also enjoying it. It sounds dark and mildly depressing, and I'm hoping that it'll have some interesting commentary as well.
独り舞 - 李琴峰: Somehow, I haven't read any queer literary fiction in Japanese yet, despite it being my favorite genre, so I'm so excited to jump into this one. For the life of me I can't remember where I heard about this, but I think it'll be one of my first reads in 2024.
デゥラララ!!- 成田良悟: I used to be obsessed with the anime adaptation in middle school but never revisited the series out of fear that it wouldn't stand the test of time. After seeing a fellow language learner gush about the series, I decided to give it a shot, managed to find it at a local used bookstore, and snatched up the first volume. Don't let me down, nostalgia!
憎らしい彼 - 凪良ゆう: This is the second book in the 美しい彼 series, and even though I'd like to read the third one next year as well, I'm just combining them. Seeing this series next to series like No. 6 and キノの旅 I'm really grateful to have a trilogy on my tbr haha.
No. 6 - あさのあつこ: Saying that I would like to finish this series next year is a bit of a stretch, seeing as I have eight of ten volumes left, but I'd like to put a serious dent in it to be sure.
キノの旅 - 時雨沢恵一: This series is more of a read as I please type series for me, since there's not really any overarching plot. I'm also not racing to make progress, since there are over twenty volumes (and still going). I'm savoring this series and I'm okay with that.
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morlock-holmes · 10 days
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The Last Psychiatrist's book came out, which led me to two reviews, both of which call him out for saying stuff that is obviously crazy but both of which also contain incredibly bizarre statements just tossed out there with seemingly no self-consciousness about whether they are just as odd as anything TLP has written:
I'm just going to ignore those parts of Scott Alexander's review that are like that to focus on a pet peeve:
(The Bible describes very clearly what angels look like. Everyone agrees the Bible is the authority on angels, maybe the only primary source for them at all. All Western culture for 1500 years has been based around the Bible. There are hundreds of millions of people who take the Bible completely literally and read it every day. The Bible says - Revelations 22:18 - that if anyone changes the Bible in any way even by a single word they will be punished with eternal torture. And yet nobody’s mental image of an angel, nor any popular artistic depiction of an angel, has anything in common with the Biblical description. This is the highest-grade antimeme I feel comfortable using as an example; if you don’t see the fnords they can’t eat you.)
I mean that's... that's just definitely not the case.
Alexander links to this review by Zero HP Lovecraft (Whom I am unfamiliar with) who says,
I want to explain some things to you now that you probably feel deep in your bones but probably haven’t found the time to articulate. Whenever someone talks about “capitalism” like it’s a hostile alien living among us, they are either wittingly or unwittingly agitating for communism. They may not even realize it. Everyone feels some measure of discontent in their life and the lazy, fashionable scapegoat for this in current year america is “capitalism.” If you blame capitalism for your problems, no one will take it personally, and many of the other monkeys around you will make agreeable noises. But there is exactly one group of people who blames all their problems on capitalism, and that is communists. If you blame your problems on capitalism, you are a communist. If you talk about “late capitalism” or “late stage capitalism” you are (possibly unwittingly) claiming that the return of Christ glorious worker’s uprising is nigh, repent repent, every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Georgius Christ is Floyd. There are two ways you can try to get out of this: the first is “yes, and” and the other is “no, but”. If you’re part of the first group, you’re irredeemable. Communism, much like being a woman, is a congenital condition, and it can’t be cured, though sometimes you can treat the symptoms. If you aren’t a communist, but you scapegoat or criticize capitalism, then you are at the least participating in communism, but it may not be your essential nature. The slur for these people is “neoliberal” — a word that means someone who likes communism in theory but is just slightly too pragmatic to ever get past second base with her. You’re the ones I’m trying to help. We can tell TLP is in this second group because although he talks about capitalism, he saves his worst vitriol for “the media,” which is a right wing dog whistle, just like talking about capitalism is left-wing dog whistle. When a man is sending you mixed signals, it means he himself is confused.
This is more batshit than anything that he quotes from TLP.
I'm trying to figure out if this means:
"Capitalism" is a word that refers to every possible human economic system other than communism, such that by definition the only possible alternative is communism;
"Capitalism" and particularly "Communism" are not specific historical economic systems, but in fact names for the exactly two economic systems that can exist;
Current technological or political realities ensure that it is literally impossible to create any economic systems other than capitalism or communism at this particular moment, such that opposition to one is de facto support of the other
The first two would be bizarre, and even the last is, uh, contentious but reading further this guy wasn't pulling a schtick, he's just a depressing John Bircher who knows that if he pretends that he's giving you some secret post-normie secret insight we'll just forget everything about American history. Guys, did you know that blacks are inferior to whites, and more criminal, that only super insightful insight porn writers have ever come up with such an out-of-left field crazy idea that no american normie could ever actually believe?
Honestly, fuck this depressing fascist. His ilk are going to be running the country soon, complaining about how hamstrung they are as they march people into camps. It's amazing how good he is at selling the most normie American bullshit as, like, forbidden knowledge that only the most enlightened masters have cued into.
Honestly his opinions seem to be:
Men have been feminized, and that's bad;
White racial pride has been atenuated, and that's bad;
Trans people are mutilating themselves, and need to be stopped;
Blacks are more criminal than whites, and need to be controlled
But sold as, like, this forbidden knowledge that only somebody as smart as him could come up with. It's amazing how these people will see a finger-wagging leftist and then decide that said leftist must be running American politics.
I am poorer for having read this dumb bitch.
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fixyourwritinghabits · 8 months
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Hi!
I've recently finished my first draft and I'm ready to get to work on the second.
My autism makes it hard to use those "tips and tricks" people usually have, so I thought about working out a step by step for myself instead, but I have no clue where to start?
Hope you can help or point me in the right direction, as I'm at my wits end.
I don't have any grand secrets, unfortunately. I've attempted to read many, many books on editing, trying to discover the secret that I appear to be missing, but none of them really helps. Note the big changes first, they say. Fix the little things after.
But when everything seems like it's a mess, I don't know how to distinguish between big fixes and small ones. In the end, everything needs to be fixed, and I just have to slog through. However, there are some things that work for me, as frustratingly slow as they can be:
First make sure you're ready to edit.
Sometimes you have to trunk that book for a lot longer than you think. You have to give your brain a long enough break from it in order for new ideas to be formed. Put it away, as long as you can, and give your brain a break. Coming to your story fresh is the best way to start.
This doesn't sound like it works, and believe me, the temptation to dive right back into the book after a week or so is high, but give yourself decent break. Read some books, watch some movies. Shake up those weary creative drives in your brain for up to a month or more before you take another crack at it.
(If you're not tackling a large product, you can wait for a shorter period of time, probably. The longer the book or novel, the more of a rest you should have. If you're writing a fanfic chapter by chapter, the temptation to post immediately is high. Don't do it! Let it rest for a couple of days before reviewing it. You'll thank yourself later.)
Have an outline.
If you didn't start with an outline while drafting, laying out your plot where you can see it will really help you figure out what threads need strengthening. My favorite technique is flashcards and sticky notes that have a short summary of the chapter or scene. Both can be easily rearranged, removed, or shuffled about.
If you have a multiple POVs, color-coding your chapters can help you lay out how much progress each character has made and what areas of the story might need shoring up.
Another thing that can be of help is reworking character sheets or notes. I've been struggling with a particular character who I adore, but who's motivation I've been having trouble nailing. For this draft, I've been able to figure out what the thorn in their side was and write a much stronger story for them as a result.
Slog through from the beginning.
Yes, some people can dive right into those problem areas. Boo to those people, I say. Boo. For me, the only thing that works is to start from the beginning and work through each chapter at a time. Yes, this does involve getting stuck on how to fix things. There is a lot of dramatic lying on floors and pestering my completely bewildered cat when I hit a wall.
But starting at the beginning allows me to see where I need to slot in elements I only started to figure out later in the book. It allows me to weave in foreshadowing and pick up subplots at the right places, rather than throwing them in when I think of them. This method may mean you'll have redraft a few times, and yes, I have to start from the beginning each time. But it does work, even if it takes time.
Just don't ask how many drafts I've done of this damn book I'm working on.
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binaural-histolog · 3 months
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Zotoro, Scihub, and more Cool Hypnosis Papers
CW: severe nerdery
I don't have an academic background, and while I've been poking around at hypnosis nerdery for a while, I was limited to an extent by what I could get my hands on.
This is especially important when it comes to the academic texts. There's only so many books out there on theory, and a bunch of it doesn't make sense until you go back and read the actual papers.
For example, I knew that Kirsch had something to do with placebo and expectations, but I only had a vague understanding of what and how. A paragraph critique in Theories of Hypnosis wasn't enough to give me the proper context.
Until I decided I was going to rewrite the newbie guide to explain hypnosis from a modern neuroscience perspective and then I was committed to pulling the citations and digging up the actual papers.
At first I was doing it by hand by pasting things into Scihub and downloading the PDFs. This sort of worked, but at some point there are just too many PDFs and it's work to keep them consistent.
This is where Zotero comes in. It's a PDF database that is set up to scan for academic fields and give you a UI for finding, reading and annotating the PDFs. It syncs between MacOS, Windows, and iOS and keeps the annotations and highlights. And even better, it's got plugins.
Specifically, it's got a plugin for Scihub. You can add a DOI number and it'll pull the abstract data for the paper, and then you can right click and it'll download the paper from Scihub automatically.
It doesn't cover everything. Some stuff is too new for Scihub, and I've had to fallback to https://reddit.com/r/scholar to request articles, but there's so much stuff.
In particular, you get the sense of how academic papers can be a conversation, an argument, or a lawsuit. You get to see the most brutal putdowns phrased as passing comments. And the grudges and ego can go on for decades.
There are a couple of papers that I recommend everyone read, because they're just great at summarizing the field and current thinking.
The response set theory of hypnosis reconsidered: toward an integrative model
I love this paper not just because it goes over response expectancy theory from the inception to the general whittling down from "Once expectancy effects are eliminated, there may be nothing left" to response expectancy as 25%-35% of suggestibility and the addition of a "readiness response set" to cover the rest of it... but also because despite Kirsch's hand in response set theory and response expectancies and being in a journal issue devoted to Kirsch's career and achievements, he is not an author to this paper that is reconsidering his work. Instead, he gets a hand clap.
In closing, Irving Kirsch has greatly advanced our understanding of hypnosis. The construct of expectancies that he articulated and championed for decades has well withstood the test of time and replication. We extend our personal gratitude to him for his shaping influence on our personal views of hypnosis and for his many contributions to the field of hypnosis that he so immensely enriched.
I'm not sure what I'm looking at, but I love it.
How Hypnotic Suggestions Work – A Systematic Review of Prominent Theories of Hypnosis
This is a preprint, but it's comprehensive not just in how it picks out theories of hypnosis that are more recent than the book, but also in how it pokes holes and points out weak points in the various theories. It's also recent enough to talk about fun new things like predictive coding and interoception and somatosensory feedback.
Hypnosis and top-down regulation of consciousness
Devin Terhune's papers are always good to read. His papers read like a story where every chapter builds on the last one. This one is a "synthesis of current knowledge regarding the characteristics and neurocognitive mechanisms of hypnosis" and I can't tell you how many times I've read through this paper by accident because I wanted to pick a point out of it and got sucked into it all over again.
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