comptususa

[thunderheadfred]

My dad is here working on the basement again and he came into the bedroom where I was resting with the cats to give me an update.

and this huge 70-year old midwestern man who can't help but mutter half-hearted cats-are-weird insults every time he sees a feline, starts gently petting Yogurt and adding words like "cute" and "little"

[waywardrose-archive]

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY | 9

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

8.5k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs​​​​​​

fem/witchy/goth!reader, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, consensual pursuit and capture, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, aftercare, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?

Weird weird?

He shrugged. He liked weird.

In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: Things turn dark, but not with Eddie. Heed the tags, though. Please protect yourself. DM me if you want spoilers. 🖤

9

He woke with a gasp. Hot suction coiled around his cock. He was hard — so hard. A warm weight held his hips to the mattress. He glanced down to see the mound of blankets undulate over his groin.

“Ah, fuck,” Eddie said, voice hoarse from disuse.

You lay across him, sucking his cock, cupping his balls. His sleep pants crinkled around his knees. Your mouth was a sweet heaven and a scorching hell. He wanted to thrust deeper, but he didn’t want you to stop.

You moaned around his shaft in reply. His jaw dropped at the subtle vibration. His muscles tightened, and he arched as much as you let him.

He dug under the blankets to touch you, finding your forearm and back first.

Breathless, he said, “Feel so good.”

You suckled at the tip, like it was a lollipop, and tongued at the slit. You rested more of your weight on him as you wrapped a hand around the base. Something about the pressure and restraint had him spreading his thighs. You began working his cock with hand and mouth, twisting both with each stroke and suck.

He cursed and gripped your nape.

You paused at the tip again to swirl your tongue over his frenulum and massaged his balls. He let his head fall back with a groan. You sucked harder and pumped your hand in time with your mouth. He scooped his hips forward as pleasure rippled through his body.

He couldn’t get enough of your velvety mouth, your pretty lips, your sinful tongue, your hot breath.

Familiar tension started in the deepest root of him, the base of his spine, the top of his thighs. He warned you he was going to come, but you didn’t quit.

“Oh, God, gonna let me come in that hot little mouth?”

You hummed and took him impossibly deeper.

That was all it took. His cock hit the back of your throat, his spine bowed, and cock pulsed. He came in spurts of raw bliss, blinded to anything but you. Your mouth and throat convulsed around his cock, swallowing his spend. He choked on air at the simple action making his climax peak again weakly.

His bare chest heaved with every ragged breath. He wanted to tell you no one had— He hadn’t felt— That you were—

He couldn’t finish a goddamn thought.

You released his softening erection from your mouth. He heard you swallow. It made his stomach swoop. He needed to see you.

He pulled you by the upper arm until your head popped from beneath the blankets. He caressed your warm cheek, stared into your sparkling eyes. You reminded him of a mischievous kid who’d gotten away with some prank. He wanted to kiss your puffy lips for that alone.

So he did. At first you resisted, because your mouth was coated in him, but he didn’t give a shit. He’d tasted his own spunk before.

“Kiss me,” he said.

You began closed-mouthed. He slanted his head and lured your lips open with his teeth and tongue. The taste of himself on your tongue was sharp, salty, and musky. You let out a soft sound before surrendering.

He swept his hands over your back and sides, down to your ass. Your legs spread. Feeling the heat between them on his hip, he knew what you needed. He slithered a hand between your belly and the front of your underwear. Your slit was slippery wet, the crotch of your underwear soaked.

He wasted no time spreading your pussy and finding your clit. You panted against his lips as your pelvis canted into his touch. He smelled the heavy scent of sex, of the two of you together. He wanted that every morning and night.

Without easing you into it, he began circling your clit with his middle and ring fingers. He pressed it against your pubic bone. He put pressure on your mound as he clapped a hand on your ass.

You whimpered and wiggled your hips.

“That what you need, baby?”

You nodded, then let your head hang.

He privately admitted he wasn’t good at a lot of things: school, steady employment, dealing with everyday adult crap. But he was good with his hands, at pleasuring you, at using his imagination.

“Feel good?” he asked as he continued to circle your swollen clit.

You replied with a soft ‘uh-huh.’

“Gonna think about this weekend for the rest of my life, I swear.”

You breathed against his damp neck, humidity fanning over his skin. One of your hands fisted the pillow by his head while the other held onto his shoulder. He kept circling as your hips jerked. Your clit slid between his fingers, and you gasped.

He smirked, a wicked idea forming, and stroked your clit with his squeezing fingers on either side. His fingertips grazed your opening.

“Fuck!”

You humped his hand and panted and ground down. Your tits jiggled under your t-shirt. He encouraged you with the hand on your ass. You threw your head back, gorgeous mouth open as you breathed hard. Your nails dug into his skin right above his tattoo.

You were wild and greedy, and he loved it. He wanted you to take what you needed.

You ground harder and wet your bottom lip. He didn’t know where to look. All of you called to him.

Then your clit drew up and your legs went taut. He gritted his teeth and pressed harder, getting a little mean. You cried out and slammed your hips down as your pussy pulsed repeatedly against his fingers.

You drenched his fingers, your underwear, and probably your pajama pants. He kept stroking until you pleaded for him to let up. As he slowed, you collapsed onto him with a satisfied groan. He covered your throbbing pussy and held you close with his free arm around your waist.

“Whoa,” you said against his shoulder.

“Yeah. Good morning to you, too.”

You giggled and kissed his neck. He shivered at the delicate touch, turning his head to allow you space. And maybe to spur you on.

You kissed the same spot and trailed kisses to his shoulder, where you latched on. You bit and sucked at the skin. The tension and slight pain shot to his dick. He rocked against your hip as he pulled his hand free from your underwear.

He brought his wet fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He sighed at your taste; his dick growing heavy between your bodies.

You rose enough to watch him, your eyes shining in the morning light. As he finished, he smirked.

“Wanna taste?” he asked before presenting his tongue.

You swooped in to suck at it. His gut tightened as you purred and tilted your head to kiss him for real. He held you close and cupped your jaw, letting you lead. You licked into his mouth, teased his tongue with yours, sucked on his bottom lip.

He groaned against your perfect mouth and clutched at your ass. The flavor of his come and yours mingling in the kiss had him fully hard. He moved your lower half to ease his growing need. Instead, that only ignited it.

You pulled away a few inches to trace one of his eyebrows and smooth his hair back.

“Can I ride you?” you asked.

He laughed. Could you ride him?

“Sweetheart, you can do whatever you want.”

With a grin, you were off him in a flash. You threw a condom at him. It hit him in the nose, landing on his chest. He kicked off his sleep pants, pushing the blankets with them. His dick slapped his torso comically, and he nearly laughed again.

You shucked off your underwear and pajama pants, then clambered on top of him. His amusement died at seeing you like this. You tore open the condom, supported his erection, and gently unrolled the condom in short strokes. He closed his eyes, lest he blow his load right there.

Once finished, you spread your fingers under his bellybutton to outline his treasure trail. Your hand continued up, up, up — leaving a line of heat — until your palm rested on his sternum.

He had to look — couldn’t not look. You had the hem of your shirt between your teeth as you braced his cock. You lifted your hips and ran the tip through your wet slit. He held onto your thighs and watched as you found the right angle. Then — oh, fuck — you did. You slid inch by torturously hot inch down until his cock disappeared inside.

You rested your other hand on his chest and breathed through your nose as you acclimated.

He smoothed his hands up your sides till your shirt thwarted him.

“Take this off,” he said, plucking at your shirt. “Let me see you.”

You straightened, moving further down his cock. He whispered a curse as his balls drew up. You crossed your arms and pulled your shirt off, as if unwrapping a present. He couldn’t help but touch your tits now that they were bare. He cradled them in his palms and stroked the satiny skin with his thumbs.

Your nipples hardened, going darker. It made his mouth water. He drew circles around your areolae, making them pucker even more. He held your ribs and pulled your tits to his face, angling his hips to remain deep inside you.

You mewled and relaxed against his torso when he kissed a nipple. He sucked on it as your hands went to his hair. You smelled so good, like soft sleep and clean girl.

Slowly, he began pumping his cock. He didn’t want to shock your muscles with some jackhammer action he’d seen in porn. It paid off when you began moving with him. Your breath hitched with every inward thrust. Your cunt was so hot around him — even through the barrier of the condom.

He sucked on your other nipple and pinched it between his teeth, causing your cunt to clamp around him. He muffled a groan in your breast and kissed the swell. You pulled his hair, and he groaned again.

You kissed him, hard and fast, your chin jabbing his. You took his breath, made him forget all the shitty things waiting in the real world.

“God, fuck me,” he said, voice unrecognizable to his ears.

You pushed him onto the mattress with hands on his chest and circled your hips. Your cunt clenched on every upstroke, like you were trying to milk the orgasm from him. He gripped your hips and tried to get as deep as he could, wanting to feel every silky fevered inch of you.

You rode him harder, arching your back, pushing your tits out.

He couldn’t take much more. You were too much. Your ass slapped against his bracing thighs. He planted his heels and thrust up. Your eyes went wide as a moan punched out of your chest.

Breathless, he said, “That’s it, fuck me, make yourself come.”

You shoved a hand between your legs, fingers sliding around the base of his cock. That small touch nearly toppled him. Shit, he wouldn’t last much longer.

He knew you found a good rhythm when you keened and bounced faster. Your cunt became hotter, tighter. He swore and tipped his head back. He couldn’t look. He needed to look, but couldn’t. If he did, he’d lose it.

Then you moaned. And he couldn’t look away.

You came around his cock, your whole body quaking. You looked so human, so perfect, so vulnerable. As you listed to the side, he gathered you to his chest and rammed his hips upwards. He was so close. You groaned between his shoulder and the pillow. It sounded like his name.

A soundless, bright second stretched. Even his thundering heartbeat faded. He pressed his face to your soft skin and let go. He was rewarded with one of the most intense orgasms he could remember. He thrummed with ecstasy as his cock pistoned deep inside you. Each rush of come stole his thoughts.

Fuck, he didn’t care about thinking.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to after this, anyway.

His feet skittered down the mattress as he attempted to catch his breath. You curled on his chest, damp forehead pressed to his sweaty neck. He stared at the ceiling, his mind quiet for once.

The condom loosened around his flagging erection. He held the base of it and urged you to lift your hips. With a groan, you did and leaned your weight on one leg. Your pussy smeared across his pelvis, but he didn’t mind. In fact, you could rub yourself all over him.

He patted your hip and said, “Good girl.”

You snickered before nipping at his throat.

“You make me sound like a horse,” you said, sounding wrecked.

He grinned.

“If anyone’s the horse here, it’s me.”

You laughed into his shoulder. “Does Mr. Ed want a carrot?”

He whinnied, but it sounded more like a bleating sheep.

You laughed harder.

.

You sat diagonally from him at the kitchen table, sharing room-temperature pizza straight from the box. The pepperoni grease had congealed overnight. He didn’t mind. He’d eat mediocre pizza with you for as long as you wanted, which probably wouldn’t be long.

He had to be honest with himself here. When you discovered he was trailer-park trash, you’d ditch him. Perhaps you’d continue to fuck him to get back at your father. However, he knew he’d never receive an invitation to a family dinner. He wasn’t the type of person someone brought home to meet the folks.

It wasn’t as though he wanted to do the whole traditional meet-the-family meal, anyway.

You gave him a warm grin that could almost make him forget that fact.

“So,” you said and set the half-eaten crust on your side of the box. “When is Corroded Coffin playing again?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“You mind if I show up?”

He planted an elbow on the table and leaned forward.

“That depends.”

“On?” you asked.

“On if you promise to stick around after the show.”

“What happens after the show?”

“A crazy party where I make out with the prettiest girl,” he said and tore off a bite of pizza with his teeth.

“This happen after every show?”

“Well, I mean...” He shrugged as he chewed. “Sometimes I just walk her to her car and hug her.”

Trying to hide a grin, you said, “Sounds like a wild time.”

“As I said, it’s crazy.”

“I think I can handle crazy.”

“Cool,” he said. “Then I see you there.”

You popped the p of your ‘yep.’

Once the pizza was demolished, you met his gaze and offered a wry grin.

“I guess it’s time I took you home,” you said.

“I can call Wayne.”

“No, don’t bother him on a Sunday. I don’t mind.”

He took a deep breath while buying himself time with folding the pizza box for easy disposal. He’d gotten himself into this situation. There were no excuses to refuse a ride now. You didn’t want him to call Wayne. It would be a douche move to ignore that.

“If you’re sure,” he said. “I live on the other side of town.”

With a shake of your head, you said, “It’s not a big town.”

He nodded.

It was inevitable, he told himself. You were bound to find out.

“Okay, let me get my bag,” he said and stood.

You took the pizza box to the garbage can under the sink and led him through the house. Midday sunlight reflected off the shiny wood floors and highlighted the pale silk wallpaper. Prismatic light coming through the glass in the front door nearly blinded him as he rounded the newel post.

Back in your room, there wasn’t much to pack. He wadded his pajamas into the corner of his duffle with the other dirty laundry and made sure his wallet was in his back pocket. In the bathroom, he stowed his toothbrush and electric razor in his old pencil bag from middle school.

You followed him like a specter, purse on your shoulder and keys in hand.

He remembered the way to the garage and held the door open for you, which you thanked him for. Sunlight blasted into the garage as the door trundled up. He patted his jacket pockets for sunglasses, recalling for the nth time he’d forgotten them.

After tossing his duffle in the back of your car, he sat in the passenger seat and flipped the visor. You started the car and changed the tape in the player.

You softly said, “I really don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to go.”

You gnawed on your bottom lip and didn’t shift the car into Reverse. Despite sunglasses hiding your eyes, he could tell you were sad. He didn’t want you sad.

He asked, “I mean, how else am I supposed to watch Heavy Metal Mania?”

You shot him a grin.

“You’re using me for my cable.”

“Not just your cable.” He leaned across the center console. “I happen to like quite a few more things about you.”

“Yeah?” you asked and faced him.

“Yeah.”

He moved in and caught your lips with his. You melted against him as your hand cupped his cheek. The rim of your sunglasses dug into his cheekbone, but he didn’t care. He kissed your mouth open, desperate to taste you one last time. It seemed you felt the same, because your tongue slid over his.

He didn’t know how long he kissed you, but a new song started with the wail of a guitar. He smiled against your lips. You pulled back enough to look into his eyes and match his smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow in class,” he said.

“Yeah, of course.”

He righted himself as you reversed out of the garage. You appeared happier — or at least distracted.

He navigated you through town: calling attention to the razed land where Starcourt Mall used to be, sharing the local legend about a haunted grave in Roane Hill Cemetery, and telling you about the corny Fun Fair the former mayor had used to deflect attention from his corruption.

Okay, maybe he was distracting himself, too.

He tried to play it cool as he directed you through the last turn before the trailer park. You commented how pretty the trees were on this stretch of road. He’d never given it much thought. They were pretty; a dense mix of gold and fiery orange sprinkled with evergreens.

Then the sign for Forest Hills Trailer Park came into view. His stomach became leaden. He licked his dry lips and told you to turn onto the deteriorated road for the trailer park. You said nothing as you slowed the car. Pebbles pinged the undercarriage.

He needed a cigarette.

He chanced a look at you, expecting disgust or dismay. However, your face showed neither of those emotions. You had the look of pleasant indifference. Like Forest Hills was equal to Loch Nora.

He pointed out his trailer, which looked rustier and saggier in the daylight. At least yesterday’s storm had blown away the litter that somehow always accumulated in the ditches.

You pulled in behind Wayne’s truck, put the car in Park, and turned down the radio.

“Well, this is me,” he said as he rubbed his damp palms on his thighs.

With a nod, you said, “I still don’t want you to go.”

“Sweetheart, I...”

“I know. It’s okay. Just—” You wet your lips. “Just kiss me.”

He guided your face by the chin to his and kissed you. His heart thudded in his ears. You scooted closer and put your hands in his hair. He didn’t care if the entire trailer park saw him kissing you. All he wanted was you. He wanted to feel you, smell the dark-headshop scent on your skin, taste the lingering tomato sauce on your tongue.

The world could’ve turned upside down or disappeared. There was only you.

Reluctantly, you broke the kiss. You then nudged his nose with yours. He smiled before giving you a wink.

“Alright, I’m off like a prom dress,” he said and opened the door.

“I’ll call you tonight.”

“Good.” He gave you a quick peck and pivoted to stand. “Thanks for the weekend.”

“Thanks for coming with me.”

He stood, closed the passenger door, and opened the back door to grab his duffle.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for the orgasms.”

With a laugh, he shouldered the duffle and pushed the back door closed. You waited to reverse until he was on the porch. He threw you a kiss and waggled his tongue. You laughed, sticking out your tongue in reply, as you rolled down the road.

He went inside with a grin. The warm living room was dim compared to outside. It smelled like home: their soap, cigarettes, and laundry dried on the line. The TV was on and tuned to a football game pre-show. Wayne sat in the recliner in the corner, sock-feet crossed on the raised footrest.

Eddie’s grin dissolved.

“Hi,” he said, letting the duffle slump off his shoulder.

“Howdy,” Wayne said, dry as a desert. “Have a nice time?”

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

“You stay safe?”

“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

“Glad to hear it.” Wayne pointed with his chin. “You look tired. You get enough sleep?”

“No—” His eyes went wide at the implication. “I mean, yes! I’m fine.”

Eyes twinkling, Wayne plucked a cigarette from the pack in his shirt-pocket and said, “Well, that’s good.” He uncrossed then recrossed his feet. “We’re havin’ shepherd’s pie for supper.”

“Cool, sounds good,” he said before retreating to his room.

He closed the door and dropped the duffle. Standing there for a moment, he didn’t know what to do first. He had to unpack and restock the black lunchbox for the next day. There were bits of lyrics floating through his mind as well, a chord progression somewhere behind them.

Yet all he thought was: You hadn’t rejected him or said anything negative about him living in a trailer park.

You could reject him later. That was always a possibility. However, if it was an issue, you would’ve said something. You didn’t seem the type to hold back. At least, not with him. You had no compunction about disagreeing with him — and he liked that.

He hummed in thought.

Maybe the Munson Doctrine needed an overhaul when it came to you.

-

This was stupid. This was so stupid. And dangerous.

It had to be done, though. You’d had headaches Wednesday and Thursday that you had to keep popping painkillers for. The nightmares weren’t getting worse, but they were persistent with unpredictable bleed-over. With a blink, wherever you were flashed gray and red with pulsing vines and cold soot.

You hadn’t realized how much that unnatural static hindered you in Hawkins until you left. Truthfully, you hadn’t felt it melt away as you drove to Chicago. However, it smacked you in the face on the return journey. It only confirmed your belief that Hawkins was fucked up.

Your magic had been unpredictable, reaching and retracting, hurtling, helter-skelter, and dizzying. The storm hadn’t helped. You nearly fell under the weight of the rain. While Eddie had been clueless about your predicament, he’d been the one thing you could concentrate on. Though you hadn’t done a fantastic job with concentration until your shared nap.

Your father had been a complete asshole before that, too. You’d wanted to reach through the phone and drain the air right from his lungs. The conversation had repeated in your mind, accelerating until you’d had to push it away. Or you would’ve destroyed something. You hadn’t wanted it to be Eddie.

You’d pushed it right into the closest object: the phone itself. Then, like a scared little animal, you’d run away—

Leaving Eddie to hear the evidence of your freakishness.

Of course, he’d interpreted it as a faulty phone, but you’d known better. If he’d picked up any phone in the house, he’d have heard the same thing. You knew you’d infected the entire house with your emotions.

Your father had mentioned nothing about you missing Mom’s call when they’d returned, either. He’d gotten his tirade in, and you’d appeased him by humiliating yourself. According to him, nothing else had to be said.

Mom promised you a mini shopping spree through any of your catalogs to make up for it.

Now it was Saturday again. You held a tumbler of water in your sigiled hands. You’d forgone casting a salt circle. You couldn’t have the barrier. You needed to discover this pervasive imbalance in Hawkins and put things right. The only way to do that was to interact directly.

Yes, it was dangerous. Maybe it was stupid.

But, you repeated, it had to be done.

Breathing deep, you exhaled power into the sigils you’d drawn on your hands and arms, torso, thighs and feet. They hummed back, warm and brilliant. It would be fine, they said. You were your own circle.

You opened yourself to the nightmares, to the piercing static, to the leaden sky and its poisonous lightning, to the soot that polluted everything it touched. You opened yourself because you couldn’t let it touch anyone else. You wouldn’t let it.

You held the tumbler in front of you, spying the looking-glass hellscape. The air changed as everything darkened and moldered. Your sigils flared blue through your clothes. They heated until you gasped and shook. You expected them to scorch the fabric with how fiercely they burned.

The sigils blazed beyond blue into white. You whimpered and turned, second-guessing every decision that led you here. This had been a mistake. You needed to close the ritual and pull your power back.

You closed your eyes to command your power to return. Imagining it centering in your chest, you inhaled through the pain.

The sigils shattered under the power. They cut invisible slashes into your spirit. You glanced down to find your clothes pristine and feet still bare...

Bare feet on rotted-gray floorboards.

The looking-glass hellscape surrounded you. The tumbler held your golden lit room.

Pocked roots and slimy vines snaked across your not-room. Lightning streaked outside the broken window. Skeletal trees clawed at the dead sky as if trying to escape their earthy prison.

Vines slithered closer to your feet. You shook your head and inched away. This couldn’t happen. This shouldn’t happen. Nothing in your books, or previous experience, felt like this.

A growl thundered in the distance, above you, under you, inside you. It vibrated the world, sounding like an awakening beast. You stumbled and almost lost your balance. The tumbler toppled from your hand. Corrupted gray water splashed your pants as it shattered.

Your heel came down on something brittle. It crunched under your weight. As your foot found stability, pain shot through your sole.

You’d stepped on a skull. Yet it looked like no skull you’d seen before. There were no eye sockets, no nasal cavity. It was humanoid with nothing but a gaping mouth packed with rows of sharp teeth — some of which were now imbedded in your foot.

Malicious knives of broken glass littered the floor, reflecting the cold sky.

As though sensing blood, vines slithered for you.

The growl came again, louder this time. You hobbled over the broken skull, the fragments of glass, the pocked roots. You needed to get to your bathroom. There, you could pull the teeth from your foot and bandage it.

Crackling hisses — those all-too familiar predators — came from the second floor. Between the vines and the predators, you were trapped. You were prey — and you’d been snared.

Under your breath, you said, “Any who touch me here are doomed, cursed, forsaken. None shall feel peace. None will know victory.” You stabbed your fist to your breastbone, heart beating the rhythm to your words. “They are condemned with me.” You slashed downward to finish the hex. “Motherfuckers.”

The thunder-like growl solidified into a sonorous voice you only knew when unconscious. It called your name. The owner of that voice had toyed with you, taunted you, flayed your mind. It expected you to cower and weep. That wouldn’t happen.

Accusation in its tone, it said, “You left.”

Footsteps, sure and slow, began climbing the stairs. You scanned the room for weapons. The only thing close was the half-broken skull.

“You left right when I needed you.”

You turned to run for the skull. A vine caught your wrist. You pulled it with you, straining for the skull.

“We’ve been through so much together,” it said. “We’re so much alike.”

Another vine wrapped around your knee, yanked you off center. You gritted your teeth and grasped at a root. It throbbed like a vein under your palm.

“I need you to help me.”

“No!”

“You said you’d do anything to help me.”

“Liar!”

Your not-bedroom transformed into a sterile tiled space with no door or window. Red light came from everywhere and nowhere. Your back hit the wall, head knocking hard. Blood from your foot left a jagged black path.

“You promised.”

That couldn’t be true. You couldn’t remember anything like that. And if you’d promised anything, it had been under duress.

“Open yourself to me.”

You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut.

Hot breath suddenly fanned your cheek.

“Open.”

You opened your eyes, but it was to absolute darkness.

“Open yourself to me.”

Something touched the center of your chest, too big to be a human hand, but long-fingered and clawed.

“Give me everything.”

The hand pressed at your chest, but it felt more like it was wedging itself inside your head. You wrenched at the vines on your wrists. You twisted against the wall to get away from the touch. Some part of you knew you were just wearing yourself out.

“Give me everything.”

The lobes of your brain started to separate; the seams of your skull creaked under the tension. The squelchy stretch turned your stomach. Pain lanced from your head to somewhere deep in your torso. You screamed and convulsed, hoping for escape — for rescue.

You kicked your bound feet, the injured heel sliding thickly against the tile. Another hand, this one more human, held your neck under the jaw. It forced your mouth closed. Your teeth clacked together, any noise now trapped in your throat. You couldn’t breathe around your nausea, the hand on your neck, the agony splitting you in two.

You fought for air and thrashed and heaved—

Until everything went black.

-

Metallic clanging woke Eddie from a dream. It was the phone. He groaned and hoped Wayne would get it. Then he remembered: Wayne was working a double.

He slapped around in the dark to find his bedroom phone as it rang a second time. Then he remembered: he’d broken that phone almost a year ago.

And he hadn’t replaced it.

Fuck.

He kicked and twisted the blanket off, cool air brought goosebumps on his skin. The phone rang a third time. He grumbled and stomped to the kitchen to answer it, hoping against hope the call was actually for him.

In the middle of the fourth ring, he answered while tugging the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Eddie?”

It was you, sounding small and scared — so unlike yourself. That roused him like nothing else could.

“Yeah? You okay?” he asked, heart in his throat. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know where I am. I...” Your teeth chattered and voice quavered. “I woke up in this creepy house.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at a Village Pantry, but it’s closed.”

“What’s around it?”

“There’s a field across the street?”

“Two-lane street? Three?”

“Two.”

“Houses?”

“I think I passed a farm?” The line frizzled from the payphone side. “There were train tracks, too.”

There were a few farms on the outskirts by the tracks. One was a pumpkin patch where everyone used to buy their Halloween pumpkins. He couldn’t recall the name, but he knew the general location. That was across town from Loch Nora.

“Jesus Christ, baby, you’re far from home. Just— Just hang tight. I’ll be there in five.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“It’ll be okay, alright?”

You sniffed.

“I’m coming.”

Your voice was thick as you said, “Okay.”

He ended the call and dashed to his room. Shoving his feet into sneakers, he rummaged for his keys. Once he found them, he flailed his hands to help him think of anything else he needed. Wallet! You were probably cold. Blanket! He’d be cold until the van’s heating kicked in. Jacket!

Without bothering to lock the trailer door, he ran to the van and started her. She roared to life. He drummed his hands on the wheel in thanks, then cranked the heat and lowered the volume of the stereo. He needed to concentrate.

He broke every traffic law: zooming through stop signs, only pausing at red lights, all the while going twenty miles over the speed-limit. You’d been out in the cold for who-knows how long. He didn’t know how much you had on, or if you wore a coat. You said you’d woken in a creepy house, which sounded a lot like you’d been sleepwalking. If that were the case, you’d be in pajamas.

The Village Pantry sign glowed in the distance, like a beacon of Gondor. He passed the turnoff to a farm. With few streetlights, it was too dark to read the farm’s sign. Not as if it mattered. All that mattered was getting to you.

He hit the brakes as he turned into the Village Pantry parking lot, skidding around the twin fuel pumps. You huddled on the curb in front of the pay phone, wearing only pajama pants and a sweater. You’d crossed your bare feet on your legs, and he kicked himself for not bringing socks.

After shoving the shifter in Park, he grabbed the blanket and hustled out. You stood, favoring your left foot. He draped the blanket over your shoulders. Your teeth chattered like they had during the call. Your hands trembled as you clutched the blanket.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Voice still quavering, you said, “Yeah, yeah, I can walk.”

Despite your answer, he wrapped an arm around your back, taking most of your weight, as he walked you to the van. You limped against him.

“What happened to your leg?”

“I... I think I stepped on something sharp? I’m-I’m-I’m not bleeding anymore.”

He shushed you as he opened the passenger door. “It’s okay. We’ll look at it when I take you home.”

Together, you two shuffled to the side.

With a desperate tinge in your voice, you said, “Take me back to your place.”

“It’s late, sweetheart,” he said and helped you into the passenger seat. “Your parents don’t know you’re out.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

That gave him pause. Maybe you’d run away instead. Had your asshat of a father done something?

“What happened?” he asked, withholding judgment.

“Nothing! I just—” You gripped the blanket tighter. “I just don’t want to go home.”

He didn’t want to get you in trouble. However, the miserable look in your eyes made him unwilling to drop you off. Also, he was positive your parents would be less than thrilled with him returning a half-frozen, injured daughter.

You opened your mouth to say more — probably to beg — but he cut you off.

“Okay, you can stay at mine,” he said as he pulled the seatbelt across your body.

You thanked him and helped secure the buckle, but let him tuck the blanket around you.

He rushed around the van and climbed into the driver’s seat. You’d stuffed your nose under the highest fold of the blanket.

As he turned onto the road, he asked, “How did you call me without going collect?”

Muffled by the blanket, you said, “Found some change in the parking lot.”

“Jesus...” He sighed. “I’m glad people are clumsy, then.”

“Me too.”

The rest of the drive was quiet, though he had plenty of questions. This time he obeyed all the traffic laws and even kept to the speed limit. Once parked in front of the trailer, he insisted on carrying you to the porch. The gravel parking spots were not for bare feet.

You huffed, but let him take you all the way to the front door. He secured the van before ushering you inside the trailer. The light over the sink illuminated the mess of dishes from dinner. You didn’t appear to notice as you tottered to the couch.

He clicked on all the living room lights before turning up the thermostat on the furnace. If the next electric bill was sky-high, he’d make up the difference.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked from the kitchen. “I don’t have much. Kool-Aid, beer, pop. I can make coffee.”

“Pop’s fine.”

He hung his jacket on a dinette chair and retrieved a can of generic soda, cracking it open as he walked into the living room. After handing you the can, he knelt on your left and asked to examine your foot. You lifted it halfway, and he brought it the rest of the way to place your calf on his knee. Your sole was dirty with road grit, blood, and probably some watery mud.

If you remained on the couch, cleaning would drag on with you lifting one foot, then the other, and back again. The cramped bathroom was out of the question. Same with the cluttered kitchen counters.

“Here. Let’s move you to the recliner,” he said. “It’ll be easier.”

You nodded and gave him the can to set on the coffee table. He offered his hands to pull you to your feet, supported you by the waist into the recliner, and covered your front with the blanket. He transferred the can to the side table before releasing the recliner footrest for you.

“You good?” he asked softly.

You nodded, but he didn’t believe you. He bent and cupped your cheek, hoping you couldn’t feel how he shook.

Jesus Christ, he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

You closed your eyes as you leaned into the touch. He wanted to say it was okay; you were with him now, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know what had happened. Maybe it wasn’t okay. He hated false assurances, anyway. They were never the comfort most people thought they were.

“Here,” he said, handing you the can. “I’m going to get supplies and be right back.”

“Okay,” you said, voice sounding stronger.

He went to the bathroom to grab a towel and a few washcloths from the clean linens. On the way back, he found the hydrogen peroxide in the fridge, washed his hands at the sink, and soaked a washcloth in warm water. You looked steadier as you sipped the soda, which made him feel better about leaving you alone.

He sat at the foot of the recliner, supplies next to him on the floor, and unwrapped your feet. When he asked if you were ready, you nodded and put the can on the table. He was sure everything would look better once the dirt was gone. With a deep breath, he steadied your cold left foot with a hand under your achilles tendon and gently wiped it clean. A few puncture wounds dotted your heel. There was something lodged in one wound, but he’d pull that out once you were clean.

He folded the washcloth and used the clean side to wash your right foot. That one was only dirty, thank Christ.

“Okay,” he said with a deep breath and dropped the used washcloth on a discarded newspaper. “There’s something under the skin on your left foot.”

“Oh, shit.”

“No, no.” He met your gaze. “It’s not deep. I can get it.”

You bit your lip.

“Just do it.”

You turned your head with a grimace.

He didn’t want to hurt you. Or further hurt you. Shit, whatever.

“This is gonna suck,” he said.

“I know. Just... Just do it.”

He put a clean washcloth under your heel, nodded to himself, and pressed the front of his fingers on either side of the filled wound. Blood dribbled from around the object. His stomach lurched. You inhaled sharply, yet kept still. He wanted to apologize, but the best apology was getting this over with.

He didn’t want to ralph all over your foot, either.

He pinched the object — hard, smooth, and white — and gave it a yank. It came out in one piece. He tossed it onto the newspaper.

“Got it,” he said, while putting pressure on the now-bleeding wound with the washcloth.

His mouth was gummy. He hated the sight of your blood, hated you were hurt, hated this happened to you.

Goddamn, he needed a beer. You probably did, too.

“So,” he said. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“How about an explanation?”

You took a sip of soda, clearly stalling.

“You won’t believe me,” you said.

“Try me.”

You sighed. “You know how I said this town was weird?”

He nodded when you looked at him.

“It’s more than that.” You played with the can’s tab. “There’s something wrong with this town.”

“Yeah, a lot of people say it’s cursed.”

You lifted a shoulder.

“They may not be that far off.”

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“I’m saying there’s something here.”

“And... what?”

“And...” You stared at the window behind him, mouth twisted in thought and brows furrowed. “It took something from me.”

You were whole as far as he could see.

He asked, “What did it take?”

“Magic,” you whispered as your eyes flooded with tears.

He reached out to you, then noticed it was with his bloody hand. He switched hands. You slid your hand in his, fingertips chilled from the can.

“It took magic?” he asked, wondering if you meant energy — or something like constitution.

You nodded as your face crumpled.

He tightened his hold to reassure you, but you held tighter.

“I know you don’t—” You shook your head. “You don’t believe me,” you said, voice hoarse and cracking, shoulders hunching. “But... Fu-fuck, I know how this s-sounds. I j-just...”

Whatever this was, whatever you were trying to say, hurt to get out. You were scared, he realized. You were scared to tell him. He didn’t want you scared of him.

“You can tell me,” he said.

You shook your head again as a tear rolled down your cheek.

Shit, shit, shit.

The only magic he understood was through D&D. When a magic-user was out of spells, they needed rest. Or to defend with magical items. Or use physical weapons. Neither of the latter seemed like an option.

“Look, I believe you, okay? Something shitty happened. But you’re with me now.”

You nodded.

He continued, “Nothing bad’s going to happen while you’re here.”

You nodded once more and set the can aside.

Via Occam’s razor, you’d most likely had an intense nightmare and sleepwalked to some creepy house. There were plenty of creepy abandoned houses around here. That cursed rumor wasn’t completely unfounded. However, he couldn’t believe no one had seen you walk — barefoot — across town. Your parents must’ve heard you shuffling down the stairs.

What defied all logic was your choice to call him. Not your mother. Not another friend from school. Him.

Shit, he didn’t want to fuck this up.

He checked your heel to find the wound clotting.

“This is looking pretty good. We need to disinfect and bandage, though.” He slipped his hand from yours. “I think we got butterfly bandages.”

You said nothing as he tucked the washcloth around your heel and went to wash his hands. You remained quiet as he fetched the box of bandages and some cotton gauze and pads. When he returned, your face was too neutral. It made him feel like an asshole for some reason. He wanted to explain he didn’t get it, but he didn’t want you to fear his judgment.

Saying that would definitely make him sound like an asshole, though.

Instead, he warned you about the cold hydrogen peroxide as he soaked the last washcloth. You braced yourself before he dabbed at the wounds. The peroxide fizzed for a few passes. He saturated the washcloth and dabbed again until the fizzing stopped. As your skin dried, he found the last two butterfly bandages. He applied them to the scabbing wound and covered that with a pad. Then he wrapped your foot in gauze, which he held closed with a random bandage from the box.

He looked at your face to see fresh tears trailing over your cheeks.

“Hey, baby, it’s okay,” he said, and swept the footrest down until it locked into place.

Your feet landed on either side of him. He leaned against the front of the recliner and brushed away your tears. You extended your arms to hug him, blanket falling away. He wanted more than that, and he knew you needed more than that. He pulled you forward by the hips, pivoted you on your good foot as he lowered himself to the floor, and maneuvered you onto his lap. You curled against him, hiding your face under his jaw.

As if a dam broke, hot tears wet his neck. Your chest quaked, your breath stuttered. You gasped before letting out a pained sob. He rocked you, holding you through every racking inhale.

“I’m sorry,” you said thickly between sniffles. “I won’t look again. Promise.”

He didn’t know what that meant, yet you didn’t seem to need a reply. He murmured whatever soothing thing came to him. That calmed you little by little until you released one deep, shuddering breath and relaxed.

After a few minutes, he asked, “You cool with going to bed?”

You wiped at your face as you snuffled back snot. He patted the floor beside him to locate the towel, found it, and offered it. You mopped your face and blew your nose.

He said, “We don’t have to share it.”

“No!” you said and wiped your nose. “Stay with me.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “I can do that.”

You whispered, “Thank you.”

“Hey, anything for my lady.”

You folded the towel roughly and got off his lap. He helped you onto the recliner before standing. You looked miserable as you kept your eyes downcast. He wanted to take that away, to make your nightmare pay for this, to fucking fix this. Rather than rage against shadows, he offered his hand to help you to bed. That was the least he could do.

Once more, he put an arm around your back when you stood and took most of your weight. It was an awkward shuffle in the hallway leading to the bedroom. At the bathroom, you asked to use the facilities. He left you to it, returning to the living room for the blanket. He grabbed the afghan from the couch while there.

When you opened the bathroom door, he asked if you wanted to brush your teeth. You replied you did. He dropped the blankets to poke around in the bin under the sink to find a new toothbrush and a bottle of aspirin. He gave you the toothbrush and set the aspirin on the counter, saying you could use anything you wanted. It was all at your disposal.

Your lips quirked, and you asked, “Tu casa es mi casa?”

Glad to hear you joke, he smiled.

“Something like that, yeah.”

He gathered the blankets, dumped them on his bed, and turned on the bedside lamp. With fresh eyes, he regarded his chaotic room. Fuck, he needed to get his shit together. He smoothed out the blankets, fluffed the compressed pillows, and kicked whatever was on the floor under the bed.

He couldn’t leave the used washcloths and open bandages in the living room for Wayne to deal with. He rinsed the washcloths and repackaged the bandages. Then he wadded the wet newspaper, but paused in front of the garbage can. What had he pulled from your foot? At first blush, it could’ve been mistaken for a weird rock. It wasn’t heavy enough for its size to be a rock, though. It was smooth and pointed. He took it to the sink and cleaned it.

Under scrutiny and decent light, it was obviously a fang — but unlike one he’d ever seen. It was too long and thin to be from a dog or coyote. It wasn’t feline. It wasn’t a snake’s, either. There was a chance it was from an exotic pet. But who would have an exotic pet in Hawkins?

He deposited the fang in a mug and placed the mug in the fridge so Wayne wouldn’t throw it out. Also, because he didn’t want to lose it in his bedroom. He’d ask for Wayne’s opinion on the fang in the morning.

While he’d been channeling Columbo, you’d hobbled into the bedroom. He turned off the living room lights, locked the front door, and toed off his sneakers by the back door. He found you surveying his room, from the spray-painted Corroded Coffin banner to the posters and art to his guitars.

He closed the bedroom door as he said, “Sorry about the mess.”

You shook your head and gave him a weak grin.

He added, “I’d tell you it’s not always like this, but that’d be a lie.”

Your grin spread, and you said, “You have far more pressing concerns than cleanliness.”

“Indeed, milady.” He kissed your forehead and crouched in front of you. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better, thanks to you.”

He put his hands on your outer thighs and gave them a squeeze.

“Anytime,” he said.

You looked like you wanted to say more, but you took a deep breath instead.

He asked, “Bed?”

You nodded and peeled off your sweater. Underneath you wore a faded t-shirt. He took the sweater and laid it over the desk chair as you snuggled under the blankets. He got in bed beside you and turned off the lamp.

The light trickling through the window shade caught in your eyes. He wanted to reassure you it had only a dream. But what if it hadn’t been? What if some sleepless malice had stolen energy from you? What if you were a real magic-user? Seeing you cast in this nocturnal light, he could believe it. There was something magical about you.

He lay on his side and lifted the blanket to encourage you to slide closer, which you did. You curled against his chest and wrapped your limbs around him. He held you, resting his cheek on the top of your head. He stared into the dark and dared another nightmare to find you.

[lancrewizzard]

25 Less Unhinged Writing Tips

I know I’m roughly a year late to the party, but I got reminded of Lily Orchard’s infamous list of writing tips and struck again by how a good few of them have some decent advice at the core of weird wording, redundancy and terrible takes they’re surrounded by. So here’s 25 writing tips based on them, written by another irrelevant trans fanfic writer.

The current obsession with spoilers and twists for shock value often comes at the expense of character arcs and narrative sense. Concentrate on writing a good story, not outsmarting your audience.

Know what you like and dislike and why. If you’re writing things you enjoy, chances are other people will like it too.

Redemption arcs are like sex scenes. If they’re well written and serve the story, they can be great. If they’re badly written, unnecessary, or out of nowhere, you’ll likely get mockery at best and ire at worst.

If you’re writing for the over 10’s, morality has to be more complicated than good/bad, hero/villain. Real life is complicated and if you over-simplify things in your writing, it will fall flat.

Be aware of the impact of your writing choices on the real world. Don’t try to justify bigoted writing choices in universe, just don’t write like that. Sensitivity readers are your friend with regard to avoiding unfortunate choices.

You can acknowledge that a lot of teenagers have a concept of sex and sexuality that they’re exploring without sexualising them. If unsure, please, please err on the side of caution.

The best way to avoid tokenism is to have multiple well rounded minority characters.

Be careful to avoid harmful stereotypes especially if you’re not part of the minority depicted.

Race- and gender- blind casting is great in theory, but in a lot of cases you need to be careful with it to avoid unfortunate implications. (Yes, this is a vague at BBC’s The Watch, but it wouldn’t be a Lily Orchard inspired list without at least one instance of petty fandom bitching)

Don’t sideline minority characters in favour of a bland cishet white guy. Society has moved beyond the need for the “everyman” main character with the raw charisma of a plain biscuit.

If you’re writing something even slightly realistic, boobplates and battle bikinis need to go right out the window. The audience isn’t going to take your conflict seriously if your characters can’t take it seriously enough to even wear actually protective clothing.

But if it’s not serious, go ham with the equal opportunities ogling if that’s what you want. Remember it’s not sexism if people of every gender are going to battle in a thong. (Sidenote: there’s nothing sexier than a buff lady in full plate armour)

Write your story, not a knockoff of a popular story. Sincerity is a skill on its own.

Don’t make the stakes world ending for the sake of it. Concentrate on making your readers care and make the stakes feel real, whatever they are.

Know your genre, but don’t be constrained by it.

If your antagonist is more interesting and/or compelling than your protagonist, don’t be surprised if readers prefer them and root for them instead. Rethink and rewrite as needed.

Not everything needs a romantic subplot. If it serves the story or themes, great. If it doesn’t, don’t put it in just for the hell of it.

Healthy relationships aren’t boring unless you’re bad at writing them. Fiction doesn’t need to mirror real life exactly, but be aware of how you’re portraying relationships, especially if writing for a younger audience.

Watch and read things with your brain turned on. Real life is often the best inspiration there is.

Learn about the time(s) and place(s) you’re taking inspiration from and don’t rely on pop culture understanding and stereotypes.

“Historical accuracy” is not an excuse for a lack of characters of colour or depicting sexual violence against women. It is a sign you’ve ignored #20 and are generally a bit shit.

Let character dynamics evolve naturally. Sometimes it won’t go the way you expected, but it will end up better and easier than trying to hammer them back onto the planned track.

You don’t need to justify the existence of minorities in your work. People just exist.

Most people will forgive minor plot holes in a good story. There are always going to be some small gaps or plot contrivances, so concentrate on telling a good story and keep the inconsistencies to a minimum.

Stop procrastinating by reading or writing unnecessary internet lists and get on with your actual story.

[vivithefolle]

I'm a bit confused. You said in one post that you thoroughly dislike Hermione and that you had no respect for her at all. Yet ... you like Romione? idk, it seems contradictory tbh. I like when Romione shippers acknowledge her flaws and messed up moments but when someone that dislike and even hate her character that much ships Romione and I see them posting about them and calling them "cute" just seems weird

I’ll share with you my whole thought process so you can understand where I’m coming from:

Itty-bitty Vivi who read Harry Potter for the first time (at 13/14, so not so itty-bitty I guess, oops): Woaaah Hermione and Ron yaay!!! They're awesome I love them! They're my OTP always and forever!! Best thing to happen in Harry Potter!! JKR is a genius!

Slightly less itty-bitty Vivi discovering the Harry Potter fandom online (thankfully years after the ship wars, else I probably wouldn't have survived): Why is there so much hate towards Ron? And why are people so opposed to Romione?? It was meant to be since the first book! Or, okay, the second book is when I realized it was gonna happen, but still! Oh well, here is a fic where Hermione berates Ron for everything and he is the only one actually working for their relationship. Cool, more Romione!

Even less itty-bitty Vivi starting her own Tumblr and going around, adding her grain of salt to debates and talking about stuff: Yeah! Ron is great! He's done bad things of course but Hermione has done her fair share of bad things too! Actually, now that I'm rereading the books, I'm reminded of this person I used to call a friend, who was quite smart and cultured but would often be very harsh to me because they claimed it was “for your own good" and “because I'm more mature than you"… I still wanted to be around them, because they were just so smart and passionate, but we often rowed and eventually they really just went too far and tried to make ME out to be the bad guy and most people believed them because they had a reputation as someone cool and logical while I was known for being emotional… wait, what the fuck, that's… that's exactly what happens in the fandom with Ron and Hermione! What the fuck, was I Ron? Admired their intelligence, praised and supported them, fell in love even but was met with scorn and open disdain?!… no, no, come on. Hermione wasn't that bad.

Vivi rereading Half-Blood Prince (and no, this wasn't about the canaries, but about what Hermione was doing after): Oh my god she was that bad.

Vivi as she ponders alternately: Wait, what about JK Rowling? What does she think about all that? What was her intention, what did she want to accomplish with the characters? I know books belong to their readers but if I want as objective an analysis as possible I must try to understand her thought process while she wrote.

Vivi learning about a staple of British literature called “literary alchemy”: The quarreling couple!! Sulfur and Mercury, the Red King and the White Queen, who must marry for the story to end happily!! And their union is represented by… a rose!! Oh my god, that is brilliant, that is so cool! Romione was ALWAYS going to happen, I knew it! Ha!

Vivi discovering the “[Ron] needed to make himself worthy of Hermione” quote: Wha… but… what? Worthy? As if Hermione was some sort of precious trophy or whatever? What the hell? Wait, Ron had to make himself worthy of her but Hermione didn't have to make herself worthy of him? Is it because Ron is the boy or some shit like that??

Vivi going through JK Rowling's interviews and finding sexism and double-standards galore: Yep, it's because he's the boy. And that bit about Hermione being based off herself when she was younger… ouch. And to top it off the scriptwriter pretty much worshipped Hermione…

Vivi rereading the books again: Is it just me, or does Ron hardly ever get any praise or acknowledgement from the adult characters? Meanwhile Harry and Hermione get stuff like “as good as Charlie Weasley" or “brightest witch of her age"! And, damn, I used to side with Hermione because I love cats, but she was completely awful in POA! She apologized but then the plot made her out to be right even then?? And I always thought her Yule Ball entrance was kinda over-the-top, but damn if that's not compensating for something! Also what the hell, I get that Harry is suffering and all but will someone PLEASE pay attention to the fact that Ron is being bullied BY A FOURTH OF THE STUDENT BODY AND NOBODY SEEMS EVEN REMOTELY CONCERNED????? Also what the hell is wrong with the sixth book, I never liked it much but it's like it's trying to make every character look bad, wtf?? And, and, holy shit I never noticed but Ron was asking legit questions during the Horcrux Hunt debate but Harry kept deflecting or mocking him but it's still Ron who had to apologize in the end??? And I've read a whole post about how Hermione punching Ron is the appropriate reaction for a very small child and not a supposedly “mature" character, and that Harry had to SHIELD RON FROM HER, oh my god?? It's… oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with JK Rowling?

Vivi, in denial: Well, Harry Potter is decidedly not a romance. It's about love, but romantic love is quite far down the priority list when it comes to it. JKR has herself confessed that she wasn't too good at writing romance, and I don't blame her because writing romance is hard. But I did enjoy Romione! When I was little I saw it coming from a mile away, granted I was already savvy in literature but that must have been because she was doing something right! And then the sixth book happened… the sixth book which… which was released after the Harry Potter movies were being filmed, wasn't it?

Vivi looking up the timelines: Oh my god. Oh my god it's even worse, the movies were being discussed before Goblet of Fire came out. Come to think of it, I always found that the Trio felt… different, after Prisoner of Azkaban. Harry and Ron especially felt like they had gotten dumber? And Hermione was suddenly explaining everything when exposition used to be split between her and Ron…

Vivi, in mourning: So that's what happened. Ron ended up being shortchanged to make Hermione look better, because Rowling was fonder of Hermione than she was of Ron, and the scriptwriter too come to think of it. Curse you, Steve Kloves!!!

Vivi, who is nothing if not what Pokémon fans call a nostalgiafag: But… but… yeah, it sucks that Ron was shortchanged, and actually yeah it's a freaking travesty and I WILL freaking spread the world about this, mark my words, but, but I still… I can't help it, when Hermione “looked up at Ron and her frostiness seemed to melt" I melt too. When Ron compliments Hermione or tries to take care of her as much as he can I… it still does something to me, I still find myself rooting for them even if I know there's the awful sixth book and the stupid post-Locket beatdown. Their kiss, for God's sake, I've just realized that Ron may have swept Hermione off her feet physically, but it's Hermione who jumped him, you could say Hermione metaphorically swept Ron off his feet!! God damn it, that's good, that's so good!

Vivi, at war with herself: No, I can't let myself be blinded by nostalgia!! The facts are that Hermione shows borderline abusive - even actually abusive - behaviour, this can't be denied! I don't want to root for an abusive relationship! I don't want to root for a relationship that relies on my favourite character being dumbed down to work!!!

Vivi, about to uncover the secrets of the universe: … wait a second. I don't have to.

Vivi, having an epiphany: Reading Solstice Muse's Romione fanfics gives me such happiness because she just gets the characters! She doesn't portray Hermione as perfect and never fucking up, and she always treats what happens to Ron with respect… Well, especially since she can't play them off as a joke since she often makes Ron the POV character. But, yeah! I can still like Romione… if it's well-written. Which, well, isn't the case in the original books… at least, isn't the case anymore after Rowling's bias got the best of her. Even though they do have their great moments.

Vivi, finding purpose in her life: I am going to spread awareness. I am going to tell the world. Fuck, just rereading the books, I've noticed how blatant the favouritism is and how unbalanced it can be. No wonder the fandom seems to collectively scoff at Ron - the books themselves do whenever it's convenient for them! The fandom plays favourites, because the author herself played favourites, and the worst part is that she didn't even realize it! Imagine you spend your life getting into traumatic situations out of love for your friends who always receive compassion and validation for their feelings about said traumas, but YOUR trauma is hardly touched upon and in the rare case it is, it's only to be mocked or used against you… Fuck! You're a piece of work, JKR! And the fandom just swallows it whole like a bunch of lobotomized snakes! Screw it! Screw it, I'm going to say it like it is, and I'm going to say it LOUDLY! People are going to hear about what Ron goes through and we'll see if Harry and Hermione look like the only ones worthy of therapy then!!

Present day Vivi, as she scrolls through the (heavily filtered) Romione tag on AO3: Ugh, another Drarry… and another… and another… oh, a Hinny-centric fic for a change, cool but I'm looking for more Romione than that, sorry. Gah, why is it that Romione appears as a secondary ship everywhere but they can't get their own stories? I've just seen a Snupin come up for God's sake! Oh, finally, a full Romione!! *clicks* … … … awww that was so sweet. Kudos! Okay back to the search… oh, another one!! *clicks* … … … it's Ron-bashing. It's Ron-bashing and it's not tagged Ron-bashing and that's why it showed up in my search AND I'M GOING TO FREAKING RIOT-

[daeneryswhitehorse]

Dany hate throughout the years.

( This is base on a reply I made in post create by @yendany . I also want to precise that it is only my perspective of the fandom as a dany stan, other people probably have a different opinion of what was going on. )

I came in the asoiaf/got fandom in 2011, when the show first came out. I fell in love with dany on my first watch and still like her after reading the books. I started to get involved in the fandom because I wanted to learn more about her.

I didn't know tumblr at the time so I was on westeros.org. The mad queen dany theory was already a thing, mostly for the persons who didn't like that dany could be azor ahai and not one of the male character. But the forum still liked her for her baddass moments in asos or her portrayal in the first season of got.

Everything changed when adwd came out. The incels in this site really didn't liked dany having sex with daario after rejecting jorah/quentyn. They also didn't understood her plot, were tired of her staying in Essos or not interacting with main pov character. It was enough for them to think she was boring.

From then on, there were a lot of bad take of her character. Grrm wanting to talk about the consequences of her mistakes and her decision of staying in meereen was understood as dany being dumb and incompetent as a queen. People made fun of her long list of titles and thought it make her look arrogant. They claimed she was nothing without her dragon, in contrast to male character like stannis. Or not a true warrior because she spend her battle hiding in her tent, unlike stannis or jon who fight with swords. Or that she didn't car about the common people, because she try to negociate with the meereeness nobles. Most of those claimed exist to prove why character like Jon or Stannis would be azor ahai or the true king of Westeros.

After season 3 of the show came out, a lot of people were rightfully offended by the final scene with daenerys where she surf on a sea of brown people. A lot of fans start seeing Dany as a white savior in both books and show, and a lot of essay were about how how her storyline was rooted in racist orientalist ideas. If you were a person of color and still stan her, it was probably because of internalized racism.

Before this season, feminist critized the butchering of most of dany storyline, like they did with other female characters. But none was as talk about then Sansa's, because the most popular female character like Dany, Arya and Brienne were seen as the cash grab of the show. It was considered more important to defend her in particular, and liking Sansa over them was seen as resistance act against D&D misogyny.

The intellectual part of the fandom really went out of their way in defending her. They liked her because she was a gateway to the political part of the story in King's Landing and the Vale. They didn't like how some fans victim-blamed her for the abuse she suffered with the Lannister, and praised the fact she didn't end up with stockolm syndrome like Dany or Theon. "Not everyone can be an Arya" did they said, as they wanted people to acknowledged she was the more relatable point of view and how her traditional feminity shouldn't be put down. They emphasis a lot on her kindness, her emphatie, or her observational skills but and said those qualities were unique to her and are what separate her of the rest of the cast. She was the representation of humanity in this crapsack world. And after outsmarting Littlefinger would probably be rewarded with an important political position and would be one of the builder of the new world after the apocalypse.

All of this probably wasn't meant to be interprete as hate toward other female and some of the male characters, but it sure did for the Sansa stan! Who would then create their entire defense meta around putting down any character they found and upliftting her above them. Their favorite target was Arya, but you could found from time to time one on Dany. I remember someone defending Sansa innocence in trusting Cersei in the first book, by emphasing on her age and naivety, and putting down dany for not knowing mirri maz durr would get revenge on her khalassar.

Talking about Dany, the intellectual part of the fandom didn't really like her. I mean they didn't hate her, and didn't diminish her importance in the story, but she clearly wasn't a fan favorite.

There was two angle in their analysis of daenerys: the political leader and the messiah.

For the first part, they were trying to define daenerys position in the story, and came to the conclusion she was the destroyer of the old world. In their point of view, dany didn't free the slaves in asos for pure reason but because she couldn't pay for an army, and then didn't know how to build a new economy, leading to the horrors in astapor in adwd and her failure in maintaining peace in meereen. For them, Dany is unable to control her emotion and confuse revenge with justice. They also think she is an incompetent queen who make decision on a whim and never listen to her adviser. Her relationship with Daario represent her want for easy solution through war, wich she embrace at the end of adwd. When she can't remember Hazzea name, it meant innocent would die in her violent path in twow. Because of this, the expression "the path of hell is paved with good intention" became popular to define her arc from asos to beyond.

For the second part, they were clearly interressed by the mystical part of her story. Dany has a lot of prophecy around her that can be used to determined the next plotlines post adwd. For some reason, they pushed their own obssession with it on Daenerys, who they now believed is blinded by her own destiny. They claimed she think she is the hero of story and is unable to see when she does something wrong. This until she will blow up King's Landing in ados. This would push her toward her true destiny in the fight against the others where she will sacrifice herself for the greater good.

And lets not talk about the weird part of the fandom who are obssessed with deconstruction and who would only acknowledge dany as azor ahai reborn if it meant the hero is actually the true villain of the story, and the Others misunderstood victims.

2015 arrive as well as season 5 of got. This season was so controversial it manage to divided the fandom in three.

The first one were book purist who were disguted by the total butchering of affc/adwd plotline to replace them with offensive mess, and decided to stop watching the show and focus on the books. While some of them were dany friendly, they all seem to favor character like Sansa, Stannis, Brienne, the Lannisters, or the Martells. A lot of effort were put into their metas to uplift their book plotline and personality above their show counterpart.

The second part is similar to the first one, exept they didn't stop watching the show but decided to view each season through critical lense to try to understand the sexism and racism of D&D. They were mostly Sansa and Martell stan.

Both of those point of view were seen as too radical and annoying by the dudebro show apologist. Being a Martell and Sansa stan also become a sign of being a woke feminist, a book purist and a show anti.

The third part of the fandom decided that the failure of season 5 was the responsability of Grrm for not finishing his books in time, and that the show writer had run out of material and were forced to improvised. Plus the book plots were too complex and boring to be adapted, they had to simplify them. And they were also given futur plot point by Grrm that could explain some of the controversial decision this season. Like Sansa wedding with Ramsay, it was probably made because the character would end up in the North in one of the next books.

Thoses three point of view are important to understand why when the theory saying dany is a villain not a hero became more popular, dany stan were pretty isolated.

And why did this theory became more popular? Well it's a mix of all thoses perception of daenerys that I mention above but mostly because of the peoples who decided that dany in season 5 was Joffrey.02. Like I say there were people who thought that D&D were now working with futur plot point given by Grrm. And since dany storyline was read as one of a white savior, and the fandom believed Grrm can't do no wrong, and dany did some stuff this season they disapproved of, they decided it meant dany should be seen as a villain. And in a way, it manage to reconciliate the feminist anti racist and the pro D&D point of view , now united in hating daenerys. It allowed them to still trust the show, because it meant it was not D&D and grrm who were racist but dany, and it made them feel smart for having figured out this big plot point. Plus a chunk of the show!jon stan decide the parallel between them this season meant he would become the true hero of the story. Because they thought janos execution was more honorable than mossador's, and jon fight against the wight walker to defend his brothers and the free folks was contrast with dany running away on drogon.

But there were people who didn't like dany and didn't think she would become a villain. Thoses people were feminist who thought daenerys, as the face of the show, was the embodiement of D&D fake feminism responsible of the ruined of character like Sansa or the Martells. Sansa in particular because they felt the show hated traditional feminity which is something Dany was not, which was what allegedly gave her more priviledge and love by the writer and fandom. When season 6 came out, they criticized the double standard between Cersei and Dany, where the former was demonized for burning a Church and the later was celebrate for burning the khals in their holy place. Obviously, the criticism of orientalism and racism within her story didn't make her very popular with feminist.

Season 6 end, and the sansa fandom decide to ship their fav with Jon Snow. But unfortunalty for them, it was obvious that jonerys would become a thing in later season.

Now Sansa was pretty well beloved by the fandom. Like I said earlier, the intellectual part of the fandom and the sansa defense squad really went out of their way to give a better image of the character, wich was fairly popular now that show sansa had a more active role. Plus the feminist adore her!

On the other hand, daenerys was seen as either a villain in the making, or the representation of the show fake feminism and racism. At this point dany stan were considered the dumbass of the fandom.

So, what happen when the jonerys vs jonsa shipping war happen? Well the jonerys shipper were seen as the big bully who victimized the poor sansa stan. Since in their point of view, dany stan were racist people who can't read, and the sansa stan were the woke book purist. Since Sansa was the underdog unfairly hated by the dudebro of the fandom, but beloved by the intellectuals. And Dany was the popular girl who got dumb stan and is only loved by pop feminism. People were naturally more incline into believing jonsa shippers as the victime of this war.

Even when the sansa stan were saying the most heinous things about dany and other female character to prop her up. Even when they were using the villain dany theory, the dark!dany theory, the white savior theory that had now become about dany being a colonizer and imperialist, or the ableist mad queen dany theory wich they backed up by diagnosis her with all the real life disorder they hated. It was seen as normal and dany stan just can't handle criticism. Even when multiple blog were created on tumblr to hate on daenerys which had almost no equivalent for the sansa/jonsa fandom, the jonerys shippers were the bad guys.

Jonerys was made canon in season 7. The intellectual part of the fandom either accept it but thought it was a cliche uninspiring ship, or they defend it for the themes but didn't see it as a complex relationship like jaime with cersei or brienne. The feminist, particulary the one who hated house targaryen, were shocked that grrm could romantize incest. And obviously, the jonsa hated it, and there ugliness started to be notice more with the weird theory they builted, like political!jon. The Jonerys fandom were finally getting some justice.

Plus more big name essayists in the fandom started debunking of the baseless incel hate dany receive post adwd. Dany had now the right to sleep with Daario, Jorah was a creep, Dany rejected Quentyn for peace, and Drogo being Dany rapist was getting more believed by the fandom.

During the hiatus before season season 8, @rainhadaenerys wrote down a lot of meta as a defense against the worst claimed that the fandom made about Dany. It gave hoped to dany stan, but it was crushed by season 8 with D&D deciding to make the mad queen theory canon the worst way possible.

Now the feminist and the intellectual part of the fandom are both defending daenerys. But there is the dominant idea that certain event of the last season could happen in the books, like dany burning King's Landing. And the possibility of her going insane should be accepted by the dany stan, and if not, it mean we are not real asoiaf fans.

[nataandreev]

Fragments from “Sister Outsider” Essays & Speeches by Audre Lorde

“Sister Outsider” was probably one of the most soul-fucking-searching book I ever read in my life. It made me question what I stand for so many times, that it made me sick to my stomach. I realized that I am not that good at this self-reflective-shit.

That my efforts of doing better are not anywhere close to where they should be. Audre Lorde taught me through her works that I got a lot of work to do. Like a lot. Her truth cuts deep. She has no mercy and her opinions are raw. They are hard to swallow. There were moments when I had to pause, because I wasn’t fully understanding it and weird enought I finished to read it today, February 18, 2020, on her birthday. Audre would’ve turn today 86 yo. Here are just a few fragments from the book, but, please, if you can read the whole thing. 

Biography:

Audre Lorde is an American writer, feminist, womanist, librarian, and civil rights activist. As a poet, she is best known for technical mastery and emotional expression, as well as her poems that express anger and outrage at civil and social injustices she observed throughout her life. Her poems and prose largely deal with issues related to civil rights, feminism, lesbianism, illness and disability, and the exploration of black female identity via Wikipedia.

⁃ Poetry Is Not a Luxury

We are all more blind to what we have than to what we have not. The white fathers told us: I think therefore I am. The Black mother within each of us-the poet-whispers in our dreams: I feel, therefore I can be free. ⁃ The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action For within living structures defined by profit, by linear power, by institutional dehumanization, our feelings were not meant to survive. Kept around as unavoidable adjuncts or pleasant pastimes, feelings were expected to kneel to thought as women were expect to kneel to men. But women have survived. As poets. And there are no new pains. We have felt them all already. We have hidden that fact in the same place where we have hidden our power. They surface in our dreams, and it is our dreams that point the way to freedom. In becoming forcibly and essentially aware of my mortality, and of what I wished and wanted for my life, however short it might be, priorities and omissions became strongly etched in a merciless light, and what I most regretted were my silences. And I began to recognize a source of power within myself that comes from the knowledge that while it is most desirable not to be afraid, learning to put fear into a perspective gave me great strength. “Tell them about how you’re never really a whole person if you remain silent, because there’s always that one little piece inside you that wants to be spoken out, and if you keep ignoring it, it gets madder and madder and hotter, and if you don’t speak it out one day it will punch you in the mouth from the inside.” Because the machine will try to grind you into dust anyway, whether or not we speak. We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and our selves are wasted, while our children are distorted, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid. ⁃ Scratching the Surface: Some Notes on Barriers to Women and Loving The above forms of human blindness (racism, sexism, heterosexism and homophobia) stem from the same root - an inability to recognize the notion of difference as a dynamic human force, one which is enriching rather than threatening to define self, when there are shared goals. This kind of action is a prevalent error among oppressed peoples. It is based upon the false notion that there is only a limited and particular amount of freedom that must be divided up between us, with the largest and juiciest pieces of liberty going as spoils to the victor or the strongest. So instead of joining together to fight for more, we quarrel between ourselves for a larger slice of the one pie. ⁃ Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power* In order to perpetuate itself, every oppression must corrupt or distort those various sources of power within the culture of oppressed that can provide energy for change. The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings. It is an internal sense of satisfaction to which, once we experienced it, we know we can aspire. The principal horror of any system which defines the good in terms of profit rather than in terms of human need, or which defines human need to the exclusion of the psychic and emotional components of that need - the principal horror of such a s system is that it robs our work of its erotic value, it’s erotic power and life appeal and fulfillment. Such a system reduces work to a travesty of necessities, a duty by which we earn bread or oblivion for ourselves and those we love. But this is tantamount to blinding a painter and then telling her to improve her work, and to enjoy the act of painting. It is not only next to impossible, it is also profoundly cruel. That self-connection shared is a measure of the joy which I know myself to be capable of feeling, a reminder of my capacity for feeling. And that deep and irreplaceable knowledge of my capacity for joy comes to demand from all of my life that it be lived within the knowledge that such satisfaction is possible, and does not have to be called marriage , nor god , nor an afterlife. ⁃ Sexism: An American Disease in Blackface Black feminism is not white feminism in blackface. Black women have particular and legitimate issues which affect our lives as Black women, and addressing those issues does not make us any less Black. Now I am sure there are still some Black men who marry white women because they feel a white woman can better fit the model of “femininity” set forth in this country. As Black women and men, we cannot hope to begin dialogue by denying the oppressive nature of male privilege. And if Black makes choose to assume that privilege for whatever reason- raping,brutalizing, and killing Black women- then ignoring these acts of Black male oppression within our communities can only serve our destroyers. One oppression does not justify another. As people, we most certainly must work together. It would be shortsighted to believe that Black men alone are to blame for the above situations in a society dominated by white male privilege. But the Black male consciousness must be raised to the realization that sexism and woman-hating are critically dysfunctional to his liberation as Black man because they arise out of the same constellation that engenders racism and homophobia. ⁃ Man Child: A Black Lesbian Feminist’s Response Men who are afraid to feel must keep women around to do their feeling for them while dismissing us for the same supposedly “inferior “ capacity to feel deeply. But in this way also, men deny themselves their own essential humanity, becoming trapped in dependency and fear. “The next time you come in here crying ...,” and I suddenly caught myself in horror. This is the way we allow the destruction of our sons to begin in the name of protection and to ease our own pain. My son get beaten up? I was about to demand that he buy that first lesson in the corruption of power, that might makes right I could hear my cell beginning to perpetuate the age old distortions about what strength and ready bravery really are. It is hard for our children to believe that we are not only potent as it is for us to know it, as parents. But that knowledge is necessary as the first step in the reassessment of power as something other than might, age, privilege, or the lack of fear. It is important to step for a boy, whose societal destruction begins when he’s forced to believe that he can only be strong if he doesn’t feel, or if he wins. ⁃ An interview: Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich They were very streetwise, but they had done very little work with themselves as Black women. They had done it only in relation to, against, whitey. The enemy was always outside. I did that course in the same way I did all the others, which was learning as I went along, asking the hard questions, not knowing what was coming next. The learning process is something you can incite, literally incite, like a riot. And then, just possibly, hopefully, it goes home, or on. I knew, as I had always known, that the only way you can head people off from using who you are against you is to be honest and open first, to talk about yourself before they talk about you. It wasn’t even courage. Speaking up was a protective mechanism for myself. The Black mother who is the poet exists in everyone of us. Now when males or patriarchal thinkers (whether male or a female) reject a combination, then we are truncated. Rationality is not necessary. It serves the chaos of knowledge. It serves feeling. It servers to get from this place to that place. But if you don’t honor those places, then the road is meaningless. Because we cannot fight old power in old power terms only. The only way we can do it is by creating another whole structure that touches every aspect of our existence, at the same time as we are resisting. There are different choices facing Black and white women in life, certain specifically different pitfalls surrounding us because of our experiences, our color. Not only are some of the problems that face us dissimilate, but some of the entrapments in the weapons used to neutralizers are not the same. I wish we could explore this more , about you and me, but also in general. I think it needs to be talked about, written about it: the differences in alternatives or choices we are offered as black and white women. There is a danger of seeing it in an all or nothing way. I think it’s very complex thing done what women are constantly offer choices or the appearance of choices but also real choices that are undeniable. We don’t always perceive the difference between the two. But documentation does not help one perceive. At best it only analyzes the perception that at worst, it provides a screen by which to avoid concentrating on the court revelation, following it down to how it feels. Again, knowledge and understanding. They can function in concert, but they don’t replace each other. But I am not rejecting your need for documentation. I can document the road to Abomey for you, and true, you might not get there without that information. I can respect what you are saying. But once you get there, only you know why, what you came for, as you search for it and perhaps find it. So at certain stages that request documentation as a blinder, a questioning of my perceptions. Someone once said to me that I hadn’t documented the goddess in Africa, the woman bond that moves throughout The Black Unicorn. I had to laugh. I am a poet, not a historian. I’ve shared my knowledge, I hope. Now you go documented it, if you, if you wish. I was holding back because I had not asked myself the question: “Why is women loving women so frightening to black men unless they want to assume the white male position?” It was a question of how much I could bear, and of not realizing I could bear more than I thought I could at the time. It was also a question of how could I use that perception other than just in rage or destruction. What understanding begins to do is to make knowledge available for use, and that’s the urgency, that’s the push , that’s the drive. That you had to understand what you knew and also make it available to others. ⁃ Master’s Tools For women, the need and desire to nurture each other is not pathological but redemptive, and it is within that knowledge that our real power is rediscovered. It is this real connection which is so feared by a patriarchal world. Only within a patriarchal structure is maternity the only social power open to women. Interdependency between women is the way to a freedom which allows the I to be, not in order to be used, but in order to be creative. This is the difference between the passive be and the active being. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support. If white American feminist theory need not deal with the difference in oppressions, then how do you deal with the fact that the women who clean your houses and tend your children while you attend conferences on feminist theory are, for the most part, poor women and women of color? What is the theory behind racist feminism. The failure of academic feminists to recognize difference as a crucial strength is a failure to reach beyond the first patriarchal lesson. In our world, divide and conquer must become define and empower. In academic feminist circles, the answer to these questions is often, “We did not know who to ask.” But that is the same evasion of responsibility, the same cop-out, that keeps Black women’s art out of women’s exhibitions, Black women’s work out of most feminist publications except for the occasional “Special Third World Women’s Issue,” and Black women’s texts off your reading lists. But as Adrienne Rich pointed out in a recent talk, white feminists have educated themselves about such an enormous amount over the past ten years, how come you haven’t also educated yourselves about Black women and the difference between us-white and Black-when it is key to our survival as a movement? Women of today are still being called upon to stretch across the gap of male ignorance and to educate men as to our existence and our needs. This is an old and primary tool of all oppressors to keep the oppressed occupied with the master’s concerns. Now we hear that it is the task of women of Color to educate white women-in the face of tremendous resistance-as to our existence, our differences, our relative roles in our joint survival. This is a diversion of energies and a tragical repetition of racist patriarchal thought. Simone de Beauvoir once said: “It is in the knowledge of the genuine conditions of our lives that we must draw our strength to live and our reasons for acting.” Racism and homophobia are real conditions of all our lives in this place and time. I urge each one of us here to reach down into that deep place of knowledge inside herself and touch that terror and loathing of any difference that lives there. See whose face it wears. Then the personal as the political can begin to illuminate all our choices. ⁃ Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference Black and Third World people are expected to educate white people as to our humanity. Women are expected to educate men. Lesbians and gay men are expected to educate the heterosexual world. The oppressors maintain their position and evade responsibility for their own actions. There is a constant drain of energy which might be better used in redefining ourselves and devising realistic scenarios for altering the present and constructing the future. Too often , we pour the energy needed for recognizing and exploring difference into pretending those differences are insourmountable barriers, or that they do you not exist at all. The results in a voluntary isolation or false and treacherous connections. Either way, we did not develop tools for using human difference as a springboard for a creative change within our lives. We speak not of human difference but if human deviance. By and large within the women’s movement today, white women focus upon their oppression as women and ignore differences of race, sexual preference, class, and age. There is a pretense to a homogeneity of experience covered by the world sisterhood that does not in fact exist. Unacknowledged class differences rob women of each other’s energy and creative insight. By ignoring the past, we are encouraged to repeat its mistakes. The “generation gap” is an important social tool for any repressive society. If the younger members of a community view the older members as contemptible or suspect or excess, they will never be able to join hands and examine the living memories of the community nor ask the all important question, “Why?” This gives rise to a historical amnesia that keeps us working to invent the wheel every time we have to go to the store for bread. Ignoring the differences of race between women and the implications of those differences presents the most serious threat to the mobilization of women’s joint power. As white women ignore their built-in privilege of whiteness and define and woman in terms of their own experience alone then women of color become “other,” the outsider whose experience and tradition is too “alien” to comprehend. Refusing to recognize differences makes it impossible to see the different problems and pitfalls facing us as women. The tokenism that is sometimes extended to us is not an invitation to join power; our racial “otherness” is a visible reality that makes that quite clear. For white women there is a wider range of pretended choices and rewards for identifying with patriarchical power and its tools. Today, with the defeat of ERA, the tightening economy, and increased conservatism It is easier once again for white women to believe the dangerous fantasy that if you are good enough pretty enough sweet enough quite enough teach the children to behave hate the right people and married the right man then you will be allowed to coexist with patriarchy in relative peace at least until a man needs your job or the neighborhood rapist happens along and true unless one lives in loves in the trenches it is difficult to remember that the war against dehumanization is senseless. Some problems we share as women, some we do not. You fear your children will grow up to join the patriarchy and testify against you we fear our children will be dragged from a car and shut down in the street and you turn your backs up on the reasons why they’re dying. Within black communities where racism is a living reality, differences among us often seem dangerous and suspect. The need for unity is often misnamed as a need for homogeneity, and a black feminist vision mistaken for betrayal of our common interests as people. Because of the continuous battle against a racial erasure the black women and black men share, some black women still refused to recognize that we are also opressed as women and that sexual hostility against black women as practiced not only by the white racist society but implemented within our black communities as well. It is a disease striking the heart of black nation of hood and silence will not make it disappear. Exacerbated by racism and the pressures of powerlessness, violence against black women and children often becomes a standard within our communities, one by which manliness can be measured. But this woman-hating acts are rarely discussed as crimes against black women. “As long as male domination exists, rape will exist. Only women revolting and men made conscience of their responsibility to fight sexism can collectively stop rape.” - Kalamu ya Salaam, a black male writer Black women who once insisted that lesbianism was a white woman’s problem now insist that black lesbians are a threat to black nationhood, are consorting with the enemy, are basically on un-black. These accusations, coming from the very women to whom we look for deep and real understanding, have served to keep many black lesbians in hiding, caught between the racism of white women and the homophobia of their sisters. What are the particular details within each of our lives that can be scrutinized and altered to help bring about change? How do we redefine difference for all women? It is not our differences which separate women, but our reluctance to recognize those differences and to deal effectively with the distortion which have resulted from the ignoring and misnaming of those differences. All of us have had to learn to live or work Or coexist with men from our fathers on. We have recognized and negotiated this differences, even when this recognition only continued the old dominant/subordinate mode of human relationship, where the oppressed must recognize the masters’ difference in order to survive. But our future survival predicated upon our ability to relate within equality. As women we must root our internalize patterns of oppression within ourselves if we are to move beyond the most superficial aspects of social change. Now we must recognize differences among women who are our equals, neither inferior nor superior, and devise ways to each to others’ difference to enrich our visions and our joint struggles. ⁃ The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism Guilt and defensiveness are bricks in a wall against which we all flounder; they serve none of our futures. ⁃ Learning from the 60s When we disagreed with one another about the solution to a particular problem, we were often far more vicious to each other than to the originators of our common problem. We forget that the necessary ingredients needed to make the past work for the future is our energy in the present, metabolizing one into the other. Continuity does not happen automatically, nor is it a passive process. That is how I learned that if I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive. My poetry, my life, my work, my energies for struggle were not acceptable unless I pretended to match somebody’s else’s norm. I learned that not only couldn’t I succeed at that game, but the energy needed for that masquerade would be lost to my work. We are functioning under government ready to repeat in El Salvador and Nicaragua the tragedy of Vietnam, a government which stands on the wrong side of every single battle for liberation taking place upon this globe. Decisions to cut aid for the terminally eel, for the elderly, for dependent children, for food stamps, even school lunches, are being made by men with full stomachs who live in comfortable houses with two cars and umpteen tax shelters. None of them go hungry to bed at night. Recently, it was suggested that senior citizens be hired to work in atomic plants because they’re close to the end of their lives anyway. Revolution is not a one time event. It is becoming always vigilant for the smallest opportunity to make a genuine change in established, outgrown responses; for instants, it is learning to address each other’s difference with respect. You do not have to be me in order for us to fight alongside each other.I do not have to be you to recognize that they were Warriors are the same.what we must do is commit ourselves to some future that can include each other and to work toward that future it with the particular strength of our individual identities dot and the other in an order to do this, we must allow each other our differences at the same time as we recognize our sameness. ⁃ Eye to Eye: Black Women, Hatred and Anger It is easier to deal with the external manifestations of racism and sexism then it is to deal with the results of those distortions internalized within our consciousness of ourselves and one another. Anger - a passion of displeasure that may be excessive or misplaced but not necessarily harmful. Hatred - and emotional habit or attitude of mine in which aversion is coupled with ill will. Anger, used, does not destroy. Hatred does. Growing up, metabolizing hatred like a daily bread. Because I’m black, because I’m a woman, because I’m not black enough, because I am not some particular fantasy of a woman, because I AM. On such a consistent diet one can eventually come to value the hatred of one’s enemies more than one values the love of friends, for that hatred becomes the source of anger, and anger as a powerful fuel. Anger is useful to help clarify our differences, but in the long run, strength that is bred by anger alone as a blind fours which cannot create the future. It can only demolish the past. Such strength does not focus upon what lies ahead, but up on what lies behind, upon what created it - hatred. And hatred is a deathwish for the hated, not to a lifewish for anything else. For example: At this point in time, were racism to be totally eradicated from those middle range relationships between black women and white women, those relationships might become deeper, but they would still never satisfy our particular black woman’s need for one another, given our shared knowledge and traditions and history. There are two very different struggles involved here. One is the war against racism in white people, and the other is the need for black women to confront and wade through the racist constructs underlying our deprivation of each other. and this battles are not at all the same. Most of the black women I know think I cry too much, or that I am to public about it. I’ve been told that crying makes me seem soft and therefore of little consequence. As if our softness has to be the price we pay out for power, rather than simply the one that’s paid most easily and most often. “Don’t trust white people because they mean us no good and don’t trust anyone darker than you because they are hearts are as black as their faces.” (And where did that leave me, the darkest one?) it is painful even now to write it down. How many messages like that come down to all of us, and in how many different voices, how many different ways? And how can we expunge these messages from our consciousness without first recognizing what it was they were saying, and how destructive they were? When there is no connection at all between people, then anger is a way of bringing them closer together, of making contact. but when there is a great deal of connectedness that is problematic or threatening or acknowledged, then anger is a way of keeping people separate and putting distance between us. That’s because we sometimes rise to each other‘s defense against outsiders, we do not need to look at devaluation and dismissal among ourselves. Support against outsider is very different from cherishing each other. We refused to give up the artificial distances between us, or to examine all real differences for creative exchange. I am too different for us to communicate. Meaning, I must establish myself as not you. And the road to anger is paid with our unexpressed fear of each other’s judgment. ⁃ Grenada Revisited: An Interim Report This short, undeclared, and cynical weren’t against Granada is not a new direction for American foreign policy. It is merely a blatant example of 160 year old course of action called the Monroe doctrine. In its name America has invaded small Caribbean and Central American countries over and over again since 1823, cloaking this invasion is under a variety of names. 38 such invasion secured prior to 1917 before the Soviet Union even existed. I am only a relative. I must listen long and hard and ponder the implications of what I have heard, or be guilty of the same quick arrogance of the US government in believing their external solutions to Granados future.

[angiewang19]

thoughts on Parasite

It was way more anxiety than I signed up for. Regardless, the movie was a masterpiece. It was incredibly well executed, and every moment was riveting. More often that I’d like to admit, I was either 1) on my feet, jumping up and down or 2) squirming out of visceral discomfort and anxiety. 

After a while, I came to terms with the fact that I was just going to have no idea what was going to happen next. I think this kind of unpredictability is a recurring theme in the movie: having a plan is everything, yet it is also nothing. In particular, a scene that is seared into my memory is when the son and dad are sleeping in the gym after their apartment is flooded. The son asks his dad to explain the “plan” he mentioned earlier in the Parks’ basement, and the dad responds by saying that his plan is to have no plan at all: “You can't go wrong with no plans. We don't need to make a plan for anything.” 

Update after second viewing. This time around, I noticed that the poor family wrestling with their conscience, feeling guilty after their actions. We see this when the family is sitting in the living room, drinking. The dad inquires about Yoon, his predecessor, and wishes him well, and immediately after, the daughter becomes defensive. And after the dad deals with the ex-housekeeper and her husband in the basement, the three of them run away, and they are sleeping on the gym floor, the dad’s no-plan attitude is mechanism to absolve himself of guilt. Without a plan, no action can be considered deliberate (it just happens), so there is no need to feel guilty. In other words, everything is just an accident and so everything can be justified. 

Update after second viewing. I picked up on a lot more foreshadowing. When the family is drinking in the living room, they’re bantering about being rich and nice (by the way, I totally agree with the mom’s statement “she’s nice because she’s rich”). The mom also says that her husband is like a cockroach. When there’s light, it will run away and disappear immediately. That is exactly what happened after the birthday party (the metaphorical “light”). 

The movie’s most obvious commentary is about class/social inequality, a consequence of capitalism. The poor family’s immoral, fraudulent actions are driven by a desperate desire to survive. Obviously, this motivation to make enough money to improve their shitty living conditions evolves into ruthless greed. It’s fascinating because the film explores this issue in the context of these very poor people getting intimately involved in the lives of an extremely wealthy family. Nowadays, the growing divide between the “haves” and “have-nots” is not just in terms of money, but it is also in terms of physical space. So for the poor family to be laying underneath a table adjacent to a couch where the Parks are having sex (an uncomfortably close encounter between the poor and the rich here!) is an unexplored plot and a relatively novel concept, which is one way this film is incredibly innovative and thought-provoking. 

I also thought it was interesting that Bong Joon-ho mentioned that while audiences typically view the poor family as the metaphorical Parasites, the wealthy Parks are Parasites as well. They depend on their poor counterparts to get from place to place, to eat, and to learn because they literally don’t know how to do anything. And so because both parties are Parasites, they end up eating each other alive. 

I also think that beyond the obvious commentary about wealth disparity, the film also hints at some sexism in our society. Mrs. Park and Mr. Park have a stiff dynamic. On one hand, Mrs. Park manages everything in their safe bubble and loves her children (perhaps so much that it blinds her from having an accurate perception of reality). She’s a dutiful wife and to some extent, is scared of her husband. On the other hand, Mr. Park leaves the bubble more often to make money but doesn’t feel strongly towards his family. Perhaps, settling down, getting married, and having children is the socially acceptable thing to do for someone of his status, but it is clear that he doesn’t care much about that (as evidenced by when the dad/chauffeur asks him whether he loves his wife, and he hesitates and says that it can be called “love”). There are lots of red flags before everything blows up, but Mrs. Park fails to see them because she sees money as the solution to all of her problems in her bubble. Thus, I wonder if Mrs. Park was more open to her husband about everything that was happening, rather than creating the facade that she had everything at home “taken care of.” At that point, perhaps they would have been able to put their brains together and figure out what was going on. I think in particular her belief that she hired a housekeeper with tuberculosis could have easily been debunked by someone who had a slightly clearer view of the fact that the family was on a weird, domino-like hiring streak. What ifs and what could be in analyses always bother me, but I feel like this is a reasonable argument, given that Mr. Park seemed to have some buried, unexplored suspicions, especially with the dad’s stench. This discussion suggests that their alpha-male dynamic is a part of their downfall, as the Parks most definitely do not come out of this unscathed. 

The symbols were also quite interesting. 

The rain (starting from the first driver offering to drop the sister off at her home, rather than the train station, since it was “going to rain”) foreshadowed the shitshow to come. It is clear that camping doesn’t make sense in the rain, so the Parks would be coming home sooner, rather than later. My dad also believes that rain represents the purging of all that is horrible, so it also foreshadows the bloody fight between the ex-housekeeper/her husband and the poor family. It’s also interesting to note that before the birthday party, Mrs. Park says that there is no pollution that day, since the rain washed it out the night before. Little did she know... (perhaps, we can interpret this as the rain, which represents human vices like vengeance and anger, falling from the sky/heavens to the earth that mortals inhabit) 

I didn’t notice the staircase motif, but my dad sure did. It represents ascent and descent of the social/class hierarchy. The poor family lives in a basement, while the Parks live on a hill. And even within the Parks’ home, there are lots of staircases. 

The Parks’ little boy’s obsession with Native Americans. It probably has something to do with when he thought he saw a ghost when he was six, and indigenous people are known for their beliefs in the supernatural. But it’s also pretty fascinating that he was blatantly appropriating their culture, living in a teepee and wearing headdresses. Bong Joon-ho said that this was commentary on how easily cultures can be examined simplistically. 

The character setup is also interesting. The Park family consists of Mrs. Park, Mr. Park, daughter, and son. The poor family consists of mom, dad, daughter, son. They are mirrors of each other. And then we have ex-housekeeper and her husband, who ultimately blow up the conflict that has been suppressed for so long. 

And the stone... still mysterious. Why did he let it tumble down the stairs? Lots of symbolism to unpack there. 

Update after second viewing. I think the stone is a typical superstitious, good luck token. In the epilogue, as he puts the stone back in the water, he says that he “has a plan.” He transitions from believing in superstition (fate) to gaining agency, in the form of a plan. 

Mr. Park always says that he likes servants who “don’t cross the line.” Lines are a common motif throughout the movie. When Mr. and Mrs. Park are having sex and the poor family is under the table, it is shot so that the table is the line between the rich and the poor. 

Also, I love that the movie forces the audience to empathize with everyone. In the beginning, we’re rooting for the poor family. We want them to eke out a better living, and while their means to do so are problematic, anything to reduce their squalor seems like a big win. But once we realize that they’re asking for too much, we pity the Parks and are frustrated by the fact that they’re being manipulated. In particular, I find the first housekeeper to be a fascinating character (her expression as she walks down the street after she’s fired is worth a thousand words). It was such a shocker that she was sneaking food to her husband down in the bunker -- I did not see that one coming. She and her husband are poor and stressed, and her husband is interesting since he was ripped off by loan sharks... yet she puts up such a facade. She was the first person we (the audience) met when we enter the estate for the first time, and she’s fiercely loyal (to both the Parks and her husband), but she’s also cunning and secretive in way that feels deeply uncomfortable. Thinking about this more, every character in the movie is leading a double life, including all of the Parks. 

Looking forward to watching this again to catch more interesting gems. 

[captainhollyshort]

Like, you guys know I love a good gender swap, but Judi Dench as root undermines a good part of the plot. Fairy society has a massive sexism problem that is really well addressed in the books! Holly is the first female LEPRecon officer and Root is unfairly extra hard on her for it! Holly and Root have a difficult antagonistic but underneath loving releationship that turns into a kind of father/daughter thing! I am all for gender swapping but the moment I heard Judi Dench was in it I was like “please don’t make her root” because it really over-simplifies the plot. And you could still get that in there without devoting too much screen time to it. Judi Dench is awesome, 

And then I was like, yay, at least they cast Artemis as a child! Who’s h-

what

WHAT

what

So all the other fairies get to be played by adult women but Holly is played by a child... for what reason? So they can get Artemis together with her? Mate if that was your goal just age up Artemis that seems like the easy option as much as I wanted him to be an actual kid, this is just gross and weird and ridiculous and I’m sure this kid is wonderful and talented and lovely but there is no way this is going to be the Holly of the books, aka pretty much my favourite character ever.

And I’m not one for blind destruction of films before they’re even out, but this is just ridiculous and makes me certain this is another Last Airbender that I’m not even going to watch because it will bastardize the source material.

Bye I’m out. I’m going home to my family for Christmas tomorrow and I’m going to pick up my AF books, take them back to where I’m living now, and build a fort so nobody can mention this stupid movie to me.