#i frequently have to remind myself it's a children's book series

[birlwrites]

If I remember correctly, I think the diary was the first horcrux made because he used Myrtle Warren's death (his first victim, I'm pretty sure) for that, and after he acquired the ring from the Gaunts (I think it was Morfin Gaunt), he killed the Riddles and used their deaths to create the ring horcrux? Obviously you don't have to keep that order, but I think that's how it was in canon

that does sound logical - canon is insufficiently specific with regard to how one actually makes a horcrux, and i kind of generally figured it took something a little more specific than just killing someone and binding your soul to something - what with the number of murders voldemort's committed, his soul would be on the verge of exploding with every new person he killed, and he doesn't seem to act with a whole lot of caution there. but also, he made an accidental horcrux, so i don't think jkr had anything complicated in mind for the process

making a horcrux using myrtle's death is interesting, though, because it either means that the basilisk is considered a tool rather than a being (which, considering how jkr tends to narratively treat her non-humans..... yeah), or that actually doing the deed yourself isn't required as long as you had a hand in it. either way, there are a shitload of people in that series whose souls are so fragmented, by jkr's standards, going by the # of people they've killed, that it's a wonder accidental horcruxes aren't being made left and right. it's a wonder voldemort only had ONE and he was easily tracked down and persuaded to sacrifice himself for the goal of killing voldemort which obviously will fix everything. goodness gracious

honestly part of me just rebels at the idea of keeping your horcrux with you in your dorm room that you share with a bunch of other people - indestructible, blah blah blah, but clearly not the sort of thing voldemort wants other people getting their hands on. which, fair, that's a piece of his soul, i wouldn't want that either. so that's part of why i have difficulty reconciling myself to the idea that he was making horcruxes *at hogwarts,* especially since the only one he hid in hogwarts was the diadem in the room of requirement and he didn't hide that one until after he'd graduated

and ALSO part of me rebels at the idea of the gaunts just. having the resurrection stone for generations and never being affected by it, but we're getting away from 'horcrux construction' and into 'quibbles with canon in general'

[alfvaen]

Novel Madness

Still reading, and apparently still blogging about it.

So this is what I read in March. Possible spoilers for the Vorkosigan Saga, and the Mercy Thompson and Peter Grant series, among others.

Jeffrey Cranor & Janina Matthewson: You Feel It Just Below The Ribs, completed March 2

So as you may recall, back in February, I had given up on Ruth Ozeki's A Tale From The Time Being, wasn't fond of Kristen Painter's Flesh And Blood, and was also not really liking the nonfiction book on Reddit I was reading.

I was somewhat tempted to just skip ahead to my reread of Memory, my favourite book in the Vorkosigan series. I mean, when I had started doing more frequent rereads, it had been after just such a string of subpar books, and I wanted to retrench and remind myself why I loved reading. Looking back in my records, I can't actually find that string of subpar books, but I can find about when I started doing the rereads--the fall of 2007, when I started doing a Wheel of Time reread, where every second book was a reread; it was the first time I reread the entire series (up to that point, which was Knife of Dreams). After that, my rereads went back to their more sporadic pace, until the spring of 2008 when I did an every-second-book reread of the Vorkosigan saga (the first of three such rereads in the next few years). And I kept doing every-second-book-a-reread for two years, at which point I slowed down to mostly every third book. By 2012 this was down to every fourth book, and there it seemed to stabilize. So it wouldn't be unprecedented for me to do my rereads more frequently, but the cycle has been stable for a while--I added in the alternation of author gender, the diversity slot, the trying-out slot…it would throw my cycle off now if I did the rereads more frequently. But don't think I wasn't tempted.

Anyway… I was looking for a male author, something that wasn't urban fantasy (because of the Kristen Painter), probably something that wasn't space opera (because Memory was still coming up)… I toyed with the idea of selecting something that might be "fun" (like John Scalzi's Agent To The Stars or the Doctor Who And The Krikkitmen book), but there were also books that I had been thinking "maybe" on for some time and hadn't yet picked up. And You Feel It Just Below The Ribs was one of them.

Many of you are likely familiar with Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor's "Welcome To Night Vale" podcast, which I discovered relatively early (by current standards--maybe around the "Sandstorm" episodes?). I've see the show a couple of times when it came through (or near) Edmonton, I try to keep up on the podcast (though mostly I fail because I can't keep up with a bimonthly podcast schedule any more), and I have read all of the tie-in novels and the script books. The novels are decent, not great, but okay. And I have also tried out a lot of the other related podcasts--"Alice Isn't Dead" and "Within The Wires" are the ones I stuck with.

"Within The Wires" was always weird, and not every season was great, but it was an interesting combination of two conceits--one, that every season was done through "found audio", which included relaxation tapes with hidden messages, dictaphone recordings, answering machine messages, and museum audio guide recordings, among others. And two, that this all took place in an alternate history where, due to an early-20th-century upheaval called The Reckoning, the new regime had taken the drastic step of abolishing the family: breaking the emotional links between parent and child by altering their memories and raising the children in communal creches. (There's also a distinct shortage of male characters in the podcast, which is fine--at some point I'd even thought that men had been wiped out entirely, but there are occasional male characters mentioned now and then. And the new season features a male voice actor for the first time.) But we've never really gotten much detail about the Reckoning, because it was too far in the past, and nobody needed to talk about it much because it was just part of their common world. (Maybe in the season where we were following a woman who was part of a secret rebel group that did raise their own children, but even then we didn't get much.) So I was very interested in the novel that they came out with, in hopes that we would find out more about what the Reckoning actually was and how the change in society came about.

It's a bit of an odd novel--it has a sort of framing story of it being a found document, and has frequent footnotes. But I'm not clear why it was done like this. The document is the memoirs of a woman who was orphaned during the Reckoning--which seems here to have been a worst-case version of World War I that lasted until 1941 and did literally engulf the entire world, possibly with a worse flu pandemic as well. (This was published during Covid so that may have affected things a little.) The author, Miriam Gregory, ended up being influential to the whole post-Reckoning New Society practice of editing memories to remove parent-child bonds. She later got involved with the mysterious Institute from the first season, and there were some hints of the plot from the third (the political thriller told through dictaphone recordings). The footnotes mostly seem to be there to try to point out places where the editors of the document found stuff they were pretty sure was inaccurate. They quoted information from the official record and mentioned when there was no evidence of something existing or having happened at all. Which, okay, maybe this was people parroting the official history even with all its inaccuracies, as a method of showing how the truth had been hidden. But supposedly the publication of this document was being done by a group which was already not following the New Society party line, so why would they be so certain that this was wrong whenever it contradicted the accepted source of truth? It's not clear, and so it seems like they're just there to undermine the story whenever it gets too dramatic. It doesn't feel like an effective technique.

Overall it was a decent book, but flawed, and I felt like it could have covered more of the world than it did.

Lois McMaster Bujold: Memory, completed March 5

I have probably mentioned before that Memory is my flat-out favourite Bujold book. It's not an easy one to recommend to other people, though, because it may only work (and certainly works much better) if you've read all the previous books first. Jo Walton has talked about the "spearpoint theory", where a tiny sharp point can be made much more effective if you've had a lot of buildup to it. This book has a shaft consisting of all the Miles books and stories that came before. Obviously Mirror Dance, of course, the immediate prequel, but it has an especially poignant revisiting of "The Mountains of Mourning", as well as the reappearance of Duv Galeni from Brothers In Arms, and robust roles for Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, Delia Koudelka, Ivan Vorpatril, and Simon Illyan, who is central to the plot. It also has one of the dullest titles in the series, though it is relevant, not least because of the reference to Simon Illyan's eidetic memory chip.

The first part is the most painful, as Miles manages to lose most of what's important to himself through an attempt to keep it from slipping away. But I love almost every scene that takes place on Barrayar. It's such a treat just to see Miles coping with day-to-day life there (my favourite bit is still the convenience-store "Reddi-Meals!"), plunged back into a life he's been neglecting for years, that it doesn't even feel disappointing when it's over a third of a way into the book before the "real" plot really gets going. Because the shaft of that spear is still building up.

In later rereads, there are some bits I find fascinating. Like the worldbuilding details about the existence of Imperial Auditors, special investigators answerable only to the Emperor himself, that actually were never mentioned before in the series. But the way the native Barrayarans explain it to one Komarran feels completely organic, and they've known it all along, so surely these Auditors have been mentioned before? Nope, they're probably something that the author pulled out of her hat for this book (there were "auditors" mentioned in the framing story of Borders of Infinity, but I think they were just regular auditors, not Imperial ones). But if feels like they've always been in the background. (Maybe, if they were, they should have been mentioned in Barrayar somewhere? Well, whatever. Good enough.) Also, there was one relationship that blindsided me first time through, but now I can spot all the groundwork being laid for it all the way through. Very deft.

Steven Barnes: Zulu Heart, completed March 12

Next, according to my cycle, it was time for a book by a "diverse" male author. As I may have mentioned before, I seem to be much shorter on those than I am on female diversity, particularly on the black authors.

I first read Steven Barnes many years ago, at least in collaboration. His book with Larry Niven, Dream Park, has long been a favourite; I recall one day, after a stressful move between cities, that I spent just rereading the book from cover to cover. The sequels never hit quite the same spot, though, which may be why, although I did occasionally buy a Barnes solo book in a second-hand store, I had never actually gotten around to reading any of them. But they were there when I needed to draw from them for this slot. A couple of years ago I read his Lion's Blood, an alternate history novel about a world where African (and mostly Muslim) nations colonized the New World (which I believe they called Bilalistan), and they enslaved Europeans. (I don't recall if there was an in-universe explanation for the change in dominance--maybe the ever-popular Hyper-Virulent Black Death--or if it just turned out that way. There was something about Alexander The Great maybe going to Egypt…) One of the main characters was an Irish man named Aidan who was enslaved as a child near the beginning of the book, and separated from his sister; the other one was a black Muslim named Kai, son of a Wakil in Bilalistan. It probably covers a lot of slave-story tropes, but race-swapped, plus there's also drama an intrigue centered around Kai's family. It was an okay book, but I wasn't particularly planning on searching out the sequel; however, last summer at the When Words Collide convention in Calgary, I saw it on a table of "free to a good home" books, and decided to pick it up. And having basically exhausted pretty much all the other possibilities, I was perforce reading it next.

Once of the principles I mostly stick to with the diversity books is that I don't give up on them. (Maybe I should have done this with the Ruth Ozeki book last month, but I guess I didn't.) It's supposed to be about broadening my horizons, approaching different kinds of stories, etc. I've always been a little hit-or-miss with alternate histories; my perception, at least, is that a lot of them tend to focus on the same things--the American Civil War, the American Revolutionary War, World War II--all American stuff. This one is, at least, a little more creative, and is very black culture focused in a way that, frankly, Barnes's other books I read really weren't.

Plotwise, though, it's only okay; some threads are interesting, some I'm less interested in, and some seem to be a little rushed, as if he was trying to squeeze in plots from a third book the publisher had nixed. The back cover blurb seems to imply that the book is going to cover this world's version of the Civil War, but given that they're still colonies of overseas nations (Egypt and Abyssinia) it's really more like a Revolutionary War. And, spoilers, what there is of it is not a major part of the story. In that sense it's almost more like Diana Gabaldon's later books where the (American) Revolutionary War is going on, and it affects our characters, but it's not primarily about the war itself. And maybe this book would have benefited from being even longer to have that increased scope.

I do worry a bit about the reversed slavery idea--on the one hand, maybe it'll give some of us white people a better feeling for what the Africans suffered under slavery if we replace them with Europeans. The concepts that stuck with me were things like having white slaves given Arabic or African names rather than names from their own culture, and also all the African cultures being treated as distinct things while all the European cultures get jumbled together. But I also picture some people pointing at this and saying, "See? They'd do just the same as us if they were in charge!" Which may be true, but of course it doesn't say that, in our world, the slaves in America didn't suffer, and we're not living in that alternate world. It means that one group may not be inherently nobler than another, but that doesn't mean that they're not deserving of justice, or equity, or reparations. (I can also picture frothing white supremacists screaming that this the what the blacks want, and turning it into a story of white victimhood. Well, I guess we can't control what white supremacists are going to froth about.) It's not a bad thing, but it seems like it can be mischaracterized. (One novel I was working on, I have a setting with an area's native inhabitants being oppressed by intrusive colonials, and I was toying with the idea of having the natives be white, but I'm afraid it'd get read as anti-immigrant rather than anti-colonial, so I probably won't.)

Natalie Zina Walschots: Hench, completed March 16

After the long and somewhat topically heavy slavery book, I decided I was in the mood for something maybe a little lighter, and it was time to get back to a female author. My wife had recommended this Hench book to me, and nudged me about it a couple of times, and I decided to give it a go. I know that technically I do have my special slots for new authors (with the "try but feel free to give up if it does not spark joy" parameters), but if I never tried a new author outside of those slots, then it would take forever me to try all the ones I'm interested in, so I decided to let myself read this one.

The book is clearly set in a world with superheroes, and of course supervillains. I've read a lot of comics--mainly Marvel comics from the 60s through to the 90s (my attempt at a comprehensive read-through on Marvel Unlimited has just inched its way to the end of 1993, so I may be a little behind on the current state of the superhero genre, apart from the MCU stuff) but fewer actual prose novels. I suspect that the modern superhero novel, with its narrower focus, is more prone to examining superheroes in more depth, and frankly most of them tend to come out on the anti-superhero side of things, and at the very least turns them into more complex, flawed characters. The Annihilation Score tended to treat them as problematic; Brandon Sanderson's "Reckoners" series treats them as existential threats (admittedly, in that setting their powers literally drive them insane); and at best, they are severely flawed people who just happen to have powers, as in James Alan Gardner's "Sparks Vs. The Dark" series. Maybe it's a generational thing--in an age where the status quo is far from kind to the vast majority of those who are Millennials or younger, who are your sympathies with--heroes who fight to uphold the status quo, or the villains who subvert it? (Which is not too far off from the logic from that gets people to vote for Trump…)

Hench shows us mostly the villain side of the story, with superheroes mostly shown as overpowered thugs and walking disasters. We're mostly concerned with Supercollider, an example of the former, whose every brush with our protagonist leaves her damaged, and his longtime nemesis Leviathan, who lifts her up and makes her feel valued. I keep wanting to draw analogues with the heroes I'm familiar with--is Supercollider basically Superman? Leviathan seems more like Doctor Doom than anybody. Supercollider's partner Quantum Entanglement (a bit of an awkward name) seems more like a combination of Invisible Woman and Shadowcat than anything else. (I'm always low-key amused at superhero naming where they just silently have to avoid the names of real Marvel or DC characters, without seeming to. In my superhero stories I mostly tend to think that the real heroes are afraid of getting sued by the corporate juggernauts who own the trademarks on the fictional ones…) It got a lot darker than I was expecting, actually, but it was absorbing and I liked it a lot.

Patricia Briggs: Silver Borne, completed March 19

I had originally been thinking of something like Ann Leckie's The Raven Tower for my next book, but after Hench I wasn't feeling like it; instead I thought it might be time for another urban fantasy. I have started so many, and finished (or even caught up with) so few--the Dresden Files, for sure, and the Kelly Meding might be the only one. I find a lot of them appealing in the abstract, but it seems like they appeal to my wife more, so she's the one who reads then, gets hooked on the series, stays caught up, buys them in hardcover, etc. She has always been more of a fan of romance, and a lot of the female-authored urban fantasy seems like it's on a spectrum to paranormal romance. (The main difference, of course, is probably whether there's a single continuing protagonist, or a different romantic pairing every book.) Anyway, I'm in the middle of a lot of series, and it seems to take a lot to get me to the state where I get hooked and have to start reading them faster, so it can be years between books for me.

Patricia Briggs has, like many, split off a side series--her main series follows Mercedes "Mercy" Thompson, but there's also a "Charles & Anna" series which crosses over, and after the last Mercy Thompson book (Bone Crossed) left me a little underwhelmed, I had started those books, so the last Briggs I read was actually side series novel Cry Wolf. Apparently reading them in alternation is not a bad idea anyway, so I went back to Mercy for this one. I even remembered most of the characters, or at least was satisfied with the author's descriptions of them (a lot of minor werewolf pack members showed up, and I couldn't tell you for sure which ones we'd seen before or had character traits before this book).

The pacing was a little weird--there's basically three plot threads which show up at different times, which aren't really connected causally but do interact with each other, and the balance doesn't always work (like pack politics dominating everything else for a few chapters until we get back to our other plots), but it was better than Bone Crossed, at least. It's unfortunate, given how much urban fantasy I read, how little I enjoy the dominance politics of werewolf packs, and particularly the touchiness of Alphas. (Oh, no, we can't meet their gaze or undermine their authority or it's a challenge and they'll have to kill us. And they can't show any weakness or others will try to kill them.)

Next book in the series will be back to Charles & Anna, anyway. I am not yet really hooked on the series, but I'll keep going for now.

Lois McMaster Bujold: Komarr, completed March 22

Back to the Vorkosigans again, for Komarr. Like her other planet-named books, it takes place entirely on the planet in question (if we allow space stations in the same system to be close enough, anyway), the troubled vassal of Barrayar. Because the only current access to Barrayar comes through a wormhole in the Komarr system, and the earlier Cetagandan invasion of the planet was abetted by the Komarrans, Barrayar ended up conquering Komarr to secure its interface to the rest of the world. (I always wondered if it was only upon conquest of a second planet that Barrayar became a true empire, but I think they had emperors before that so probably not.) They've tried to be benevolent rulers since then, but we already saw in Brothers In Arms that there are those, like Ser Galen, that want to get rid of the Barrayaran yoke. And Aral Vorkosigan acquired the sobriquet of "The Butcher of Komarr" when a group of prisoners in his custody were executed--supposedly on his orders, but in fact it was an overzealous subordinate who Aral later killed.

Miles comes along to investigate a bizarre act of destruction--accident or sabotage, we don't yet know--where the "soletta array", a group of orbiting mirrors reflecting additional sunlight onto the cold, still-being-terraformed world (the world's population still lives in domed cities), has been damaged through collision with an off-course ship. He's mostly just shadowing older Lord Auditor Vorthys, the engineering professor who's analyzing the debris, and they end up staying over with Vorthys's niece Ekaterin Vorsoisson, who is our other viewpoint character in the book. Ekaterin has a highly unsympathetic husband, Tien, who has a secret shame, a hidden genetic disease called Vorzohn's Dystrophy. He also happens to be in charge of a small department of the terraforming effort.

I guess my biggest problem with this book is just that Tien and his department turn out to be directly related to the soletta disaster. I mean, think of it--the disaster happens, and an auditor is sent to investigate it. If it hadn't happened to be someone connected to Tien, the investigation might have gone nowhere, or taken a lot longer, because they wouldn't have had that extremely gratuitous link. It bugs me every time.

So the best part of the book is probably the introduction of Ekaterin, and her growth as a character through to the end of the book, where she strikes a decisive blow. And without it, we wouldn't have A Civil Campaign (or would, at least, have a much different book). But it is a dip in what would otherwise be a five-star run from Mirror Dance.

Shaun Barger: Mage Against The Machine, completed March 27

Catchy title, eh? That's probably part of why I picked it up in the first place, though I don't remember for sure. This is in my actual "trying a new author" slot, generally with permission to give up if the book doesn't grab me.

Essentially, it seems that the world ended at some point (2020?) when the machines/AIs rose up against the humans. The mages, who had been living in secret veiled communities for centuries, were hidden and thus not affected by this, though they're pretty sure that the humans were all wiped out. At least, that's what Nikolai, a young magically-talented officer (with a traumatic past) in the year 2120, has always been told.

Meanwhile, outside the veil, a young human cybernetically-enhanced woman named Jem, who remembers the machine uprising ten years earlier (she has her own tramatic past), and who mostly escaped because they were on the way to a colony on Venus at the time, is working as a courier, escorting a rare pregnant woman (unaffected by the fertility plagues the machines spread) through the fringes of Philadelphia.

The two stories go back and forth for several chapters in what seems like an attempt to sow confusion in the reader about the inconsistencies between the two versions of the timeline, which mostly led me to conclude that either these are literally parallel worlds, or that the mages are severely misinformed about the last century of history outside the veils. Or, presumably, most of them are misinformed but the ones at the top are all in on it and keeping the secret for their own reasons.

It seems like a bit of a hodgepodge. Part The Matrix, part Harry Potter (the mages have a sport named "flyball" that seems a lot of like Quidditch without broomsticks), part Brandon Sanderson/Brent Weeks (the flavour of the actual magic system), part Children of Men, part Wool (for the sheltered society ignorant of the world outside)… But I guess that means it's not too derivative, because of the variety of sources?

The biggest problem with it, really, is that the story clearly is not finished…but, in the five years since its release, no further books have come out. The author still seems to be actively posting on Instagram, and I found a Reddit post which said that as of two years ago the sequel was finished (and apparently there are supposed to be four books total), so I hazard a guess that the roadblocks are publishing-related. Like, his editor, Navah Wolfe, bought the first book for Saga Press, but moved on, so he might be editorially orphaned, leading to Saga passing on later books, so he'd have to be looking for a new publisher, or giving up and self-publishing (or just giving up). Always awkward--ask my wife who has two self-published sequels to the books that Scholastic published twenty-some years ago, because no other publisher would take them without rights to the first two. (Diana Rowland managed it somehow, but mostly it just doesn't work.) So I may hang on to this one and await further news (which presumably he'd post on Instagram or something…)

Ben Aaronovitch: Whispers Under Ground, completed March 31

Most of the urban fantasy series out there had female authors and female protagonists; I tend to call this the "post-Buffy" wave--before that, it felt like "urban fantasy" was more like Charles de Lint, with people in and around cities coming into contact with fairies and the like. Although stuff like Tanya Huff's "Blood Ties" series was also around back then, and that's clearly very close to what we call urban fantasy these days. Anyway. There are a few male authors as well, Jim Butcher the most famous, and Kevin Hearne, but they have a different flavour to them. And then there's Ben Aaronovitch, which is different again, being very British. Which is all just a way of saying that, while I normally try not to read too-similar books too close together, this doesn't really feel very much like the Patricia Briggs book I read a couple of weeks ago.

I'm a bit behind on this series--I read Midnight Riot (the North American retitled version of Rivers of London) some time ago, and Moon Over Soho more recently but still a while ago. But my wife was just reading the latest, Amongst Our Weapons, from the library, and apparently it's full of Monty Python references (in the chapter titles, if nothing else), and my eldest son was just reading Midnight Riot (apparently he'd heard that this series's magic system is vaguely similar to the system from the Ars Magica RPG we've been playing recently), so it felt like time to revisit it. My memory is of course a little fuzzy, but my overall impression is that this book is a little more police-procedural murder mystery than the previous two. Definitely there is a murder to solve, and there is a lot of interaction with other police (and an American FBI agent). Definitely a certain amount of underground (including sewers), as the title implies (so it's not just the London Underground). I enjoyed it and will have to try to revisit the series a little more frequently.

And that's it for the prose fiction books for March. For completeness I can also add in a graphic novel I squeezed in (literally just finished it before midnight on the 31st). See, one of the podcasts I've been listening to for a while is the "Endless" podcast, about the Sandman, cohosted by Lani Diane Rich and Alisa Kwitney. Kwitney, who was a former DC editor, particularly on Sandman itself, also apparently did a series for Ahoy Comics called "G.I.L.T.", which they were shilling on the podcast, so I thought I'd give it a try. I got my library to order what turned out to be a collection of the first five issues (I guess I'm not sure if there are more, but I wouldn't be surprised). "G.I.L.T." apparently stands for something like "Guild of Independent Lady Temporalists", though I'm not sure such a guild actually turned up… Anyway, two women, 70ish Hildy and 50ish Trista, get sent back in time to 1973, though Trista wasn't supposed to come along; they try to deal with their respective pasts, linked by a creepy cult-leader type that Hildy was engaged to and Trista's mother was a follower of. They're not supposed to be able to change anything, but they're also not supposed to both go back at once, so things get a little screwy. I wasn't 100% sold on it, but it was interesting.

And now I am actually reading The Raven Tower, but that'll be for next month's post.

[mzannthropy]

Tell me why you dislike the Emily trilogy please because I'm rereading it!!

It's more of a difficult relationship, rather than disliking it; there are many parts that I like about Emily. Like, the majority of it is good. But it drives me CRAZY! It's the way LMM wrote, and the choices she made in the Emily series.

(Sorry if it's ranty and incoherent, it's the first time I've properly wrote down all my thoughts & feelings on Emily.)

So first of all, what the hell is it with all the preachy, patronising BS? This is not LMM's usual style, which is why it's so bewildering. The narrator frequently breaks the fourth wall to tell us how she's not there to defend Emily, but to merely chronicle her life and I want to say, I don't need you to defend Emily, Lucy Maud, I can make my own mind for myself, thank you! She doesn't do it in Anne (also a story of an orphan being taken in), and as far I can remember, she doesn't do it in any of her other writing. It reminds me of Little Women a lot. And from me that's not a compliment.

Then, I say it outright as it is: I loathe Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Ruth and I think they're both child abusers. Aunt Ruth, especially, is a tyrant. She's a dictator. Her constantly calling Emily "sly" with no evidence and then after that incident with Perry and the kiss, when they hold a family court, she says "I would have believed you if you had told the truth", can you get any more textbook abuser? I have this thing when I cannot handle someone not being believed (also due to something that I went through), it triggers me, and a person (esp of authority) determined to disbelieve you and think the worst of you when it's just not true sends me to a rage. Aunt Elizabeth is a vile, cruel, narrow-minded woman, who should not be allowed near children. If the narrative ever condemned these women, it would be a much better reading experience. But it doesn't. Right to the very end, the last page, the second to last paragraph, when Emily and Teddy finally, FINALLY, find each other, Ruth still calls Emily sly. Worst of it is that Emily really doesn't do anything remotely wicked. She's essentially a good kid. What would these hags do if they saw today's teenagers?

"You are always writing yards of trash that nobody wants." Quote from Aunt Elizabeth. What a nice, loving aunt! Then they call Emily a Murray when it suits them--when she does something they disapprove of, it's "that Starr coming out in her". Or they say she's "half a Murray" and I'm like, everyone is unless both your parents were Murrays?

Abusive caregivers are no strangers to LMM works, ofc, but they're usually presented as villains and are not the "endgame" caregivers. (Take as an example, little Elizabeth from Windy Poplars.) That's why I like Jane of Lantern Hill, bc here LMM finally admits that an abusive narcissist is an abusive narcissist (the grandmother). And that was 1937, so you know, it took her time to realise that.

So, most of what I'm saying here relates to the second book. Emily of New Moon is not as infuriating and Quest I actually like, despite how it drags, bc it so perfectly depicts the consequences of Emily's choice at the end of Emily Climbs. And here I get to the crux of the matter--the ending of Emily Climbs.

So, Emily has graduated school, has some success with her writing, has had short stories published and at last meets someone who believes in her, who sees her talent as a writer. Janet Royal offers her a job and a place to stay in New York. An opportunity people would sell their literal souls for. And what does Emily do?

She refuses it bc she doesn't want to leave New Moon.

Once again, I repeat. Emily gets offered a job and free accommodation in fucking NEW YORK and she refuses it bc she doesn't want to leave New Moon, that fucking backwards, progress-denying, candle-burning, abuse-filled place in godsforsaken village on PEI.

How is this supposed to be a good storytelling choice??? And this is why I don't think the series will get adapted again. Not without some major changes. Bc I can't imagine how modern audience would react to a heroine rejecting an opportunity of a lifetime, an opportunity many young people today would commit literal CRIMES for--and for what? It's not even that she is doing it to get married and have kids (stupid choice still, but at least more understandable). The end of Climbs makes me so fucking mad, that story with the dog is so stupid and painful to read (YMMV). I want to cry, why, Lucy Maud, whyyyyyyyyyyy *cries unconsolably*

I think it's bc LMM wouldn't have been able to write--or at least she thought she wouldn't have been able to write--a story of a young upcoming female writer in NYC, bc that wasn't her type of story. But in that case, she should not have included that golden opportunity in Climbs at all. Bc why is it there? Emily could have just returned to New Moon after she finished her schooling.

The tragic, Watsonian interpretation is that Emily is merely experiencing effects of her childhood trauma. (If you want to look at it as a tragedy, then it makes it sort of more bearable, if only it was less patronising...)

When she informs Aunt Elizabeth of her decision, the woman's response is: "I thought a Murray would." I thought a Murray would. Not, I'm happy you're staying with us. That tells you everything you need to know.

And this is what's good about Emily's Quest. Bc here, Emily suffers the consequences of her moronic choice. Ilse, Teddy and Perry all leave to chase their fortunes. Imagine Emily left too. The NYC offer was a tad unrealistic, but, had LMM had better ideas, she could have made it a Toronto job instead. Or Halifax. Or just Charlottetown, ffs. Imagine her getting out of the New Moon environment, getting brand new experiences, seeing people not give a slightest fuck that she was a Murray of New Moon. Seeing how, out in the real world, little their majestic family clan matters. But she didn't. And that's why she had to go through what she went through in the last book. Bc she never meets any book/literary people, she puts so much stock in Dean and she believes everything he tells her. She believes him when he tells her that her book is no good, burns her manuscript and in anguish runs out of her room, trips over the sewing basket and----

So ummm, Dean. Of course he's a creep. But it makes sense to me that she's friends with him. She's a vulnerable child, he preys on her. I don't buy that he'd so happily to give her the deeds of the house as a wedding gift, but LMM wanted her happy ending and she never actually wrote Dean as the dangerous predator that he is.

When I read LMM biography The Gift of Wings by Mary Henley Rubio, I hoped I would find some answers to things that bother me about Emily--but there weren't any. So, *shrugs* I guess I never will know.

[arminhug]

hello, pumpkin || annie leonhardt x reader: chapter two

series masterlist

。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

BIRTHDAY GIRL

Annie and I never established that we were friends until her eighth birthday.

In the blossoming spring warmth, I nestled myself in the corner of the bench in the playground’s garden. It was an unspoken fact that nobody really played in the garden; it was a quiet haven for a few of us to read or enjoy solitude, yet it had also become a spot where I waited for Annie every day, and almost every day, had she not been sent home or busy with other obligations, Annie joined me, sometimes speaking, sometimes not. I didn’t mind; I just loved to be in her company.

On this particular day, Annie stood before me, and despite her being the same height as me, her air always made her seem much bigger and powerful.

“My dad says this is for you.”

She handed me a white envelope into which I fervently tore, revealing a gaudy invitation card.

“It’s your birthday on Saturday?” I quizzed.

“No, my birthday is today. But my dad said it was too short notice to invite you to my house today, so you can come on Saturday.”

At this news of Annie’s birthday, I immediately leapt to my feet and braced her in a hug. “Happy birthday! What cake are you having? Are you going to hand out sweets to your class?”

Annie did not hug me back but did not resist. “I don’t like cake, and I don’t like anyone in my class.”

I gasped. “How can you not like cake? Also, who’s going to be at your party if you don’t like anyone in your class?”

“Cake is too heavy and sweet.” She responded monotonously. “Also, you’re the only one coming; it’s not a party, my dad just knows I have a friend now and wanted you to come. You don’t have to.”

Unlike Annie, I didn’t actively avoid the other children in my school. I was still invited to many class birthday parties, I spoke amiably to my peers and I could name a few schoolchildren whom I could consider a friend— yet Annie, the stoic, ash-blonde girl confessing she saw me as a friend elicit such joy within me, I can still remember the feeling to this day if I think about her enough.

“So if I’m your friend, I have to get you a present, right?” I had reminded her of the title that she gave me moments ago.

“No. I don’t want a present.”

“Yes you do, everyone wants presents!” I retorted. “What do you like best in the world?”

“Cats.”

I sat down, sulking. “I can’t get you a cat, Annie. What else do you like?”

Silence.

“Mummy and I can make you something.” I continued, desperate to find something that I could give to my friend. “She’s really good at baking. Do you like cookies?”

“No.”

“Cupcakes?” I refused to give up.

“No! Cupcakes are tiny cakes, you know I hate cakes.”

“Brownies?”

“No.”

“Doughnuts?”

This time, Annie turned away, not meeting the question with a monosyllabic “no”.

“Doughnuts! Annie, I’ll make you lots of doughnuts, okay?”

Annie still refused to look me in the eye. It never bothered me, but I had gathered that she was more inclined to refuse eye contact when she was upset or shy. Before I had the chance to attempt to pry into which flavour of doughnut she would have liked, the bell signalling the end of recess rang. I leapt to my feet and pressed a chaste kiss to Annie's cheek.

“See you later, you doughnut!”

She shoved me towards my line with no malice in the action. “Whatever you say, pumpkin girl.”

“Earth to (y/n)? You’ve been glazed over for the past five minutes. What’s so exciting about the window?”

I blink, snapping out of the saccharine memory of Annie’s birthday. Four pairs of eyes are fixed on me, and I animate myself, taking the doughnut from my plate and shrugging. “I was just thinking,” I respond.

“You sure? Not looking at any hot dudes?” the only other female at the table, Sasha, suggests. Her hazel eyes flicker suggestively over to the group of men kicking a ball about in the park over the road from our favourite local café, which has baked goods to die for (or so Sasha and Connie, the food fanatics of my friendship group claim. I won’t argue—the doughnuts are heavenly.)

“Yeah, c’mon, (y/n)! There are three dashing fellows right here, why do you need to stare at those losers?” Connie chimes in, gesturing to himself and my other two male friends, Jean and Marco.

“Yeah, you wish. My type isn’t idiots,” I playfully smack Connie���s head, the growing stubble brushing my fingertips as I find any way to bring the subjects away from men that I would apparently find attractive.

“On all seriousness, what is your type? We’ve never seen you have anyone about.” Jean interrogates. Great.

It took me a while to figure out that I’m likely not into men. I never quite knew why I got so uncomfortable when middle school brought an array of boy bands that prepubescent teenage girls loved to swoon over, and why I could never answer when somebody asked me who was the hottest, but at the age of sixteen, when I realised my heart was racing upon seeing two women kiss in a film my friends and I had watched, it hit me like a freight train that I was definitely attracted to women.

I chose not to indulge anyone in this knowledge; realistically, I know I don’t have too much to worry about. Sure, my parents aren’t screaming about supporting gay rights from the rooftops, but I know that they have no prejudice towards the community, and my four closest friends would accept me no matter what — hell, Marco told us he was gay when we were fifteen and sixteen years old over a game of Mario Kart and we embraced his queerness with open arms.

So what’s the big deal? I think to myself.

“Does it matter? I’m too busy to date. These university decisions are killing me!”

“Simple,” Jean interrupts, pointing the straw of his ridiculously large iced coffee in my direction. “You come to Marley with Marco and me. Good university, far enough away from your parents, and you get your favourite friends with you for the ride!”

Jean and Marco are one class above Sasha, Connie and I, and decided that Marley University, a small, public school that gained a decent reputation despite it being so new, was the place for them. It was hard to say goodbye once they left school, but the holiday breaks came frequently, and soon enough, they were back for Easter, helping their three younger friends decide on which school to go to.

“Tempting, but probably not. I can’t get over the English department in Sina,” I responded dreamily.

“Yeah, and the crazy entry requirements. You’d have to be a robot to get those grades! Just come to Marley with us, I’m sure the English stuff is fine there, too!” Sasha whined, poking at my hand. I take another bite of my nostalgic treat, shaking my head.

“Guys, I love you all, but I can’t make such an important decision based on my friends. You understand, right?”

“It’s fine, (y/n),” Marco interrupts, his familiar comforting smile gracing his freckled face. “We’ll come to visit you up there, right?”

“Nope. Four of us, one of you. She is coming to Marley.” Jean retorts.

“Jesus, fair enough. I’ll book the plane tickets now!” I tell him sardonically. He elbows me jovially in response and stands, coffee in hand. “Right, we can finish our drinks and snacks on the way outside. It's too nice to be spending it indoors.”

Ignoring the protests from Sasha and Connie, who forlornly protest that they haven't had the chance to order a baked good after their main courses, the majority of the group tail towards the double doors, leaving the duo no choice but to begrudgingly follow suit. The late March sunshine is glorious, beaming down on my face, much like the day twelve years ago I was daydreaming about. It suddenly hit me that today, March 22nd, Annie would be turning twenty years old. This newfound knowledge makes my stomach drop and I cannot control the grief coursing through my being.

It's ever so odd how I can remember every detail about my childhood friend; every memory we shared together, her favourite colour, (black, which I insisted was rather morbid for an eight-year-old, so I coaxed her into putting blue as a second favourite) how on Sunday mornings her father would always pick her up from my house after a sleepover at 10 am sharp to take her to karate, even though she had told me in confidence that she much preferred kickboxing. I couldn't tell you many facts about any other childhood friend who I lost to time; it's only Annie. Every detail of the girl who made my infancy etched into my heart, refusing to leave.

As I force myself back into the present moment, I am aware that maybe Annie was more than just my best friend.

But I was so young. How could I have truly differentiated between innocuous childhood affection and romantic yearning?

“Marco?” I punctuate the spring silence before I can even stop myself. “How did you realise your first crush?”

Marco raises his eyebrows. “Jeez, it was so long ago. I was eleven and I was having a sleepover with my friend. We were on his bed playing Minecraft on his laptop, but I wasn’t even paying attention; I was just admiring his face, how he was so engrossed in the game. My heart was racing because I realised I wanted to kiss him, but I didn’t even think it was biologically possible to like the same sex, so I brushed it off. Now I look back…” he laughs awkwardly, before looking me in the eye, his tone suddenly earnest. “Why, what’s up? Anything you want to talk to me about?”

I stop in the street, completely oblivious to the speed of modern day life around me. Suddenly all I care about is how my stomach leapt when I saw her pallid figure walk through the double doors, into the garden, how I found any excuse to hold her hand, how obsessed I was with the topography of her curved nose, icy eyes, lips stark against her pale skin.

“How do you know for sure you’re gay if you’ve only ever had a crush on one person in your life? Somebody who you haven’t spoken to in eight years?”

。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

[theodorebasmanov]

You know, I’m not a “real” potterman – I’ve read the books, I’ve watched the movies, I read fanfiction once in a while, I watch @themischiefmanagers​  and I know my house, but I’m not a potterman. When I heard about “Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality”, I asked my mother, who is a potterman and reads loads of HP fanfiction, if it’s worth reading, she told me that she tried and it was boring and I forgot about it. Then, about a year and a half ago there started a crowdfunding campaign – they were publishing the fanfiction – three hard-cover books with snow-white paper. I’ve seen a lot of advertisement of it, especially on Facebook where my favourite non-fiction writers were recommending it. Then I’ve seen two of my classmates, who weren’t hard-core HP fans, reading and enjoying it. So, I’ve decided to read “Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality” myself. Well, I liked the idea – Harry Potter being a rational and well-educated kid, whose adoptive parents loved him, who uses scientific methods to understand the magical world. I enjoyed the beginning! The part in which Harry and Professor McGonagall going to the Diagon Alley was just brilliant! I also liked that the author changed the houses for many characters for more suitable ones – (I guess, here the spoilers start!) Harry and Hermione are in Ravenclaw, Neville is in Hufflepuff. The beginning of the school year was also interesting – Harry’s approach to everything, his friendship and learning sessions with Draco, professor Quirrell being unusual, after all. I had fun reading it, but, unfortunately, it didn’t last long. At some point, it started becoming boring and forgetting the original point and making Harry even a bigger Mary Sue (Martin Sue?) than in the original and bringing too many (TOO MANY) intrigues into the plot. I’ve already forgotten what exactly made me angry while reading, but, for example, the part with the dementor when Harry destroyed it singlehandedly just by thinking very hard about how much he believes in humanity I felt very strange. The episode with partial transfiguration when he again managed to complete something impossible by thinking about physics also was a little “illogical”. A lot of times I wanted to remind Mr Yudkowsky that the character is eleven years old (and it happened much more frequently than with another author (glance at Ms Rowling))! After the episode with Bella and Azkaban, I felt that Wikipedia’s “emotional blind spot towards subtle indications of Quirrell's secret” is a little too soft expression for Harry’s behaviour. When I read the part about Hermione killing Draco and Harry going to the court to Wizengamot I realized that I need to know what happens next and if I want to read it (by the way – the book is unbelievably long – it’s longer than the entire Lord of the Rings series including The Hobbit. I’ve read about three quarters.). Well, with the help of Wikipedia and Wiki I realized that I can hardly bear to read it up to the end. Seriously? Killing Hermione? Quirrell is still Voldemort? (I’m not against it because it was like that in canon, but because his “evilness” became too obvious at some point.) What I also didn’t like was that Dumbledore (as I understood it) at the end of the day was shown as a good character? I mean – fanfiction exists to show that an adult person intentionally jeopardizing children can’t be good. To sum up, I liked the idea but not the realization. Now I have some “The Witcher” books, Neil Gaiman’s “Gods” and “The Vampire Lestat” (recommended to me after my complaints about how boring I found the first book of the series) to read. 

P.S. The thing which also extremely annoyed me is how the author threw in this stuff about marauders and Sirius being lovers with Peter and then forgot about it for a few thousands of pages (my e-book pages, but still).

[colorseeingchick]

Oh Baby! A Series (Tsukishima x Fem!Reader)

Summary: You and Tsukishima have been together for years- and pranking each other the whole way through. But what happens when one prank on Tsukki turns out to be a prank on you? 

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of pregnancy, fluff 

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: This is my first fic! I hope you guys like it :) 

“This was the best you could do? Really?” You watch in horror as Tsukishima Kei, your husband of 5 years, holds the positive pregnancy test in his hand, a smug expression plastered across his face. 

Fuck. 

“Babe, this is like the oldest trick in the book. I’m pretty offended that you thought that this would fool me, of all things.” He shakes his head slowly and puts the test back in the bathroom drawer where you (thought you) had hidden it away from his sight. 

You stand there, processing the scenario as it had just played out before you. But that clearly wasn’t enough to sort out how genuinely screwed (ha pun intended) you were.  

How exactly did you end up here again? 

Tsukki had been pranking and roasting you for 12 years now- 1 year as your classmate, 1 year as your friend, 5 years as your boyfriend, and 5 as your husband. Yeah, your high school sweetheart was this sarcastic four-eyes. You were simple to read and gave theatrical reactions which perpetually egged him on to keep messing with you, and eventually led to him developing feelings for you. Despite how annoyed you were by him at first as well, you soon found yourself loving his quick wit and taunting personality. Though the roasts were intense, the pranks were always light. Tsukki made an effort to never push serious or sensitive topics, and he would NEVER try to pull anything when you were in a bad mood. The pranks went both ways as well- and you never felt more accomplished than when you managed to catch your clever boyfriend off guard. Teasing was a staple of your relationship and both of you loved it. But the jokes sometimes had you both a bit too on guard. When Tsukki proposed to you, you thought he was just pulling a more elaborate prank than usual (which led to you initially rejecting him AND causing a hell of a lot of confusion/fear/panic for Tsukishima...until the jokes were clearly set aside. At that point you JOYOUSLY accepted the ring from him, but that’s a story for another day). Looking back on it, you always loved lecturing him on how it was his fault for always playing tricks on you, and that he can’t blame you for not believing him right away. 

But OH! How the tables have turned. 

5 years into your marriage, and the pranks haven’t gone anywhere. However, Tsukki made a “New Years Resolution” to make fun of you more than he had in previous years [Read: Tsukki thinks New Years Resolutions are FAKE NEWS and has made a dumb one to mock the concept]. But considering it was meant to be a parody, he was pretty doing a damn good job of teasing you more than you had ever experienced. Your favorite mug *magically* ended up in the highest cabinet possible on a frequent basis, pieces of your strawberry shortcake would disappear soon after being frosted, and there were plenty of jump scares (which Tsukki went through the effort of recording every time). By the time March rolled around, you were VERY riled up (mind you, at no point had you ever actually attempted to tell Tsukki to stop) and promised Tsukki that you were going to pull the GREATEST prank in the history of your relationship as your grand move of revenge. You made an effort to remind him on a daily basis after that point, and both of your competitive natures came out. 

It was about three weeks after your initial declaration of revenge that you realized your period was quite overdue and morning sickness was setting in. You logically decided to take a pregnancy test. Low and behold, the test came back positive! 

You had known that Tsukishima was ready for children for quite some time now, honestly. He had mentioned it a few times, but you hadn’t felt ready or prepared to be a mom just yet. The man could read you like a book, so seeing distress or discomfort come up when he mentioned it- he would never want to make you feel pressured to have a baby. But after seeing the test, thinking about it (for a good while), and reflecting on your relationship and where you were in life, you felt like you were properly ready to be a mom. All that was left was for you to tell the dad-to-be. But seeing as you two were in a pranking WAR, you figured the timing wasn’t quite ideal just yet. Which is why you decided to hide the test and tell him after April 1st, as to prevent him from assuming you were pulling your grand prank with the pregnancy test. 

Never did you expect him to FIND the test on April Fools itself. If he had found it the days before, it would have been better than him finding it today. The one event you were trying to avoid was the only event to occur. As of right now, the world is playing a big prank on you. Though you definitely weren’t laughing. 

And I was ACTUALLY going to do the prank today, too! Ughh. You slide down your bathroom wall, contemplating where to even go with this. You could go through with your real prank, but at this point it felt excessively stupid in comparison to everything else going on. Right now, the priority was telling Tsukki the truth. You get up and rush downstairs, to where Tsukki was sitting on the couch, book in hand. 

“Kei, we need to talk.” You plop down next to him, casually placing one of your legs on top of his lap. 

He closes the book and tosses you one of his classic smirks, side eye and all. “Yes, Y/N?”

“Kei... I’m…” You grab his hand, “I’m actually pregnant.” 

He stares into your eyes, expression neutral. Meanwhile, your eyes dig daggers into him, as to say “I’m being DEAD serious you have to believe me or else.” 

He blinks a couple of times, smiles, and then raises the hand you put on top of his, sweetly kissing right below your knuckles. 

“I commend you for trying to rescue your prank, but you’re not gonna fool me like that.” He squeezes your hand before getting up and walking away to the kitchen, leaving you in absolute shock on the couch. He doesn’t believe me. Not even a little bit. 

Fuck. 

As the day goes on, you get more and more desperate to try and convince him of how you actually were now carrying his baby. And the more you try, the more he rejects the idea. Your last ditch effort is during dinner, when you make pancakes (breakfast for dinner was a Saturday specialty for you two) and you spell out “I have your CHILD” with chocolate chips on top of his stack. 

“You realize how out of context, this could be read a VERY different way, right?” He would have been fed up with how persistent you were being, if it wasn’t for how creative you were being about it. So instead, he was just thoroughly amused. 

You, on the other hand, are far from amused. Desperate, hopeless, and VERY irritated at the blond beanpole you called your husband, you aggressively stab your pancakes and eat in silence. 

I definitely set myself up for this, I’m not gonna lie. 

But there is only one way out, and that’s with fresh evidence. Right after finishing dinner, you leave the house and head to your local shop without saying a word to Tsukki. 

...She’s really sticking to it huh. Does she know that this isn’t as funny as she thinks it is? He thinks to himself as he sips on some warm milk while listening to some music and reading on the couch.

[Trust me Tsukki. She doesn’t think this is funny at all.]

Though you weren’t at the store for all that long, your husband managed to pass out on the couch (the milk made him sleepy). You sigh, shaking him into slight consciousness and dragging him up the stairs to your bedroom. As you push him onto the bed, he grabs your waist and tries to pull you onto him. He manages to get you close to his chest, and he nuzzles his nose into your neck, mostly asleep and searching for cuddles. For how irritating, snarky, and teasing your husband was, he was awfully affectionate and overwhelmingly sweet in moments like these. 

“Not yet, baby,” you whisper to his unconscious head, pulling his glasses off his face. “I have to prove how much of an idiot you are for not believing me. Then you get cuddles.” You wriggle yourself out of his grasp and head to the bathroom, taking another test to confirm what you already knew to be true. 

Sighing upon the sight of the two lines, you place this test in the drawer with the other one. “I’ll show him tomorrow when he’s awake and ready to face my wrath.” You smile mischievously while shutting the drawer.

You take care of some unfinished business in your house as it slowly hits 1 am. Exhausted, you eventually find yourself crawling into bed and under Tsukki’s arms, nuzzling into his chest as his arms instinctively encase you, your face tucking into the crook of his neck. 

How badly you wanted to stay upset at him. But it felt virtually impossible when he showered you with so much love. Being wrapped up in the warmth of his arms  quickly helped you drift off to sleep. 

---

You stirred back into consciousness at around 7 am,when the warmth that had wrapped around your body had disappeared, your husband not in sight. He usually woke up early on weekends to go run, so his absence wasn't surprising. Too groggy to worry or think straight, you instinctively get out of bed to go use the restroom as nausea shifts your stomach. However, when you approach the door frame of your master bathroom, you see Tsukki staring into the drawer, looking stiff as a statue. His face hidden, you could tell he’s deeply lost in thought. 

“Kei?” You ask softly, “ Love, is everything alri-”

He twists his body to face you, an unreadable expression adorning his strong and normally smug features. It scared you a little. 

“...Kei?” 

He reveals the two tests in his hands as he strides towards you, holding them directly in front of your line of sight. 

“Y/N, all jokes aside. Okay?”

You had a strong indication as to where this was going. “Okay.” 

“Are you really pregnant?” 

You paused for a second. Although the answer to the question was easy, there was a sudden fear that rose in your stomach upon hearing his tone. What if he was in denial because he didn’t want the baby? Would he be angry if he found out you were serious? But you were almost certain he would be as excited as you for the baby. 

Your pause of insecurity was accompanied by a blank expression that had Tsukki’s anticipation skyrocketing. He really wasn’t one to overthink. Thinking just the right amount was his specialty. He’s a rational guy. But you always managed to push that a little, and became the exception. 

“Y/N??” His hands grab your shoulders with a slight squeeze.

You jump back into reality as he calls your name. No matter what his reaction was, he would need to know the truth. You could do damage control after. 

“Yes. I really am pregnant, Kei. But if you don’t think we’re rea-”

“Is it mine?”

At this, you got pissed real fast. 

“The hell? Of course it’s yours, who else’s kid would it be what the hell do you thi-”

He engulfs you in a tight, crushing hug, pulling you against him entirely with his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. He lets out a shaky breath as he sways you side to side in his embrace. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m gonna be a dad.” Relief radiates off of him, and you could feel a genuine and innocent smile pressed against your skin. 

Now you felt like an idiot for even worrying about telling him the truth. 

You gently pull away from his body to look him in the eyes, his arms still draped around you. “Kei, why didn’t you believe me when I told you yesterday?” 

He looked away from you, eyes on the ground. “Whenever I tried to bring it up in the past, you seemed uncomfortable, and you’ve told me before that you aren’t sure if you were ready to be a mom… I thought that I was the only one who wanted a baby... So when you promised a grand prank for days on end, and I found a positive pregnancy test... I just assumed it was an intense prank and didn’t wanna get my hopes up.” Despite everything, Tsukki had never been the best at direct confrontation. You both were advocates of clear communication and drawing lines, yes, but sometimes, for your sake, he tried to accommodate. It warmed your heart and broke it at the same time to see him all soft and vulnerable, compared to his usual tough guy act. 

“Baka.” You pulled his face down to yours so your foreheads touched, his eyes having no option but to lock with yours. “I would never lie about something like this. We’ve always been good about keeping serious stuff serious, yeah?” 

He murmured in agreement as he slowly closed his eyes. 

You giggle. “You know me too well, though. For a long time I didn’t think I was ready. Even when I took the first test I had doubt in myself. But I thought about everything and… I think I’m ready to have this baby. If it's with you then, yeah. I’m ready.” 

He opens his eyes again just to stare at you for a long moment before saying, “You’re gonna be as weird a mom as you are a wife.” 

You smack his arm and scowl at him. He breaks out and laughs, “Don’t worry, our baby will probably be as weird as you, so it will be great.” Your scowl deepened. It’s his turn to grab your face and kiss your nose, staring at you with all the love in the world. “It's because you’re so weird that I love you so much. Who else would be able to throw back what I dish out AND amuse me at the same time?” He quirks an eyebrow at you. 

You sigh, effectively flustered by his wacky compliment. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” His infamous smirk makes a reappearance and damn, are you a sucker for that smirk. 

“But-” you continue, “we really have set some ground rules from here on out. I thought your proposal would be the greatest mix-up in our relationship, but this is too close of a second.”

“Agreed.”

“And throughout this pregnancy you sure as hell better lay off on the teasing and pranks because I swear I will-” 

“I promise. I’ll be nice to you while you’re carrying our baby. I know- how absolutely uncharacteristic of me.” 

You roll your eyes, a smile sneaking onto your face. “Be careful, I might get used to it.” 

He rolls his eyes back, smiling as well. “So, truce?” 

“Truce.” 

He finally pulls away from you and walks as to exit your bedroom. “We’ll talk more about this later, I’m gonna go on my run for now. Do you know where my water bottle is by the way?” 

You lean against the door frame once again. “It should be in the office.” 

“Alright, I’ll let you know when I get back.”

You smiled to yourself, your stomach bubbling from nausea, yes, but also from happiness. How did you get so lucky with such a snarky beanpole? You had yet to figure it out. 

“OI Y/N!” You broke out of your thoughts again as Tsukki sprints up the stairs and essentially throws himself into your bedroom. 

“Yes?”

His face is completely awestruck, stuck in a state of shock and disbelief. 

“You wanna tell me why there are dinosaur stickers covering literally everything in my office?”

A mischievous grin slowly crawls across your face. 

His desk, chair, lamp, laptop, printer, and walls were plastered with dinosaur stickers. A flag with a dinosaur was hung behind his desk as well. (The visit to the shop the night before was the last of 5 trips you had made- you had gone to all sorts of stores to find jumbo stickers over the course of the past few weeks, because Tsukki would have seen packages if you ordered stickers online). 

“You couldn’t even spare my water bottle?” He lifts it, as to express his exasperation. 

The water bottle looked excessively stupid, as its usual blue service was covered with green baby dinos. 

“What happened to the truce?” He asks, still shocked. 

“I told you I would get my revenge.” The sass and pride was tangible in your voice. 

“Happy belated April Fool’s, Kei.”

[azrielsribbon]

I have always wanted to talk about the topic of Nesta, and how certain things led up to her clear signs of depression and ptsd, has been talked about a lot lately (as it should).

So after seeing lots of amazing discussions (from many amazing people such as @stardustsroses & @nestaarcher0n) I’ve gathered up my confidence, thought a lot, and here’s my spiel on her current situation and how her upbringing made her into the Nesta we know today. More specifically, the possible impact of her mother.

Nesta has gone through a lot. We cannot expect her to just change her attitude after she went through the events of the war and saw her own father get decapitated. She can’t even go in a bath without having horrid flashbacks for gods sake.

She isn’t going to cope the same way her sisters did. Forcing her to interact with a type of people she has feared her whole life isn’t going to help. Especially putting her in the mountains with a male that is possibly her mate.

Before I start, yes, she’s mooching off of Feyre even if she isn’t living with the Circle, yes she puts her heavy bar payment on their tab but Elain doesn’t have a job either. Let’s not forget Elain Archeron when we talk about Feyre and Nesta. Just because she’s sweet doesn’t mean she isn’t in the wrong.

The mortal worlds have always feared the fae. You know to stay away from the Faerie. Then one day, you and your sister get thrown in some thing called a cauldron and you can’t go back. You become the thing you’ve feared. The people you were once apart of now hate you.

Even before she joined the fae world, she had to gon through her mother’s lectures on how they’d grow up to marry and produce heirs. She thought Tomas Mandray was going to be her fate because of the morals implanted in her by her mother. She thought the only way to life as a woman was to marry, have children and host guests. The way her mother did it.

Yes, she didn’t step up when her mother died or when her father was in debt, but let me remind you Elain didn’t do anything either since everyone wants to forget about the sweet Archeron. I don’t see anything about her being called out??

Nesta is a person who is more action than words. She has shown her guilt, her regret for not helping Feyre by looking for her when Tamlin left with her. She helped out during the war, cut up bandages when she wasn’t asked to. She waited until she got the word that Cassian was ok after he was injuried. She has always been protective of both her sisters. Elain, however, seems to want to stay in the world where she doesn’t have to help others and see through their problems. She’d rather smile through it all then bring attention to the situation or fix it. Both Nesta and Feyre are not like this.

It’s no secret that the firstborn child has the most troubles as they are the guinea pigs (I can unfortunately attest to this), but here is an excerpt, in the narrative of Feyre, describing their late mother.

“My mother. Imperious and cold with her children, joyous and dazzling among the peerage who frequented our former estate, doting on my father—the one person whom she truly loved and respected. But she also had truly loved parties—so much so that she didn’t have time to do anything with me at all save contemplate how my budding abilities to sketch and paint might secure me a future husband. Had she lived long enough to see our wealth crumble, she would have been shattered by it—more so than my father. Perhaps it was a merciful thing that she died”. (Said in the first book of the series.)

Not the average mother, is she? Mrs Archeron does not involve herself with her children much and pays lots of attention to her status, and parties. Feyre mentions how she lectured her on how painting might secure her a husband. So if she spent the very little time she did with her daughters about husbands, we can pretty much develop a scene on how she raises her children and what she thought was “motherhood”.

For context, the age gap between each Archeron sister is around 1 to 2 years. Mrs. Archeron died of typhus when Feyre was 8. This would mean Elain was around 9/10, and Nesta was around 10/11.

If she’s talking to Feyre about husbands at that young age. she’s probably talking to Nesta and Elain about their maidenhoods, their first bleed and even children. She’d probably be expecting of Nesta to prepare herself for a prospective marriage.

She isn’t a dotting mother. She cares to spend her days showing to her friends and is said to care only for her husband.

Parents like this don’t raise children who are secure of themselves. These children have trust issues, attachment problems, overthink everything to the max and believe they will never be enough no matter what. They raise children who will do anything to get their mothers (or fathers) attention and anything they think will please them.

Her daughters (save for Feyre) are taught by the most prestigious tutors in the most prestigious subjects but this doesn’t teach them how to cook, how to sew or how to clean. It gives them the ability to marry rich and be the lady of a house, who has maids.

Mrs. Archeron is a rich and most likely a well-known woman. Her husband is the Prince of Merchants. This could lead her to engrave it in her own daughters that they need to be proper, ladylike, marry rich and to be a wife first, and even give many heirs to their husbands.

This hits the firstborn children harder than anything else. Because they are the experiments. The parents are new to things, they don’t know what is right or wrong. Nesta would’ve been expected to ready herself for any future suitors. 

On her deathbed, she makes her youngest daughter promise to do everything to take care of them. Even she knows that Elain and Nesta do not have the characteristics to take control and keep the household smooth. Feyre has shown more leadership and bravery in any situation than both of her sisters and THAT IS OK!! NOT EVERYONE IS A BORN LEADER! THAT IS WHY WE HAVE LEADERS!

So please, please do not attack Nesta for being a raw person. If she was a male this would be completely different. She is trying to recover and cope in her own way.

Now, I’m not saying Nesta is flawless. Because she isn’t. And I’m saying this as a person who feels that if I were to be put in the series, I’d be the Nesta. I think about my attitude and my outside picture everyday. Don’t think Nesta probably doesn’t think about her image each day. Anyone like her, myself included, think about this every minute of the day. And while I do smile through the mental pain everyday like Elain, Nesta is the only character I can relate to in the series. Her walls, her rawness and her ability to detect the lies and the bs are also engraved in me. It’s hard to trust and form life long friendships when your mindset is like this.

Thank you for reading if you have come down here. Seriously. From the bottom of my heart. I do not expect anyone to read after the first sentence.

Stay safe, sound and healthy! 🧡

[simpingforthehunt]

In the Belly of the Whale

So I was going to do this scene by scene but that got way too long in my notes. Either way, it's good that I'm writing down my thoughts that way because it definitely helps me organize everything, as well as allow me to have the contents of the show on a document. The episodes will have a slightly different format with different characters appearing based on the episode, and some sections will be added or removed. This will include some personal annecdotes, as I can relate to moments within the show.

Masterlist

Warnings: Antisemitism (obviously), Spoilers for the show

General notes for the overall show

I really love how well-researched the time period was because the set and costumes were spot on

The soundtrack is INCREDIBLE

Whoever the DOP is I want to thank them because the transitions and general camera work is both satisfying and fun to watch

The repetition in the dialogue was an interesting creative choice, and there are moments I hate it but overall it's was a really cool decision

Characters

Jonah: Portrayed by Logan Lerman.

Jonah's an interesting character because Logan Lerman plays him in a way that seems similar to the way he acted as Percy Jackson in the movies. In the Riordan series, we see Percy get pushed further into the darkness as time goes on because of all the trauma he's experienced growing up. We see that in the ten episodes of Hunters with Jonah's journey. There are moments in the show where I think "that's a lot like Percy" and for this episode specifically, it's honestly just the way Logan acts. There are better examples later on.

Jonah begins as this innocent teen that had just lost his grandmother and is grieving. His grief often comes out as anger, and he takes it out on others without realizing it. He start his descend into darkness when Meyer enters his life.

Ruth - Portrayed by Jeannie Berlin.

Ruth is the Bubbe I've always wanted. My grandmother on the Jewish side of my family passed away when I was three so I never knew her. her name was Ruth. Because of that, I have a connection to both Ruth and Jonah. Definitely made her death harder to watch.

Cheeks - Portrayed by Henry Hunter Hall.

Cheeks is an interesting character. He is one of Jonah's best friends, and clearly cares for him. I can't say much now, but I really hope he's a more frequent character in season 2.

Booty - Portrayed by Caleb Emery.

I really love Booty, and I wish he was a more significant character. More thoughts on him later.

Carol - Portrayed by Ebony Obsidian.

I love/hate Carol. She seems to run into the arms of white boys, and I know she's hinted to be Jonah's love interest but I'm glad they didn't actively pursue that relationship. Again, more on that later.

Meyer - Portrayed by Al Pacino.

Dude reminds me of Dumbledore. At first glance he seems like a savior and a mentor, but as time goes on his manipulative tactics are clearer and he only does what benefits him. I had a weird feeling about him from the start, tbh. He never lied to Jonah, but he stretched the truth enough that the audience believed him to be Meyer.

Millie - Portrayed by Jerrika Hinton.

Millie gives no fucks and takes no shit from anyone. She is the perfect example of a Ravenclaw, and is the only character that isn't a complete idiot. She pieces things together quickly, and I love her a lot.

Detective Sommers - Portrayed by Tramell Tillman.

I like his character a lot and sincerely hope we see more of him in season 2.

Travis - Portrayed by Greg Austin.

Dude's really creepy and I hate the fact that I like his costuming. There were so many moments in the episode that made me really uncomfy and hate him with a burning passion, but the actor is doing a great job with his character.

Biff - Portrayed by Dylan Baker.

The actor that plays Biff is SO talented! The quick switches between accents is a hard thing to do, and he's done a great job. Biff is a selfish asshole, but Dyland Baker portrays him so well.

What I liked:

Honestly, pretty much anything that isn’t mentioned in the below section is what I liked, but there’s one specific scene that stood out to me.

At the beginning, when the trio is coming out from watching Star Wars and talking about it.

NOW

I’m not a fan of Star Wars so most of it confused me, however the conversation foreshadowed Jonah’s fate by the end of it. I just thought that was really cool, and a fantastic creative choice.

What I didn’t like:

The human chess board.

Now, okay. On a creative standpoint, as a writer/director myself, I understand what David Weil was trying to portray with this scene. I understand that he wanted to show the horrors of the Holocaust and show the extent of how bad it had gotten.

HOWEVER

As a Jew, it made me uncomfortable. Just like the Auschwitz Memorial stated, it enourages Holocaust Denial. It is more than possible to show the horrors of the Holocaust in a fictional show, by telling the truths and the facts. A great example of a fictional piece about the Holocaust is the book Daniel’s Story, which follows the experiences of the children during the war.

So yeah... not a fan of it.

Reform Jewish Confusion:

So what’s up with the menorah’s in the funeral home??? That’s just a Hanukkah thing??? What???

Also when it comes to sitting Shiva, in Reform Judaism it is common for more than just immediate family to sit Shiva. Is this different in Orthodox or Conservative Judaism?? Also, if it’s immediately family only why are like,,, most of the people there?

Explaining specific things the best I can:

Baruch HaShem means thank G-d.

Mitzvah means duty, which is why Meyer views The Hunt as Mitzvah rather than murder. Like it’s a commandment from G-d.

[life-observed]

Finding a Place for Third-Culture Kids in the Culture

In his new HBO series, the filmmaker Luca Guadagnino revisits a timeless yet timely question: What does it mean to be from everywhere and nowhere at once?

On a blanched, sun-baked afternoon, two teenagers, a boy and a girl, wander into a grocery store to pick up lunch. Fraser is a recent transplant from New York, and Britney a new friend who has lived her life evenly between South Korea, Germany and Italy, though you’d never know it by her American drawl or the pop music she blares through her headphones. To the viewer, the scene presents like quotidian life in the United States — but for the fact that it takes place in Veneto, Italy, on a military base where families work and attend school, their children running off every evening to dance and drink by the cerulean sea alongside their friends from town with whom they scheme and share secrets, whispered in fluent Italian. In a few years, many of them will ready themselves for a move — to another home on another military base in another country, with a supermarket configured to look exactly like this one. “They look the same so you don’t feel lost,” Britney tells Fraser. “Do you ever feel lost?” he asks. She shrugs.

The idea that a sense of belonging is challenged by the straddling of cultures is hardly a revelation; nearly every maker whose back story was shaped by more than one place has arrived at some version of that conclusion. But rarely do we hear the stories of so-called “third-culture kids” and the private, nomadic worlds in which they are raised, marked by a certain shared disorientation and the sense that home is everywhere and nowhere at once. It’s for this reason that the Italian director Luca Guadagnino will attempt to unpack one iteration of this experience — through Fraser, Britney and their five best friends — in “We Are Who We Are,” an eight-part series premiering this September on HBO that pulls back the curtain on the experiences of the children of military families abroad and other third-culture kids like them, whose place in the world now feels both more tenuous and important than ever before.

Coined by the American sociologist Ruth Useem in the 1950s, the term “third-culture kid” was conceived for expatriate children who spend their formative years overseas, shaped by the multicultural, peripatetic spheres of their parents, many of whom are diplomats, military members or others working in foreign service. They relocate frequently and enroll their children in international schools, exposing them to miniature realms cultivated by peers from nations far and wide, whose customs, languages and mores coalesce, birthing hybrid or “third” cultures that are globe-spanning, diverse, highly empathic and oftentimes difficult to translate outside these environments.

Perhaps because this life is characteristically slippery, it’s struggled to become clearly defined in the culture, even in fictional stories, suited though they are to crafting imagined worlds. Ironically, while most TCKs cite the ability to relate to nearly everyone, their own narratives suffer a relatability problem, perhaps because their youthful experiences, relegated wholly to remembrance and recollection, are in many ways too singular and strange-seeming to others. Still, there are characters that have managed to catch hold, the complexities of their placelessness often anchored to more universal quandaries: Elio Perlman, played by Timothée Chalamet in Guadagnino’s 2017 film adaptation of André Aciman’s “Call Me By Your Name” is one such example; a trilingual adolescent reared in the university orbit between the United States and Northern Italy — his father is from the former, his mother the latter — he casts his American and European identities on and off with a kind of begrudging ease, lording them over his father’s visiting graduate student, Oliver (Armie Hammer), on some days, while on others he’s consumed by a sort of languid estrangement from everyone around him, retreating into himself. Though the story is propelled forward by the unfurling of muffled desire and fleeting boyhood, it’s hard not to notice how a defined cultural identity — or lack thereof — inevitably underscores Elio’s coming-of-age, as he pursues different versions of himself in different relationships: in English with Oliver, in French and Italian with his girlfriend Marzia and in all three with his parents, code-switching in what feels like a futile attempt to stitch together facets of a fractured self.

Of course, how Elio conveys this onscreen may have more to do with Guadagnino himself, who has long constructed his complex, layered characters partly in his own image. “That’s me,” he says immediately over Zoom in August, when I read off Useem’s definition of a third-culture kid. “I was born in Palermo, and moved almost right away to Ethiopia. I spent the first six years of my life there. Then we went to Rome, then Palermo again and then back to Rome, then to Milan and to London. I feel the most important aspect of being a filmmaker is to be really aware of what forms you as much as what’s in front of you. So, I always try to keep in mind what I could have been experiencing during my youth in all these places through the prism of these complex stories I tell.”

If asked, any third-culture kid will tell you that shape-shifting — rousing one of the many selves stacked within you to best suit the place you’re in — becomes a necessary survival skill, a sort of feigned fitting in that allows you to relate something of yourself to nearly everyone you meet. As someone raised between New York and the diplobrat bubble of an international school in New Delhi, India, where friends would come and go every few years, I became adept at calibrating myself to find the points of connection between us, able to relate equally to someone from South Korea, Iceland, Japan, Italy or Jamaica, in many cases more so than to other Indian Americans whose lives, at least on paper, read closer to my own. And because our stories couldn’t be gleaned from our outward appearances, accents or possessions, we all came humble to the table, open and permeable and ready to barter the surfaces of our souls: our learnings, our languages, our cuisines, our clothing.

While all of this contributed, certainly, to feeling perennially adrift (according to multiple studies by Useem and others, much as they may try, adult TCKs never wholly repatriate culturally), it blotted the sensation of feeling like we’d “grown up at an angle to everywhere and everyone,” as the writer Pico Iyer — of Indian parentage, raised between England and California, who now lives between the latter and Japan — told me during a recent phone conversation. In his own work, Iyer has spent a lifetime examining this feeling and others that result from cultural crisscrossing, both out in the world in “Video Night in Kathmandu,” a 1988 collection of essays which examines the unlikely cultural points at which East and West meet across Asia — Japan’s affinity for baseball, say, or the Philippines’ obsession with country and western music — and then in “The Global Soul,” written twelve years later, which studied, conversely, the crisscrossings that take place within. Iyer found peace in accepting that belonging had little to do with geography, but rather a collection of personal interests, ideas and relationships accumulated over time. “Growing up with three cultures around or inside me, I felt that I could define myself by my passions, not my passport,” he says. “In some ways, I would never be Indian or English or Californian, and that was quite freeing, though people may always define me by my skin color or accent. But also, because I didn’t have that external way of defining myself, I had to be really rigorous and directed in grounding myself internally, through my values and loyalties and to the people I hold closest to me.”

Others have found freedom in the same, becoming natural shape-shifters whose value systems transcend borders to instill a sense of home. The most famous example is probably Barack Obama, whose 1995 memoir, “Dreams From My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance,” whirls through Jakarta, Seattle, Kenya and Hawaii with unsparing analysis of what it means to belong to multiple worlds and therefore to none of them, but to find, later, that refuge lies in the space between all of them — and in the ability to unite not just your worlds but others’, too. As much as the third-culture experience is clouded by the fog of liminality, it’s informed also by the ability to define oneself on one’s own terms, difficult as that endeavor may be in the face of increasing scrutiny toward globalism and those formed by it.

The presentation of this — dazzling and dressed up — is what makes “We Are Who We Are” thrilling to watch. Its characters come alive in the blur, filling in one another’s spaces and dancing over questions of home, while bragging about where they’ve been, their exchanges captured in shimmering, slow-motion interludes scored to original music, the silky synth pop of Blood Orange. And while the show takes place in the run-up to the 2016 election, its politics remain a quiet drumbeat in the offing, its spotlight focused wholly on all the ways by which differences are, in fact, paradoxically harmonious when everyone is otherized. In fashioning themselves to evade traditional modes of identification (culturally, politically, sexually and through gender), these characters build their own castles in the sky. “When you grow up this way, there is a feeling of being lost, but to be lost is also to be open,” Guadagnino says. “It reminds us of our empathy, and of what we share if we were only to try and find it.”

This may be the ultimate lesson of third-culture kids’ stories. In the late Kobe Bryant’s 2018 book “The Mamba Mentality,” which offers a glimpse into his childhood years in Reggio Emilia, Italy, he discusses the importance of having learned how to navigate a new culture with compassion. Though he eventually settled down in America — becoming not only one of its sports heroes, but one of its cultural icons, too — he continued to make frequent trips back to Italy, where he’d speak the sort of Italian that boasted a native European bravado, a casual swagger that rode along his perfect pronunciation. And when he died in Los Angeles, he died in Reggio Emilia, too, where they mourned a version of him America never knew, except for the Italian names he had chosen for his daughters: Gianna, Natalia, Bianka and Capri.

Of course, not all depictions of third-culture life have been so uplifting. Occasionally, too, these characters are written to be spoofed and ridiculed, assigned snobbish attitudes and superiority complexes. Without proper context, it can appear as if they need too much and require a sort of excess to keep them perpetually moving, making it hard to divorce third-culture life from that of overt wealth and privilege, or an indifference to local customs. In the 2018 Netflix show “You,” the model-actress Hari Nef portrays Blythe, a third-culture poet prodigy whose parents worked for the state department and raised her between Papua New Guinea and Tokyo. When the central character, Beck — a timid, hopeful writer played by Elizabeth Lail — meets her, she looks her up and down and smirks before asking, “Jersey, right?” and runs off to take a call from her grandparents in Swedish. In the third-culture writer Stephanie LaCava’s forthcoming novel, “The Superrationals,” which dives into the torrid waters of the international art world, the protagonist Mathilde, raised between the U.S. and France, is ridiculed relentlessly by “the girls,” a catty clique of gallery insiders who dislike her for all the ways in which she’s different (“What is that name?” they ask. “Is she even French? She’s so pretentious”). And in 2010’s “Sidewalks,” a razor-sharp collection of essays about the failures of finding home in lived experiences and written ones alike, Valeria Luiselli — the author of the 2019 novel “Lost Children Archive” and the daughter of a Mexican diplomat formed by an upbringing in Costa Rica, South Korea, India and South Africa — sarcastically comments on her own selection of Mexico as “her country,” driven mostly by cynicism and “a sort of spiritual laziness than an authentic act of faith.” She admits she’s never felt true allegiance to anywhere she’s lived, knowing only that she must continue roaming.

But all these stories, of course, predate the precarious state we find ourselves in today, when borders are clamping down in domino effect, driven in part by the Covid-19 pandemic, itself a case against globalism and the speed at which interconnectedness can burn it all down, imperiling not only our ability to travel but limiting those who find selfhood in marginal spaces, whose stories underscore the urgency of seeing the world as one. And while internationalism deserves examination, what we stand to lose without it is our ability to lift one another up, to find each other in the in-between. One might look to Kamala Harris — who, born to Jamaican and Indian parents, often discusses her ability to consider multiple sides — or Obama before her. Such voices, with their chameleonic stories and sensibilities, help locate the light in the dark.

[andsoshespins]

Monday Musings

I wanted to start this calendar year with some more thoughtful reflection and maybe some inspiring words for 2021, but I am afraid my mind resists.  

So I must succumb to this summarizing of my days and thoughts in bite-sized form because there is much to digest dining on the news of our current worlds, both immediate and global.  This is one way to process, which is why I think I started this Tumblr oh so long ago...

I finished that Bridgerton series on Netflix, and good lawd, I could think of endless adjectives to describe the Duke of Hastings, “dashing” and “delicious” coming instantly to mind. 

Related: If someone ever tells me they burn for me the way this man does in that one episode at the inn, I am done-for.  Like for good.  Mop-me-up-off-the-stone-hearth kind of done.

Still going: I do have some qualms about the show, but I mostly enjoyed it overall.  It reminded me that I was low on my dosage of period dramas.   

I stumbled across some fanfiction featuring The Marauders, and this brings me back to when I first discovered the genre in the early days of the Internet when people wrote in lime green text against periwinkle backgrounds just because they could (and when “fanfiction” was not yet synonymous with “smut” or “erotica.”).  I still remember it was a highly detailed Marauders-based fic about Lily showing the boys how to play the Muggle video game Pong (which this author creatively dated appropriately).  I will probably never forget that strangely well-written piece lost somewhere in the ether...

Anyway, I think anyone who has ever read Harry Potter wants a side-story about Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, amiright?  And not in a glorifying-bad-bratty-behavior-and-poor-choices way.  Just in a I-want-to-know-you-guys way.

Completing Order of the Phoenix the same week that chaos ensued in D.C. is a multi-layered entity I have not yet unpacked. 

Related: I am still always saddest reading the reflection of the characters’ deaths rather than their actual deaths in the Harry Potter series.  I wonder if it is because I do not actually process the deaths (at least the first time I read them) and am in shock--my default, core emotion. 

Yesterday I took a walk with my dear friend, and recalibrated parts of my soul.

Related: January sun and air are also good for the soul. 

Still related: I still cannot believe she has moved so close to me.  Perhaps Sunday strolls should become more frequent.

The grilled chicken I made was delicious, if I do say so myself.

While I had the inkling that we would be closed again after the first week back from holiday break, the official news was still a little jarring this afternoon--partly because I worry for the people who are sick, and partly because I worry for this inconsistent travesty of education we have no choice but to provide for our suffering children.

I finished Afterlife by Julia Alvarez this evening, and ooooof.  There are some parts that swing at me.  Not a sucker-punch landing, one softer yet no less impactful.  

Related: I have had a mild obsession with Julia Alvarez since 7th grade when we read Names/Nombres an excerpt in our reading textbook.  It is amazing to feel that spirit so young and to have it maintained and/or growing as the years progress.

Books are my salvation.  In a non-biblical way.  Unless I made an ark out of books. But that would not work.  

I had that overwhelming feeling that I am withering away during this time.  And it persists.

Tomorrow is another day.

[brrahbrrahcharacterimagines]

My Exception (Brandon/Bran Stark x Reader)

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Bran Stark x Reader

Word Count: 2155

Warnings: Self-doubt, mild angst, spoilers for seasons 1-8, pretty OOC Bran despite my best efforts

Request: If you do write for him, could I request a smut and/or fluff fic for Bran Stark? Maybe about marrying him? -(Anon) 

A/N: I do write for him! I don’t have a whole lot of feelings for him myself so I don’t know how good this will turn out, but I promise to do my best!

You pushed Bran around in the gardens of the Red Keep, relishing in the warm sunlight. You may have been a girl from the North, but that doesn’t mean that you had to love the cold.

“The lilies are beginning to bloom,” you said with a gesture to the pink blossoms. “They look so beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you, my dear,” replied your fiance Bran. As Queen-To-Be you took it upon yourself to brighten up the Red Keep yourself. While the builders worked on restoring the inside of the building, you got your hands dirty in the garden. You may have earned yourself a sunburn or two, but you didn’t mind so long as something beautiful could grow again in King’s Landing. After the battle most of the plants were destroyed, either burned or covered in ash and debris. Finally, the new seeds were blooming vibrantly.

As you came to the end of the garden path you saw a short figure making his way towards the two of you.

“Lord Tyrion, how lovely to see you on this fine morning.” You say with a smile. Tyrion smiles a small smile in return.

“It is lovely to see you as well, Lady Y/N. I would like to congratulate you on how the garden is coming, I must admit that the lavender blooms are my favorite.” You beamed at the compliment. “I’m not just here to admire your handiwork though, I have come to remind your fiance about the small council meeting that started nearly twenty minutes ago.” He shot a sharp look at Bran.

“Oh my goodness!” You exclaimed as you flushed. “That was all my fault! I lost track of time showing Bran around the gardens, I am so sorry Tyrion.”

“It’s alright Darling, I forgot as well.” Said Bran comfortingly, looking up at you with those deep eyes you loved yo much. He reached back to grab your hand in his. Tyrion looked at Bran knowingly; Bran does not forget.

Podrick came up to assist Bran to the small council chamber, and you began making your way through the castle. While your future husband worked on fixing the political climate of the six kingdoms, you took it upon yourself to renew the beauty of the Red Keep and King’s Landing. You made many trips around the halls, looking for projects to be done. Just last week you had commissioned a series of paintings to hang in the new throne room when it was finished. You wanted scenes of the war to be depicted, both good and bad. This way future generations would have a reminder of the horror right in the room in which they ruled.

As you meandered down the corridors for a considerable amount of time until you began to hear a small commotion coming from one of the rooms. The closer you got to the room, the more apparent it became that it was full of ladies from the court, chattering and occasionally roaring with laughter. You had never really fit in with the rest of the ladies, but you figured it was worth a shot to try. After all, as Queen you would have to interact with these ladies much more frequently. You began to enter the room, but stopped dead in your tracks as their words found their way to your ears.

“I bet he doesn’t really even like her,” said one of the ladies as the rest had giggled. They could be talking about anyone, you reminded yourself from your place in the doorway. However, you had a knowing, sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You decided to listen in but not move, as they had not noticed you quite yet. 

“Of course he doesn’t!” Yelled one women as they all erupted into chuckles. “He doesn’t like anyone! He’s the ‘three-eyed-raven’ who doesn’t want!” The woman did a horrendous impression of Bran at the end, making tears spring to your eyes. Not only were they mocking Bran, but also speaking of his false love for you.

“If he doesn’t want, how could he want her? If he is just choosing at random, he could have at least chosen somebody beautiful.” The tears threatened to slip.

“It’s as if she is so stupid that she is unaware of how insincere his affection towards her.”

“And it is as if you are all so stupid that you are unaware of your surroundings,” you said, mustering all your courage so that it did not sound as if you were on the verge of tears. It worked, making all the ladies turn towards you with a gasp. Their reaction spurred you on, taking on a cold demeanor. “You speak of the future Queen behind her back as if she is not there. Though, of course, you had assumed that I was not. Perhaps you should have taken notice of who was entering the room instead of carrying on like children.”

Despite gossiping about you mere seconds ago, this shift in your personality left them speechless and wide-eyed. You held the power, and they all knew it.

“Do not talk about me and my husband-to-be like this again, or there will be consequences.” Your delivery rivaled even Cersei’s, surprising you with just how cold and calculated the words sounded coming from your lips. The ladies nodded, hurrying to leave the room. 

As they left, you too began the walk back to your chambers. It was getting rather late anyway, and the sun was beginning its descent through the sky as the moon began to appear. You slowly made your way back down the corridor to your bedroom. With every step you took, the bravado began to fade and the doubt began to surge through your mind again. The ladies were right. As the Three-Eyed-Raven, Bran was free from earthly wants and desires. It is what made him a good King; he is not selfish or greedy.  But you had not thought about what that meant for the two of you.

You had met as children, running around and getting into loads of trouble when your father would make his monthly visits to Winterfell. House (L/N) may be a small house, but it is a house of proud Northerners who used their closeness to the Lord and Lady Stark to their advantage. You looked back on those memories fondly. Bran and you would always climb anything you could get your hands and feet on, and you would always have to endure a scolding from your father afterwards. You never minded the trouble, so long as you got to hang out with your best friend. 

When you heard of Bran’s fall, you fell to your knees and cried. You thought that your friend would die. By some miracle of the Gods he did not, and you went to visit him as he lie in bed. You were told he would never walk again, and you knew that your climbing days were over. You didn’t mind. All you wanted was to spend time with him, whatever way you could.

The visits to the Starks became less frequent after Ned left for King’s Landing. After his execution, your father raced to Winterfell to help Robb and his army in any way that he could. You got to accompany him, but after Theon returned to take Winterfell you were whisked away to the Riverlands. You were informed of Bran and Rickard’s passing weeks later, falling into a deep lull for many months.

As Sansa and the other Starks returned to Winterfell years later, you returned as well. You reunited with Bran, feeling something special spark as your eyes landed on him for the first time in years. It was more than just seeing an old friend. In fact, it was even more than just seeing your best childhood friend who you had believed was dead for years It was as if you were seeing your soulmate.

Now looking back on that memory, the way you felt, you realized that it may have been one-sided. You knew that he did not desire as he had before disappearing behind the wall, but you thought that you were different. You thought that he had loved you. Maybe instead he was able to read you like a book, realizing that you would be the easiest to have by his side because you would be there out of devotion instead of greed. Perhaps you were merely the most convenient.

Tears made their way from your eyes and down your cheeks as you finally reached the door, closing it behind you. To your surprise, Bran was already inside. You must have wandered the castle halls for longer than you thought. He turned his chair from where he had been sitting at the window so that he could face you.

“What is wrong, my dear?” He asked, using his arms to wheel his way over to you. Despite your obvious unhappiness, you did not want to admit to him your weakness.

“Nothing, Bran,’ you replied. He cocked his head.

“You never call me that.”

“Well it is your name.”

You began to get ready for bed, feeling Bran’s eyes on you as you did so.

“My love, I cannot help you unless you tell me what is wrong.” He said. You could hear the pain in his voice.

“As if you couldn’t just read my mind,” you retort hotly. Bran let out a sigh.

“You know that I promised never to do that to you, Y/N. You know that I love you and I respect your privacy. I would never use my greensight against you to see what has happened to make you so upset. I want you to tell me yourself if you decide to of your own accord.”

You took a deep, shaky breath.

“But do you?” You asked. Bran furrowed his brows.

“Do I what, Y/N?”

“You said you love me. Do you?” The tears began again, leaving hot trails on your face. His face fell. He reached out to you, pulling you to him so that you sat sideways across his lap. He held you with one arm as he wiped the tears as they fell from your eyes.

“Of course I do, my dear. You are so special to me. You are a light shining in my life every day and I am lucky to be able to call you my own. What would make you think that I may feel any other way about you?” Bran stared into your eyes and you knew he was telling the truth. His eyes were full of love and devotion, and you knew it. You leaned against his chest.

“You’re the Three-Eyed-Raven,” you say.

“Does that make me any less your fiance as well?”

“No, but it means that you do not have wants as normal people do.”

Realizing what you thought, Bran pulling you into a tight hug, caressing your hair. 

“You are right Y/N, I do not desire things as I did before I was pushed from that tower. But that does not mean that I do not desire you.”

You pulled back from him, looking into his eyes.

“I may not want land, or wealth, or power, and I may not desire in the same way. But you, my darling,” said Bran, looking at you with admiration, “are my exception. I want you more than anyone could ever want anything. The first time I saw you again after the start of the war I felt something change in me. You sparked desire that I thought I could never feel. I have full faith that fate brought us together, whether because I am the Three-Eyed-Raven or in spite of that. I do love you Y/N, with all of my heart.”

You crashed your lips to Bran’s, his moving in sync with yours as you moved your body to straddle him instead of sitting sideways. 

“I love you too Bran,” you said between kisses as you pulled back for air. He wheeled the two of you towards the bed that you shared, making you squeal and wrap your arms around his neck so that you wouldn’t fall.

“Come love, let’s get into bed so that I may lay with the woman I love. My fiancee.”

“Bran, that was rather cheesy. Especially for you.” He smiled up at you as you helped him into bed, sliding in beside him and letting his arms wrap around you.

“But you loved it, didn’t you?”

“My love, if you don’t hush up I won’t help you get up in the morning and you’ll be stuck here all day.” You retort with a blush.

“You’re a cruel woman,” he teased. “But I love you anyway.”

You turned to face him and see his smiling face. You snuggled closer to his chest.

“And I love you too, my dear.”

[decodingellipses]

Avatar: The Last Airbender’s Princess Yue and the Cycle of the Sacrificing Woman

[Credit: Nickelodeon]

This piece is part of @syfy​‘s Fangrrls vertical

Amidst the atypical state of the quarantine, the release of Avatar: The Last Airbender on Netflix has given me and other fans of the series something familiar to hold onto. In revisiting this favorite childhood show of mine, I sought Princess Yue's storyline with clarity. Although brief, it strikes all too familiarly; like the legacy of the women in my family, Princess Yue speaks to the aptitude of women who sacrifice.

Princess Yue is the daughter of Chief Arnook and his wife, a tribal chieftain. Unlike the other babies of the Northern Water Tribe, Yue was not born wailing. Sick and weak at birth, she could barely open her eyes. Members of the water tribe believed Yue was destined to die. Defeated, her father begged for his daughter's salvation before the moon.

When my Dutch grandmother was 9, her father was assigned to Indonesia as part of his government service job. She and her family relocated to the city of Padang, the capital of the West Sumatra province. Not long after the relocation, her mother died of cervical cancer. With the new absence of a mother figure and lack of familiarity with a new country, adapting was her sole option to fight for what remained of her future and family.

While Yue and Avatar's main protagonists Aang, Katara, and Sokka look out into the night sky, Yue explains her own relationship to the moon. "My father pleaded with the spirits to save me," she recalls to the other three. "That night — beneath the full moon — he brought me to the oasis and placed me in the pond. My dark hair turned white. I opened my eyes and began to cry, and they knew I would live. That's why my mother named me Yue. For the moon."

Before my grandmother married my Indonesian grandfather, who is Muslim, she converted out of Christianity. Having already left Holland, her conversion to Islam established the new life she would soon build with the man she loved. It was a sacrifice of her ancestry only she could understand. It was a sacrifice not only out of circumstantial choices but also out of promise.

For this reason, I see my grandmother as the moon of our family tree. In Avatar, Yue says, "[...] the moon was the first waterbender. Our ancestors saw how it pushed and pulled the tides, and learned how to do it themselves."

Like a moon, the cycle repeats itself.

[Credit: Nickelodeon]

My family and I immigrated from Indonesia to the United States in 2007, leaving our extended families behind, including my grandmother. Approaching U.S. Customs at the airport, my mother took off her hijab, erasing the marker of her Muslim identity. She was nonchalant, but I remember it as clear as the blue sea.

"[In Indonesian:] I was OK with it", she recently explained to me over the phone. "I was searching for ‘safe'. I didn't feel pressured or forced to." Although firm in her strength in recalling her feelings, I heard the shake in her voice. She sounded like water.

"I felt guilty," she admitted. "Sometimes I get sad seeing women who are brave enough to wear hijabs out in public. It makes me jealous."

"What does Dad say?"

"He says, ‘What makes you feel more at peace — follow that path.'"

I understand where she gets her integrity from. Listening to her and feeling my grandmother in my mother's conviction felt like witnessing the moon and ocean in motion. In this, I saw the spirits of Tui and La.

Tui and La mean "push and pull," Spirit Koh, one of the most knowledgeable spirits in the Avatar universe, tells Aang. "And that has been the nature of their relationship for all time [...] Tui and La — your moon and ocean — have always circled each other in an eternal dance. They balance each other, yin and yang."

Considering America's anti-Islam rhetoric after 9/11, my mother did what she deemed necessary at the airport. In order to enter America smoothly and without the religious bias of those who had power to accept or deny our entry, she sacrificed a visible part of herself, a momentary surrender with the promise of resistance.

Before moving to the States permanently, we moved throughout the Indonesian islands frequently, too. Traveling was meaningful not only because it gave us fond memories, but because we traveled as a unit. My mother always dreamed of having a family of five, so she had three children — me the youngest. As a nuclear Indonesian family, moving to the United States would allow us to achieve the American brand of success. However, the adjustment of living in America altered our standing as a family, breaking my mother's picture-perfect family mentality.

[Credit: Nickelodeon]

In Book 1's finale of Avatar, the Fire Nation invades the Northern Water Tribe as part of their greater mission to take over the world. Leading the Fire Nation Navy, Admiral Zhao kills the moon spirit Tui, whose physical form was the white koi fish. The Northern Water Tribe loses its balance and therefore the ability to waterbend.

Moving as a kid wasn't so much a sacrifice for me, but transitioning was. My sacrifice rifted with the sacrifices of the women before me. My transition felt selfish and destructive to my family.

Aware the moon's power remained inside of her since her father's plea, Yue gives back her life to save Tui, the white koi fish. Yue's sacrifice restores balance, even at the cost of herself. But Yue does not die — she reemerges as the Moon Spirit. She reminds her lover, Sokka, "I'll always be with you," before fading into the moon.

Oftentimes, I sense a familial grieving of the person I once used to be. Reintroducing myself to the world, saying, "I am a girl," does not discount who I was and am in spirit. Sacrificing my past froze my family rather than propelled. But ice is still a form of water, and time thaws.

When my dad took away my makeup as a denial of my femininity, I sat on the stoop of our house. A house in America, occupied by Muslim immigrants, descendant of an interracial marriage. We've come so far from where we began, yet it was everything I never asked for. My mother stepped outside to sit with me and slipped me a $100 bill.

"Go buy new ones," she smiled.

My grandmother, mother, and I sacrificed our legacies across oceans, religions, and genders. The act of sacrifice cycles itself down generationally. Like the moon, we set to rise. Like the ocean, we ebb to tide.

These days, I find it easy to accept the coexistence of contraries. Accepting my life as a woman required the rejection of what my family believed I ought to be. When I see more and more of my mother in my reflection, it is not because we are women. It is because we sacrifice. She understands the selflessness of surrender, and I know she learned that from her own mother; to give for the taking, to hide for the priding, to shed for the sprouting. This duality keeps the world spinning.

After Yue's sacrifice, her father, Chief Arnook, professed to Sokka as they stared into the moon's horizon: "The spirits gave me a vision when Yue was born. I saw a beautiful brave young woman become the moon spirit. I knew this day would come."

"You must be proud," Sokka responds.

"So proud. And sad."

***

[Credit: Decoding Ellipses]

[naomixhill]

Naomi’s Story

My childhood was idyllic and surrounded in opulence in the wealthiest municipality of Rhode Island on the western side of Narragansett Bay. Goombahs ran the village, misguided judgment and organized corruption ran rampant in our leadership from the police, to the mayor, to the school board, but no one talked much about that. Instead, we focused on our waterfront properties, Italian fine dining restaurants, and seemingly perfect lives while the men took care of business. I grew up with wops and old money, and nothing in between. 

In 2005, my father’s firm went bankrupt, and with it, went half our assets tied up in privately held stock. My father’s dream was to be a New York financial services man, a true business man, and he worked on that from the cornfields of Indiana. All throughout his early years, he worked two factory jobs to pay his college tuition in hopes to be somewhere better than he was. To provide for his mother, the immigrant from Wales, and to to be a force of stability for his young, first family. He never got to New York, but I was determined that I would live out that dream. So by fifth grade, when everyone else wanted to be a vet or a doctor or a teacher, I said I wanted to be an investment banking analyst for Goldman Sachs.  We had to move from Rhode Island to the midwest after the demise of the company. My father took his second family, my mother and I, back to Indiana. He wanted something easier than what New England was, something cheaper, something nicer, something familiar. But, I was different. I was the embodiment of New England: I spoke with a thick accent, my hair was curly and big, and my values were different. The cornfield kids couldn’t quite understand me. I went from being the most popular schoolyard kid with tons of wop friends and hanging out with their daddies, the barones, the bagmen, the consigliere's, the dons, to trying to integrate myself with the children of farmers and working to middle class professionals.  And so, beginning in fifth grade, I was different. When I sat down at the lunch table, the other children took their lunches to another spot; at recess, I would go to swing, and the others would go to the slides. And I tried to be like the others, I wanted to fit in. I began speech therapy, I dressed in their clothes, I read their books and watched their television shows, but it wasn’t enough even back in those days. My entire early adolescence was hallmarked by rejection and desperately wanting to be liked, to even be marginally accepted.  I went to five different schools from 2005 - 2009, all with similar results. My parents finally sent me to a Catholic school in downtown Indianapolis off 56th street. There, I met a group of black poets that finally gave me the acceptance and friendship that I had craved for years. It was my first taste of normalcy in almost five years. And I met a boy, Robbie, who I took home. I realized that day that the world is not as colorblind as I am. My father told me that it was the saddest day of his life since his mother died. And later that year, as I continued to be involved in poetry groups and cultural clubs, I competed in a statewide poetry slam. I won the state award for my poem and my parents threw away the trophy. So, who was I supposed to be? Everything started to get confusing as every turn I made seemed to be the wrong choice and my victories were detriments.  And amid all of this, the recession was happening and worsened. Company consolidations and closures caused my family to relocate again, this time to Ohio. The village reminded me of Rhode Island a bit; on the far east side, this small, cozy village had a median household income of $187,00 with only a couple thousand residents. The high school looked like the University of Pennsylvania, and all of the homes were brick, big, and beautiful. And so I set out again to be a new version of myself: the blonde, straight haired, Coach-wearing, Abercrombie-wearing girl. Would they like me as a sophomore?  No, they didn’t. Because as much as I tried, most of the kids had known each other for years and there wasn’t space for me. So I did as I had done in the year prior: I found the black poets, the people who seemed to get me and understand my struggle. Meanwhile, I joined track, of which I was one of two whites, there, too. Within a month into the school year, I was typecast with all sorts of derogatory terms. But it didn’t matter to me, yet, and I was happy with my friend group, and met another boy, J. And there were never two people closer.  J was a state champion track star who wrote poetry and attended our school half of the day, and attended a trade school for the remainder of the day. We bonded as he helped me condition and train, and we passed a poetry journal back and forth. Though my friend Rayvon told me, “he’s trouble,” it didn’t stop me. I was used to being marginalized, and almost empathized with the fact that  J was too.  Still, I wanted to fit in and be liked. So when Rayvon set me up with her friend, I went along with it. Then, on September 4, 2009, we went to Micah’s birthday party, hosted in a multi-million dollar home in our village in the basement. J and I were both in relationships with other people, mostly on the recommendations of other people, but it didn’t stop him from kissing me. In front of everyone. And in five seconds, I lost everyone in my life.  And so, not knowing where to turn, I called J the following Monday. We met at the local coffee shop. I had an exam the following day, so he suggested that we studied at his house. I agreed. And as soon as we walked into his home, and closed the front door, it was no sooner that I was in a forced grip. I laughed at first, thinking my poetry-loving friend was teasing, but he wasn’t. Fear sunk in. He dragged me upstairs, as I was kicking and screaming, undressed me, and shoved himself into me. I was fifteen and a virgin.  The next day, people at school laughed at me. They called me the slut who slept with J. “Slut.” “Whore.” And again, I was a marginalized and lonely outcast just two months into a new school. Shouldn’t I have been used to it? People laughed at me and gossiped about me and no one knew anything. After this, things got fuzzy for me. I hardly remember the next two years much at all. I hung around a lot of shady people and did things that I wish I could take back, what little I remember, but deep down I knew I didn’t really deserve much better. A lot of people put their hands on me back then.  Going into my senior year, J made the news. He murdered his long time girlfriend right there in one of our quaint village homes in the foyer. I remember watching the live local news stream in a trance, not quite sure if what I was seeing had any base in reality but it did. And J called me that night after not speaking to me in two years. I didn’t pick up. By the end of the night, he was shot dead in the Walgreen’s parking lot and they extracted his girlfriend’s body out of the trunk of his car.  I went to the memorial in his family’s home, the same one that I had been to all of those years prior. His mother looked at me, and said to me, “It’s you. You’re the girl.” She took me upstairs to his bedroom where photos of me and our shared poetry and letters were scattered across his desk. What the fuck do you do with that, even now, after all this time has passed? The rest of the night remains a blur.  I only really remember one thing about my senior year: Briyana, the new girl from the nearby Catholic school. She took to me right away, and I took to her right back. And despite desperately needing a friend, I told her to keep her distance from me; I told her that to say I was unpopular was an understatement, and her reputation would be tarnished in being seen with me. So she did stay away. And I remember almost nothing else, just small clips of getting suspended, of shooting up PCP, of smoking weed in the girls locker room, of getting by in school with high remarks because it still wasn’t that challenging to me.  So then I went to the community college the next year. I crossed paths with Briyana again by chance. Our boyfriends were suite mates, and we became best friends. We were all a family that year. We helped each other and took care of each other. But we were also wild and reckless and young. Tyga’s Molly played on the background frequently as the bunch of them snorted lines and partied into the night. I was the only one that did ever end up graduating in that bunch. And through a series of unfortunate events, everything fell apart. And I absolutely had to go this time. And go far.  So Binghamton, NY happened. And I recreated myself again. This time, I was going to be an Air Force ROTC gal studying financial engineering and statistics. It had to work, I needed it to work. And again, I had wonderful suite mates and people that talked like how I used to, and more than anything, I was so proud of what I was accomplishing away from the disaster that the midwest had been for me. But as suddenly as I felt safe, it was over... again... Several months into the school year, my Air Force paperwork was rejected by HQ. Prior drug use, self-injury scars, you name it and I had it. And perhaps for the first time, but not the last time, I totally destructed. I threw up everyday, my veins bulged, I was dizzy and disoriented and often forgot where I was or who I was. So, hence, a medical withdrawal. But with my autoimmune symptoms and underlying medical issues, I had to see a specialist. And with a sick twist of irony, that specialist was in Columbus, Ohio.  After a multi-month stint of being on bed rest and racking up over $150,000 in medical bills, I enrolled at Ohio State. And as I was sitting in a Slavic Film class on a Tuesday, I saw Briyana going into the nearby classroom in McPhearson Hall. And just like that, we reconnected again as if no time had passed. I was still sick in those days and hardly a hundred pounds, so Briyana became a caregiver to me of sorts. And we were inseparable.  Not soon after we reconnected, we moved in together in off-campus housing in Columbus’s Chinatown. She worked for Bob Evans and I worked for an insurance company, and we both attended classes full time. This was around the time that Obama passed all sorts of labor laws, one of which required employers to give certain benefits should their employees work a minimum number of hours. Briyana’s hours were cut by over half about a month prior to our next tuition statement coming due.  I told her about a site my friend Trina used, Seeking Arrangement. “You just go on dates with lonely men and they pay you.” If only it was that easy. I thought it was that easy. She signed up and when the day came to meet this guy, she couldn’t do it. So I went in her place. And I found out quickly that it had nothing to do with going on dates at all. But by this point, sneaking into college exams for Briyana was nothing really. I was willing to commit any conceivable sin for the person who nursed me back to health and I felt gave me my entire life back and more.  As I learned, three grand has a fucking high price tag. At nineteen years old, I was in way above my head. Blackmail. Guns. Threats. So I kept doing it, and I was so used it - just trying to survive. And then, amid all of this, Briyana met Jo. And everything I did is reduced to a kind favor but it’s all now in the past. One day, I came home from visiting my parents and our entire apartment was empty, right down to the missing bed, kitchen table, and shower curtain.  What did I have left? I was still enrolled at the Fisher College of Business and a part of a financial club on campus and investment banking program. The president of the club, C, had roofied me and assaulted me in months prior but that was semantics? This is the same one that threw me down a flight of stairs on my birthday, but why not? In hindsight, it was stupid of me to ever think his red hair could be a symbol for warmth instead of the fiery hell that he was. But still, I remember thinking that we could create something beautiful out of our individual brokenness. It’s still a sore point for me even now when I reminiscence on this and recall that he had dozens of me.  He knew about what happened with Briyana, and everything that it entailed to be her loyal friend. When we would fight, he would hold it all over my head and taunt me. Our relationship ended in the Sexual Violence Office at Ohio State and his degree was nearly revoked. I was ready to fight fire with fire. No one was going to blackmail me anymore. And then again, the void.  But I was so busy at work and trying to manage a full school load, I didn’t have any more energy or time to devote to interpersonal relationships. Until I met C. And there were so many red flags: twice divorced, three children, a war veteran, and a current prop fund owner based out of Manhattan. What could go wrong except everything?  C and I were engaged in three months. We met while he was traveling the midwest for work at a local bar near the college campus. At first, he was everything I ever wanted: an Italian, handsome man with incredible work ethic, passion for life, and wit. He was so sharp and so alluring, you could see peoples’ eyes watching him in restaurants, bars, and as we walked in the Short North. And he understood my pain well and had his own. We married and I moved back home to the northeast. We lived in Philadelphia and New Jersey. It was all great until it wasn’t. I can’t speak on it yet, but it was three long years of maximum verbal and physical abuse, resulting in me returning to Ohio in an effort to escape.  And then, now divorced and as frail as I could have been, I met, D. There was entire year, 2018, where I couldn’t leave my apartment without panic attacks, wasn’t working much, and wasn’t really going to school. I just existed. I finally joined a small insurance company that spring, and the following spring, as I was re-acclimating to society and, truly, life again, D came into my life. April 25, 2019.  And D gave me a lightness in my life that I never had before. And he made me laugh sincerely. He listened to me, and understood me, and respected me for all I was in the past, all I presently was, and all I hoped to be. He gave me my twenties back and let me, for the first time, be young and carefree. He would take me to beautiful places, like Maumee Bay in Toledo and state parks, and I took him to all my favorite secret spots around the city of Columbus. We would go to coffee cafes and parade High Street and laugh on the weekends like I had never laughed. I told him things I had never told anyone. And when we would make love, it felt like he was kissing and running his fingers across my soul.  And I realized by May of 2019, I never knew true love until I knew him. And it felt like everything that happened in my life had to happen in order to be there in that moment with him. Perhaps inappropriate, perhaps premature, but I knew I wanted to marry him. I knew I wanted a life with him for as long as my days on earth.  But as my feelings continued to strengthen and I felt with full certainty that I would spend my life with D, his feelings faded. I was too much. Being with me hurt. It wasn’t easy. And so as I thought we were building an empire, he was setting the house on fire to watch it burn. And I knew by the winter that he could never really love me. As much as I wanted him to, as much as I loved him, I couldn’t overcome that to love back was a choice and it wasn’t one he could make.  So February of 2020 happened. It will remain the hardest month of my life, perhaps until now. 

This was not cathartic or meaningful in any way. 

[michael-langdon-appreciation]

There Are Harder Addictions To Shake - Part Two

Jim Mason x fem!reader (dark!jim)

Words: 3.8K

Summary: You’ve just made your relationship with Jim official, however it isn’t long before Jim starts to smother you, fixating on your relationship to cope with the damage in his life. As Jim grows obsessive what will you be forced to do? What will he do to win you back? 

Warning: SMUT! Borderline abuse! Kidnapping! Contains an obsessive and unhealthy relationship! Swearing! Emotional Manipulation! Restraints! Obsessive love! Stalking! Fluff! Please do be warned, Jim is not the sweet peach we all know and love!!!!

A/N: Our favourite bad boy is back, I know this has taken me forever! This is gonna turn into a series I think. There’s just too much I wanna cover and this story is nowhere near told yet. Jim’s obsession take a turn for the worst, a dark turn. But who is right? 😫

EXTRA WARNING: The situation the reader finds herself in throughout this part may trigger some people. It can be argued that it borders on Stockholm Syndrome and it is not a safe environment. 

(Gif by @violadvis)

The first thing I see upon waking is a photo frame. It’s a picture of Jim and I from one time at the beach, one of our happiest days. Newly into our relationship, Jim has his arm tight around me, we’re both distracted in the picture. Having just smiled at Medina for her to take the photo, but Medina being Medina had waited till we thought it was over. I’m busy watching the waves again while Jim’s watching me, the love is so clear in his expression. But all I can see now is adoration, obsession. 

The photo’s forever tainted. 

This isn’t my bedroom. It’s light and airy, a giant white canopy bed big enough for two. I can hear the waves crashing against the shore, seagulls and screams from children nearby. 

It’s wrong.

Fingertips stroke down my spine, ‘Good Morning, babygirl.’

It can only be one person, Jim. Who wraps me up in his arms, pressing his chest into my back and pressing a kiss into my neck, ‘I didn’t expect you awake yet.’

‘Jim,’ My voice is harsh from shouting at him last night, ‘What did you do to me?’

The fear hits me, because the last thing I remember was Jim monologuing to me about his perfect life, ‘Are we still in PV?’

‘We’re….away.’ He decides, Jim’s hands stroking over my stomach. The action repulses me and I spring out of bed, heading straight for the French doors. The shoreline is unfamiliar, the beach a glorious sandy white and not frequented by tourists. A family play in the sand and when they catch sight of me the little boy waves. I wonder what has them smiling, but Jim has come up behind me, ‘Good Morning,’ He greets. ‘We’re new.’

The father breaks away from his little one, who’s busy making sandcastles. ‘We don’t get a lotta young couples out here very often. Bit too remote for em.’

‘Not us.’ Jim cuts in at once, before I have a chance to. ‘We like the peace and quiet. Good place to start a family.’ My head whips round to stare at Jim, but he just smiles widely at me. ‘This is Y/N.’ He introduces, ‘Sorry bout the nightie, we just woke up and she was so excited to get to the sea.’

‘That’s right.’ I say it only because it covers why I’m out in pyjamas not all that appropriate for children. ‘I love the sea so much.’

The dad nods, smiling indulgently at us both. ‘Well you’re a cute couple. I’m Jerry, that’s Michelle and our son Adam.’

Jim’s arm is back around me, ‘I’m Jim. We’re the Masons.’

My heart stops beating. I don’t know how the family don’t catch my horror as I snatch myself away from Jim and stare down at my left hand. It’s there, gleaming in the sunlight, resplendent and beautiful. A wedding ring. 

Jim frowns, ‘You liked it when we bought it.’

‘What?’ I stare from him to the ring, ‘We are not married, Jim.’

Jim stands there for a moment, motionless. Then he approaches, his arms held out, ‘My darling.’ He says, ‘You don’t remember it? The ceremony? The vows?’ His voice catches, ‘The honeymoon?’

I keep the distance between us, ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ I ask, ‘This is fucked up, Jim.’

He closes his mouth, Jim’s eyes setting into hard stone. ‘Fine,’ He says, ‘You want proof, I’ll give you proof.’ Jim thunders inside the house, clattering around. I look up at the beach front cottage which is ‘apparently’ ours. It’s a quaint, beautiful little thing. A blend of the timeless and the modern standing like a fairytale among the sand and sea. Curiosity has me venturing back inside, right as Jim heads back in my direction. 

A photo album is pushed into my hands, ‘You don’t believe it? See for yourself.’

I don’t believe what I’m seeing, photographs upon photographs of our wedding. There’s me a white gown, next to Jim as we exchange vows, as we kiss, as we cut the cake. Medina’s there as my Maid of Honour, smiling and dancing with Jim. Heather’s here, Chad, the Bay Boys. My parents have a photograph with Jim in the middle of them, beaming madly. There’s honeymoon pictures too, a beautiful beach with sparkling sea that must be somewhere in the Caribbean. 

But what is absolutely undeniable is how happy I am in every single one of them. 

The wedding album falls out of my hands, ‘We’re…married.’

Jim catches it deftly, ‘Proof.’

‘Yeah.’ I feel numb and Jim helps me sit on the chaise lounge at the end of the bed. ‘Jim, what happened to me?’

I watch his fingers smooth over the quilted front, ‘I don’t know.’ He says, ‘You’ve just been off all day.’ His eyes narrow, Jim raising a hand to my forehead. ‘Maybe we should take you to the hospital.’

‘I feel fine.’

‘But if you’ve forgotten-’

‘I haven’t.’ I insist, because I can’t have amnesia. I flip the book open again, as if to check I didn’t imagine the whole thing. Then I pinch myself, really hard.

Jim frowns, ‘It isn’t a dream, Y/N.’ He turns away, his shoulders slumping in. ‘But you wanted it to be fake, didn’t you? You don’t love me.’

I swallow, ‘I do, Jim. I must have to have married you.’

It doesn’t make sense. How have I forgotten not just the wedding, but the entire honeymoon? Weeks of my life just vanishing from my memories. My hand reaches out to Jim, who still isn’t looking at me. ‘Jim, I’m sorry if i’m freaking you out. I’m freaking myself out.’

Jim collects himself, ‘Breakfast.’ He decides, ‘Avocado toast, just how you like it?’

I nod, ‘Sounds wonderful.’

Something is horribly wrong. Everything is too idyllic, too perfect. Jim and I live in a fantasy of no responsibilities and no expectations. Neither of us seem to have a job and Jim won’t let me look at a bill or anything. We head to the beach most days, swimming and surfing and sunbathing. Jim cooks or we order takeout, we watch movies and play games. We snuggle up at night, but I haven’t let him be intimate with me. Jim’s respectful of that, but he still kisses me, rains love down my neck. He knows all my most sensitive spots and he loves to carry me bridal style up to bed. Chores are split between us, Jim writes sometimes and I sketch. Jim wants to get a dog and we settle on a Samoyed. He’s going to pick him up next week, but Jim tells me not to worry about coming along. He wants it to be a surprise. I don’t ever leave the house and there’s not really been a reason to go anywhere. 

But today I’m going to try.

I have to know what’s going on, why I still don’t remember anything. 

The house is as neat as ever. The white curtains billow softly, allowing the sun rays to peek in and out as if Jim has put it on guard. I check the clock in our bedroom, I’ve got probably an hour before Jim brings the dog home. 

My first port of call is Jim’s laptop, the same as ever with its surfing stickers and map of Hawaii. The only difference is a new quote - ‘if you don’t go after what you want, you’ll never have it.’  

I don’t question it too much, switching the laptop on and waiting for it to start. Jim’s account sits before me, demanding a password. 

Shit.

I quickly try the obvious choices: surfing, Medina, Lunada, Beetles. 

Nothing.

I give the classic password1234 a go and still nothing. 

I try Jim and the account flashes a warning of too many failed login attempts. 

I’ve got one more attempt. Is it worth risking? 

My eyes rove about the bedroom, seeking out anything that might give me a clue to what Jim might use. There’s one other option niggling at the back of my brain, but I don’t have much faith in it. Knowing Jim this password could be anything and it could take me weeks to riddle it out of him. Jim is so secretive with his laptop, I didn’t even know he had a password set. 

He never used to. 

I blow air through my cheeks and use the remaining time I’ve got left, roughly forty-five minutes to scope out potential answers and write them down on a list. 

I wish I had my phone for my own privacy. That was our first fight, Jim saying we’d made a pact to get rid of our phones because of our addictions to them. Jim was never that into his mobile and neither was I. My defiance had us both firing insults at each other and it was only when I threatened to walk out did Jim try to appease me. 

He’s promised to return mine to me and no matter how many reminders I gave him, I know he’s never going to give it back to me.  

Time is running out. I have ten minutes left till Jim said he’d be back. I’ve got a list of potentials, but nothing seems solid enough. Nothing seems like Jim. 

I can’t let another day go by with no progress. I won’t. 

My fingers type in my name and I click enter before I can stop myself. 

The laptop thinks and after an excruciating minute a message pops up. I’ve been frozen out of Jim’s account for half an hour. 

Fuck. 

The ring doorbell chimes, alerting me that Jim’s home and I slam the laptop lid down and slide it under the bed. Disappointment curls in my stomach as I glance round the bedroom and hold in my scream of frustration. 

I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want Jim, or a dog or this fairy fake life. 

I want to go home. 

A yap echoes from the living room as the front door closes, ‘Y/N, baby?’ 

It’s Jim, it wouldn’t ever be someone else. 

I descend the stairs to see Jim looking like a long-ago dream. His white t-shirt is tight over his pecs, his brown hair wind-swept and tousled. Jim’s skin is radiant from so much sun, like a bronzed demigod. He flashes me the warmest smile, his hand holding onto a lead at the end of which a pure white Samoyed tears about like mad. 

I’ve always had a soft spot for any dog, and I can’t resist bending down to pet him. ’He seems rambunctious.’

Jim smiles, ‘You wanna name him?’

I look up at him. It feels like a decision that will bind me to Jim even more. The naming and co-owning of a pet, my heart is already being given to this puppy and I know I already don’t want to leave him. 

‘You do it.’ I straighten up, smiling as the Samoyed sticks his head in-between my legs, ‘You bought him. He’s yours.’

Jim’s smile dies a little, ‘He’s ours.’ He corrects, ‘Blue is our baby.’

I try my hardest to gloss over that word as if I never heard it. ’So you have named him.’

Jim hands over the lead to me, ‘Well, it does seem right. I guess.’ His arms slide around me, ‘What have you been up to?’

I try to think of something plausible, ‘Looking at our wedding album.’

Jim’s smile beams back at me, ‘Oh yeah?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

He kisses me, his hands sliding round the back of my head to hold me in place. ‘Why don’t you grab it and we can reminisce together?’ 

I have no idea where that album is. I haven’t dared look at those images since Jim first showed them to me. ‘Why don’t we just make new ones?’ I offer, winding my hands around Jim’s neck. Blue jumps up at us, desperate for more attention but Jim’s eyes are fixated on me.

‘Deal.’ 

I kiss him quickly, grabbing onto Jim’s back through his shirt. Jim’s hand travel down my arms, sliding my shirt over my head. I blush, ‘Should we not get Blue settled in?’

‘I think he’s rather happy watching.’

I pull away from him, ’Jim, gross.’ 

Jim doesn’t care. He pulls me towards the kitchen and I have little choice but to let him lead. Blue trails behind us, already attached to his master as Jim presses me back against the countertop and starts placing kisses down my neck. ‘Here?’ I ask, my eyes sliding back to the bright eyes dog. 

‘We’re gonna christen every inch of this house.’ Jim vows, ‘Nothing will be sacred.’ Jim’s teeth scrape over my pulse point, ‘I love it when you’re jumpy. Like a little bird, my love.’

I can feel my face heating up as Jim pushes me back and hoists my legs around him, ‘Jim.’

He heaves a sigh, ‘What, Y/N?’ 

That bite is in his tone and I want to backtrack at once, ‘I’m just…not in the mood really.’ 

Jim’s eyes run over me, ‘You’re…hiding something.’

‘No.’

I can tell he doesn’t believe me, ‘You don’t like Blue, what?’

‘No.’ I sit up, reaching a hand down. Blue licks it at once, his panting quickly turning to whines. ‘Jim…’

But my words are lost, tangled on my tongue because they are a lie. My husband straightens up, ‘Where’s the album?’

‘Upstairs.’

Jim’s hand comes down hard on the countertop, ‘You’re a liar.’ 

Fury starts to rise inside me, ‘No. You’re the liar.’ I push Jim hard, watching as he staggers back. ‘This whole world you’ve created is a lie. Nothing is real and I know for a fact that I would have never agreed to marry you.’ I head upstairs, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

Jim chases after me his footsteps thundering up the stairs, along with the scrape of Blue’s lead. I try to lock the bedroom door, but Blue bursts though and the door careens open. Jim’s there before I can close it, pushing his way into the bedroom. He looks murderous, the glint in his eye deadly. Jim seizes me by the arms and I yelp, his grip strong enough to bruise me, ‘Jim-’

‘I have been kind. I have been patient.’ He hisses, backing me up towards the bed. ‘I knew your little act was too nice. You haven’t been acting like yourself have you, my darling wife?’ Jim pushes me backwards onto the bed, the world tilts as he presses me down with a hand. I kick out, vaguely aware of Blue’s breath on me, but Jim looms over me. His weight easily holds me in place. ’I know this,’ Jim continues, ‘Because the girl I love would have questioned me. She wouldn’t be scared shitless to do what she wanted and I would have had to use these much sooner.’ A sick grin splits over Jim’s face, ‘Guess the time is now though.’

I can’t see what he produces from the bedside table. Blue leaps off the bed as Jim shoves one of my arms above my head. I fight as hard as I can, pushing against his chest, trying to kick him in the balls. Jim endures it all, much more focused on keeping my hand above my head. ‘JIM!’ 

There’s a click, the sound of metal echoing and the cool slide of something across my wrist. I yank immediately and cry out from the pain as my arm screams for me to remain still. I know what it is and my momentary horror allows Jim enough time to push my other arm up and secure it above my head. 

We both stare at each other. I’m crying before I know it, Jim blurs before me. ‘Why are you doing this?’

He wipes my tears away, ‘I don’t want to.’ He coos, ‘But, you’re not well lately, Y/N. You aren’t yourself since you started questioning me and…all this.’ There’s moisture in Jim’s eyes too. ‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Or me, or Blue.’

‘Fuck you.’ I say, ‘You don’t let me have my phone. You don’t let me speak to anyone else. I’m a prisoner here.’

Jim is fighting to maintain his composure, ‘I have told you about your phone. You are free to do whatever you like.’ Jim fishes his own phone out of his pocket, ‘Here, you want to speak to someone. I’ll call Medina right now.’

I watch Jim dial the number and put the phone on speaker. It rings and then Medina picks up, ‘Jim. How’s everything? You haven’t called in weeks, an update from either of you would be nice to know you’re alive.’

‘I know Dina.’ Jim’s voice is perfection, warm and inviting. ‘We’ve just been so caught up, you know. Anyway, Y/N wants to say something to you Dina.’ He holds the phone out a little closer to me, ‘Go on, tell Medina.’

It’s a trap. 

Medina doesn’t know. She couldn’t know, not by the casual way she’s speaking to Jim. I look up at the handcuffs, glistening in the setting sun. Jim will never let me free if I tell her. 

I have no choice.

‘Just to say I’m having a great time.’ I force it out, keeping eye contact with Jim. ‘The weather is amazing here and…Jim’s just great.’

‘Well I’m glad to hear it.’ Medina says, ‘I know you two were…really rocky. I’m glad the trip has done you both good.’ There’s a pause, ‘I know I’m on speaker Jim.’

’Bye Dina.’ 

Jim entire being screams of satisfaction. I look away from him, my stomach curling in shame. What has happened to me? I’ve never been that girl. I never thought this would happen to me. I thought I’d be brave enough to always alert people if I was ever in this scenario. I’ve screamed at enough films where the girl makes horrible decisions. 

No. 

If I have any chance of getting that laptop unlocked, I need to earn Jim’s trust. 

It’s my only hope. 

I’m vaguely aware of Jim leaving kisses all down my neck. A reward, I suppose for being so well behaved. He slides my shirt up, exposing my skin, Jim’s tongue diving into my belly button and then continuing his descent. I can’t deny the spark of desire that courses through me, disgusting and so wrong. But Jim has already been able to kindle a fire inside me and when his tongue finally dives inside my cunt, I can’t help but throw my head back. His silver-tongue of sin slathers and soothes me with its talent and I try to reach down, to run my hands through Jim’s hair. But I can’t.

He’s never restrained me before.

‘You look so fucking beautiful like this.’ Jim whispers against my clit, letting the vibrations edge me.

‘Jim,’

He takes himself out of his trousers, stroking himself to full hardness. Jim pushes his lips to mine, kissing me in-between heated words, ‘I love you. You’re mine. My wife. The love of my life. I couldn’t be without you.’ He discards his shirt and trousers on the bed beside me and pushes inside. My wrists burn and he’s stretching me so well and I gasp right into his mouth. Jim’s tongue dives in, roaming round every inch of my mouth before pinning my tongue down. His hips work in and out, well trained by now to know my every weak spot and how to make me see stars. My hips are flying upwards to meet his as Jim’s pace increases, our skin slapping together. 

My arms are starting to ache as Jim begins his usual volley of chants, ‘Gonna fill you up. Make sure you have every drop inside you.’

I moan as usual, I can’t stop myself as I near the peak of my orgasm, ‘God, Jim.’

‘Can’t wait, baby. Cumming soon.’ Jim promises, ‘This time will be it. You’re gonna swell with my child and we’ll have the most wonderful life. No one and no rules. Just us. God, I’m gonna stay inside you all night. Make sure you get pregnant with my baby.’

Jim lets go, spilling deep inside me. My hips spread wider to accommodate his weight as Jim shoots deep inside me, his cock brushing right up against my special spot. 

I’m close…but I’m not there. 

Jim notices at once, hoisting my hips up and making sure he remains connected. I squeal as the handcuffs chafe against my skin from this new angle. I don’t know what’s he’s planning as Jim’s finger wanders down and then he’s sliding in and out again, not soft just yet. I cry out from surprise as my anus is exposed. Jim’s finger circles around, ‘JIm.’ I warn, ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

He pushes inside me, sliding in till his finger is sheathed inside and I scream from the new penetration. I cum, my orgasm white-hot and electric. It feels like I’m being stuffed in both ends, even though Jim’s only got a finger inside. My cries fly free and there’s another jet of cum mingling with my own. 

Jim pants, his face sweaty and satisfied. His head rests on my breasts, Jim’s hair tickling my chin, ‘I love you so much.’

I don’t say it back and I don’t think Jim expects me to.

We lie together until my arms have gone numb, but I’ve found a slightly more comfortable position. Jim remains inside me even after his cock has softened and he’s fallen asleep on me. Jim’s weight is not quite crushing but its enough to make moving impossible. My eyes flit about the bedroom and I notice Blue’s sat on the white rug in the corner, nearly blending in. His lead is still attached and he watches me with something like vague concern. 

I click him over and Blue comes running immediately. Jim’s out like a light, nestled against me. He doesn’t register Blue nosing at him as I managed to unclip his lead and run my hand over his fur. It’s settles the fear that’s slowly building back inside me.

I do not want Jim Mason’s child. 

Blue lies on the pillow, next to his parents. I just pet him for something to do, watching as the Samoyed rolls over to show me his belly and then starts sniffing round Jim’s trousers. ‘They probably stink.’ I grin, keeping my voice low. But Blue’s nudging has made something catch my eye, something in one of the pockets. 

I move as silently as I can, keep my eyes on Jim as I fish it out. 

It’s a copy of our marriage license. Jim must have taken it when he bought Blue, for proof of identity or something. 

Jim’s name is signed, right next to mine. 

It’s my penmanship, my signature.

I did marry him. 

TAG-LIST: @langdonsoceaneyes @sodanova @petersfern-fics @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @sassylangdon @confettucini @sammythankyou @wroteclassicaly @Sloppy-Wrist @Langdonalien @alexcornerblog @queencocoakimmie @sojournmichael @langdonsdemon @satcnas @kinlovecody​ @kylosbabe @americanhorrorstudies @asstichrist  @xxpixiefromdixiexx @elenareginaauditore​ @daadddysprincesss​ @avesatanormalpeoplescareme​ @gremlinkween​ @langdonsinferno​ @readsalot73​ @astir-bread​  @i-will-die-for-jim-mason​ @ms-mead @mega-combusken​ @hanhanxx​ @kahhlo​ @dark-jim @jimmlangdon @jim-mason2 @lovelykhaleesiii @yourkingcodyfern @ritualmichael @starwlkers @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @langdonsrapture

[themagiciansreccenter]

Author Spotlight: @lesbianmxgicians​

Every week we interview a writer from The Magicians fandom. If you would like to be interviewed or you want to nominate a writer, get in touch via our ask box.

First things first, tell us a little about yourself.

I'm a Canadian high school student and definitely a huge science fiction nerd. Reading and writing are both huge passions for me, and the former has influenced my life a lot.

How long have you been writing for?

I've been writing for almost a year now- I started off writing femslash and reader inserts for the Supernatural fandom last summer, and this January I discovered the show The Magicians (and the books) and joined the fandom here.

What inspired you to start writing for The Magicians?

Probably the characters. I love all of the women of this show, I think they're badass. Also maybe a need to have a wlw relationship on The Magicians, since I mainly write femslash. I really wish we had canon relationship between two of the women on the show.

Who is/are your favourite character(s) to write? What it is about them that makes them your favourite?

Alice is definitely a favourite, because I feel like I can really get her voice; she reminds me a lot of myself in many ways. Also Penny and Dean Fogg, because they're my underrated favourites.

Do you have a preference for a particular season/point in time to write about?

Season one, definitely. There are less plot threads and I have the most memory of that season overall, so it's easier when I'm writing in canon to just slip my own stories between the episodes and have it feel organic to the season's plot; like that story could have easily actually happened onscreen.

Are you working on anything right now? Care to give us an idea about it?

I've got an ongoing serial fic called 'a colossal mistake'. It's set after Quentin cheats on Alice, and she runs off to a bar in Brooklyn and hooks up with Julia before disappearing. The gang is supposed to go to Fillory to defeat the Beast, but they can't without Alice, so they end up on a search to find her.

How long is your “to do list”?

I have a couple of prompts in my inbox that I feel bad about having not fulfilled yet, and a few ideas I eventually want to get done. Otherwise, I write whatever comes to mind at the time, if I have time. There are drafts of things I can't bring myself to delete because I know when/if I have the time and creative energy, I can make them publishable.

What is your favourite fic that you’ve written for The Magicians? Why?

This is a hard one, but probably 'what is and what shall never be'. I really like the dynamic that Julia and Marina!23 had in 3x11, and I feel like that could be expanded upon in season four, so that's exactly what I did. The idea of this other Marina who's proclaimed a second chance at a life of good with magic is really intriguing, especially with her shown curiosity to her other self's relationship with Julia. I kind of summed all of these really long thoughts up with the synopsis of, "Surprisingly, Marina wants to help for once." I think, at least.

Many writers have a fic that they are passionate about that doesn’t get the reception from the fandom that they hoped for. Do you have a fic you would like more people to read and appreciate?

'For The Rich and The Heartless' is a prompt fill that I actually ended up loving a lot. It's a boarding school, no magic alternate universe that for a time I was thinking about turning into a Veronica Mars-esque school murder mystery (but, as always, I didn't end up having enough time while the mood struck me to do so.) It's good and funny on it's own, though, and I would love for more folks who like Margo/Alice and those kinds of AUs to read it.

What is your writing process like? Do you have any traditions or superstitions that you like to stick to when you’re writing?

I've been trying recently not writing stories in linear order. So much of the time, I get ideas for fics where it's mid-story, so I just cast them aside; now I'm trying to get those scenes down and build the rest of the story as it comes, in whatever order I think of. It's made writing a lot more enjoyable.

Do you write while the seasons are airing or do you prefer to wait for hiatus? How does the ongoing development of the canon influence and inspire your writing process?

I write whenever I feel like it; I get a lot more inspiration while the seasons are airing, or at least that's how it's felt so far. I usually hold onto small details from episodes after they air that I love, and try to write a fic about them. They usually end up being pretty short, though.

What has been the most challenging fic for you to write?

Definitely 'a colossal mistake', by far. Not so long ago, I felt this constant pressure to post fan fiction constantly, to the point where I was posting about three times a week but I still didn't feel like it was enough. Now I've slowed down by a lot, but it's harder to come up with things to get the plot where I want it to go. I also feel bad for the people who really like that fic, because I'm now aware they exist and I don't want to let them down.

Are there any themes or tropes that you like particularly like to explore in your writing?

Pining and portals, the two Ps. The Great Lesbian Condition, for me at least, is the not dating/unrequited feelings thing in real life, so I definitely try to project those feelings and experiences in my fics. And portals, for some reason I'm just obsessed with them and the whole travelling to another world thing. It and this answer probably translate my frequent habit of escapism.

Are there any writers that inspire your work? Fanfiction or otherwise?

Fan fiction wise, @monstrous-femme definitely. Y'know, she was the first person to ever follow me (and since I didn't have any posts, I'm guessing by the username alone.) Her stories are really interesting and my favourites to read and read again. Otherwise, Ransom Riggs' 'Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children' series and the obvious choice of 'The Magicians' series by Lev Grossman.

What are you currently reading? Fanfiction or otherwise?

The Magician's Land by Lev Grossman, Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs, on and off Sleeping Beauties and Cujo by Stephen King, Monday's Not Coming by Tiffany D. Jackson and It's Not Like It's a Secret by Misa Sugiura. I have the attention span of a hummingbird.

What is the most valuable piece of writing advice you’ve ever been given?

Kill your darlings, probably. And since I think I'm absolutely hilarious, I have to do this a lot.

Are there any words or phrases you worry about over using in your work?

"Probably," "though," "perhaps," "maybe," and the characters' names.

What was the first fanfic that you wrote? Do you still have access to it?

The first fanfic I ever wrote is a Supernatural gen reader insert called 'Best For You.' It's at the very end of my AO3 catalog, and even thinking about it right now is making me giggle and cringe. I do, unfortunately, still have access to it, which also means so does anyone who's curious about it.

Rapidfire Round!

Self-edit or Beta?

Both. Usually self edit, though, because I get anxious about asking for betas or people don't respond in time.

Comments or Kudos/Reblogs or Likes?

Definitely comments. I love feedback on anything and everything I write.

Smut, Fluff or Angst?

Angst.

Quick & Dirty or Slow Burn?

Slow burn emotional pining, one hundred percent.

Favourite Season?

Season One

Favourite Episode?

3x04 and 1x09, tied.

Favourite Book?

The Magician King

Three favourite words?

Pretentious, love, misty.

Want to be interviewed for our author spotlight? Get in touch here.

[yvkkao-blog]

Reflection on Gaiman and Neverwhere

Quotes:

1) The night before he went to London, Richard Mayhew was not enjoying himself.

I can relate. The night before traveling anywhere is never fun. You are sick with anticipation and anxiety. What if you forget something? What if you oversleep? Etc., ad nauseam. Richard is not enjoying himself because all of his insecurities and uncertainties are rearing their heads, and that is perfectly understandable. When you’re about to go haring off into the unknown, you want a solid foundation somewhere behind you (figuratively) and beneath your feet (figuratively and literally).

2) When he had first arrived, he had found London huge, odd, fundamentally incomprehensible, with only the Tube map, that elegant multicolored topographical display of underground railway lines and stations that, giving it any semblance of order. Gradually he realized that the Tube map was a handy fiction that made life easier, but bore no resemblance to the reality of the shape of the city above: like belonging to a political party, he thought once, proudly, and then, having tried to explain the resemblance between the Tube map and politics, at a party, to a cluster of bewildered strangers, he had decided in the future to leave political comment to others.

3) Until that moment, she had never thought she could do it. Never thought she would be brave enough, or scared enough, or desperate enough to dare.

4) “It was very sudden,” said Jessica, wistfully, under her breath.

5) “We’re not going to get very far if you keep repeating I say, now, are we?” said the Marquis, who was now standing in front of Richard.

6) Even when the Marquis was at rest, his eyes never ceased moving. Up, down, around, as if he were looking for something, thinking about something. Adding, subtracting, evaluating. Richard wondered whether the man was quite sane.

7) As a child, Richard had had nightmares in which he simply wasn’t there, in which, no matter how much noise he made, no matter what he did, nobody ever noticed him at all. He began to feel like that now, as people pushed in front of him; he was buffeted by the crowd, pushed this way and that by commuters getting off, by others getting on.

8) Mr. Croup turned out the lights. “Oh, Mister Vandemar,” he said, enjoying the sound of the words, as he enjoyed the sound of all words, “if you cut us, do we not bleed?”

           Mr. Vandemar pondered this for a moment, in the dark. Then he said, perfectly accurately, “No.”

9) “Thanks,” Richard looked at the woman in leather. “Is there anything, really, to be scared of?”

           “Only the night on the bridge,” she said.

           “The kind in armor?”

           “The kind that comes when day is over.”

10) “Darkness is happening,” said the leather woman, very quietly. “Night is happening. All the nightmares that have come out when the sun goes down, since the cave times, when we huddled together in fear for safety and for warmth, are happening. Now,” she told them, “now is the time to be afraid of the dark.”

11) Its face was pale and wise, and gentle; and perhaps, a little lonely.

12) The train was coming toward him, its headlights shining out from the tunnel like the eyes of a monstrous dragon in a childhood nightmare. And he understood then just how little effort it would take to make the pain stop—to take all the pain he ever had had, all the pain he ever would have, and make it all go away forever and ever.

13) I am so far out of my depth that … Metaphors failed him, then. He had gone beyond the world of metaphor and simile, into the place of things that are, and it was changing him.

14) The Marquis sighed. “Get back over here, and we’ll figure out something.”

           Richard said, quietly, “Too late.”

15) She had forgotten them all; forgotten Richard down in the mud, and the Marquis and his foolish crossbow, and the world. She was delighted and transported, in a perfect place, the world she lived for.

16) “We don’t lie,” said Mr. Croup, affronted.

           “Do,” said Mr. Vandemar.

           Mr. Croup ran a grimy hand through his filthy orange hair, in exasperation. “Indeed we do. But not this time.”

17) The Marquis de Carabas watched the sleeping children. The idea of sleep—of returning, even for a short time, to a state so horribly close to death—scared him more than he would have ever believed. But, eventually, even he put his head down on his arm, and closed his eyes.

           And then there were none.

18) The Marquis raised an eyebrow. “What do you think she is—the Wizard of Oz? We can’t send you home. This is your home.”

19) The growling was the roar of traffic, and he was coming out an underpass in Trafalgar Square. The sky was the perfect untroubled blue of a television screen, tuned to a dead channel.

20) The Marquis de Carabas raised an eyebrow. “Well?” he said, irritably. “Are you coming?”

           Richard stared at him for a heartbeat.

           Then Richard nodded, without trusting himself to speak, and stood up. And they walked away together through the hole in the wall, back into the darkness, leaving nothing behind them; not even the doorway.

Reflection:

I have never really been a fan of Neil Gaiman—although I acknowledge that he is a pillar of the writing community as an author in the field and just a supreme writer. I admire him and what he’s done for fantasy writing, even if some of his writing reminds me of Grimm’s fairy tales, the originals. I do like his writing style; he has a way with words and the detail is incredible. Plus, he’s as creative and edgy a writer as can be. Maybe there was a time when he seemed incomprehensible to me, but I find myself enjoying dark fantasy—his specialty—more and more. I really liked his book Coraline, and I have been meaning to read American Gods. I feel like I did not give him a fair chance in years past, and there were parts of Neverwhere that I really enjoyed.

I have been re-reading Neverwhere since we arrived in London. Knowing some of the places that Gaiman frequently references puts the novel in a new perspective. The first time around, I did not know the difference between Harrod’s and Islington. I had to look them up, but even that does not compare to reading a London setting in the city of London. I didn’t get sucked into the book the way I usually prefer to; however, Gaiman’s writing style as ever keeps you curious and engaged. I found Richard a difficult character to like at first—until he started seeming more alive. That part was ironic: he seemed more alive when he was “dead” to the Upworld than he had when among the “living.” His reactions seem more genuine after he’s been pushed out of his mind-numbing comfort zone. My favorite character for at least the first half of the book was the Marquis de Carabas. He’s diabolical and reprehensible, but he cunning, sarcastic, and gets things done. To me, the characters are just as important as the plot. Unlikeable characters does not give me any enjoyment. In this case, some of the characters grew on me, like Richard and Door. I never liked Jessica. The plot was a series of shifting viewpoints, and I liked getting both the villain’s perspective and the protagonist’s perspective.

I might write another reflection entry later comparing Neverwhere with The Graveyard Book. For this reflection, I wanted to dwell on some of the characteristics of Gaiman’s Neverwhere that I most enjoyed.