#thoroughly repugnant

[thestarsarecool]

Who The Hell Does RINGO STARR Think He Is?

Tom Hibbert, Q, June 1992

He was The Lovable One who cracked his daft mop-top jokes for The Queen. The Fab With The Big Nose who you could take home to meet yer mum and yer dad. But no more. For he just experienced a nasty charm by-pass and suffered a sudden humourectomy when Tom Hibbert innocently enquired...

RINGO, WHY do you wear two rings on each hand?

"Because I can't fit them through my nose."

Beethoven figures in one of your songs. What do you think of Beethoven?

"He's great. Especially his poetry."

How did you find America?

"We went to Greenland and made a left turn."

But that was nearly 30 years ago, innocent times when the small one – Ringo, how tall are you? "Two feet, nine inches" – with the extended nose sat with the other three before the press of the world and cracked his mop-top jokes, playing the clown and acting the goat, The Lovable One, the one you could take home to meet yer mum and yer dad. In The Great Throne Room at Buckingham Palace, October 26, 1965, the Queen asked the "Fabs" how long they had been together and, quick as a flash, came Starkey's reply. "40 years!" The wag.

It is now much later, April 1992, but that "natural" Scouse "wit" of olden times remains intact: The Lovable One clambers aboard a podium at London's Dorchester Hotel and drily announces: "My name is Ringo Starr." The assembled members of the press laugh loudly at the pithy sally; a female reporter from Belgium, in the excitement of the moment, squeaks "Yah!" It is quite like old tunes...

We are gathered here today to hear exciting news. Ringo is about to release a new LP and it is called Time Takes Time. Furthermore, his new amusingly-named All-Starr Band – featuring Dave Edmunds and Joe Walsh and Todd Rundgren and diminutive trampoline champion Nils Lofgren – is touring Europe in the summer. Cameras clack and the PR woman sternly warns us to limit our questions to "the present and the future" (ie nothing about them – The Beatles – and nothing about alcoholism, if you please). And so the probing begins as a girl from Sweden asks the occasional drummer why he is starting his tour in Sweden: "Why not?" Uproarious laughter. And a girl from Italy asks him why he is finishing his tour in Italy: "Crazy question. It may be a surprise to you, lady, but I am a musician." Hoots. And a girl from somewhere equally foreign asks him if he is "reaching out to the new generation" – "You had zis Thomas Ze Tank Engine, no?" – and he says he's just playing his kit now because he is a musician and he likes to feel the "love" flowing from an audience because it's in his blood. Somewhere along the way we learn that Ringo has absolutely no intention whatsoever of playing with George Harrison at tonight's Albert Hall concert in aid of The Natural Law Party because what Ringo's doing now is promoting his album which is really jolly good and everything so everybody should buy it...

TWO HOURS later, upstairs in a hotel suite, Ringo Starr is staring at me through his darkened spectacles. The expression on his somewhat wizened face is somewhat sour. "This record deserves to be a Number 1," he is saying. "It's a fine album." The ready quips are not dropping from the lips of The Lovable One this afternoon. His impressive nose is twitching in irritation. I have made a dreadful mistake. I have dared to ask him about...them.

He had entered the room in seemingly stony mood. He had thrust himself down upon a sofa and had glowered. "Is this yer first time?" he had muttered. Er, come again, Mr Starkey? "Is this yer first time?" My first time what? My first time in a posh suite at The Dorchester Hotel or what? "Just joking," he had muttered bemusingly. My opening question had been designed to be one of the most psychologically challenging – nay, disturbing – ever to be posed within the context of a rock interview. It was this: Have you, Mr Starr, or have you not, felt a twinge of pity ever for Pete Best (The Good-Looking One who was booted out in favour of Ringo, of whom John Lennon was once heard to remark, "When I feel my head start to swell, I look at Ringo and know perfectly well we're not supermen")? There was a pause containing the faintest twist of menace. "Crazy question," The Nice One murmured, adding a withering stare for good measure.

"Did. I. Ever. Feel. Sorry. For. Pete. Best?" Yes, that was the enquiry. "No. Why should I? I was a better player than him. That's how I got the job. It wasn't on no personality. It was that I was a better drummer and I got the phone call. I never felt sorry for him. A lot of people have made careers out of knowing, er...The Beatles."

He has said it. He has uttered that word, that thing that we are not supposed to mention because Ringo has "moved on" and is living for today and for tomorrow and not for, in the word of his old mucker in the rhythm section, yesterday. He has said "Beatles". So can we talk about The Beatles, then? Ringo shrugs his shoulders. "Sure," he grunts. So tell me about your image. You were The Goofy One. Was this an imposed personality or was it the real Starkey or what?

"That's not how I am. That was how we were in the movie, in Help! and A Hard Day's Night. That was what people felt we were like."

But didn't you mind always being given the goony songs to sing, 'Octopus's Garden' and 'Yellow Submarine' and that awful one about "the greatest fool who ever made the big time"?

"They were writing a lot heavier songs than I was and the ones they wrote for me were never that heavy, either. That's what made the combination that we were. All completely different but together we were a mighty force."

Presumably this "difference" in personalities was what made the break-up of The Beatles particularly acrimonious and acid. Discuss.

"That's stupid. We'd changed. We didn't have the time to put in all that energy. We were all married then. Most of us were married. I had children. John had a kid. George got married. So it was a natural end to it. We finished. That's it."

At the morning's press conference, Ringo had been banging on about how you can't beat the feeling of playing live, of how he's "addicted" to it, the love teeming from the audience, the "buzz", the "vibe" etcetera. But if we examine the history (and leave out the Ringo Starr and his All-Star Band jaunt of '89), we see that since '66, he has played on stage hardly at all. This is not a criticism, I was just wondering whether...

"Look, playing live is how I started," he snaps. "That's where my blood is. We played live for four years as The Beatles but in the end it was impossible because the reaction we used to get was so loud that I was turning into a bad musician because I could only keep the off-beat, so we were deteriorating. How often do you want to play stadiums? We as The Beatles lost the contact. I want to feel the love from the audience and you don't get that in a stadium. Bruce Springsteen loses the love and the audience contact and Guns N' Roses and the Stones and Paul McCartney, they all lose the love and the contact. They just forget that it's a great privilege to play to an audience, so on my tour I'm playing Liverpool and I'm playing Hammersmith and..."

And so he goes on for several weeks about all the intimate sheds he's going to bash his drums and sing that one about "You're sixteen and you're beautiful and your mii-iine," or whatever it is, in.

So stadiums are useless. I had always imagined, in my simplicity, that The Beatles at Shea Stadium was just one of the most thrilling moments in all of popular music history. Am I entirely incorrect?

Ringo tuts and he crosses his arms, a huff-orientated posture.

"Shea Stadium was brilliant," he goes. "We were breaking new ground. Of course it was brilliant. But if you see the video on Shea Stadium, you see how crazy we all were, anyway. John wasn't playing it note-for-note. John went mad. It was a thrill."

Did Ringo go mad all those years ago, what with all those American girls saying he should be President and swooning at his shaking fringe?

"It wasn't only American girls, you know," he points out, helpfully. "It was English girls and Swedish girls. So, yeah. I went absolutely mad round about 1964. My head was just so swollen. I thought I was a God, a living God. And the other three looked at me and said. Excuse me, I am the God. We all went through a period of going mad."

Presumably drugs made a major contribution to the mental mayhem.

"The drugs came later. Well, there was always some element of alcohol and amphetamine and then several other substances came into play and then The Beatles was over."

And in '68, you all went to India to "groove" with Mr Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. That was mad...

"Well, I was in hospital with my ex-wife (Maureen) delivering Jason, my second son, and I got back and there was two messages on the answerphone, a message from John and a message from George, and they were saying. We've been to see this Maharishi guy. So I said. What's that all about? so they told me how great it all was and I met Maharishi and I fell in love with Transcendental Meditation and I got to India and I took two suitcases, one full of clothes and one full of baked beans because I don't eat curry, and it was high for a while and then I thought. 'That's the end of it for me, thank you very much'..."

By this time, the drummer of the Perky Personality had embarked upon his unlikely career as a screen actor, playing a gardener who has love on billiard tables in the hippy sex romp Candy (which featured Marlon Brando as a guru personage not a billion miles removed from Mr Maharishi), and then a foil for Peter Sellers in the simply awful The Magic Christian (and then being actually quite good as a teddy boy drummer in That'll Be The Day). Ringo doesn't think that talking about his Thespian pursuits is very interesting at all because he's moved on and music's the thing, like...

"We just decided we wanted to be an actor. I'm not interested in that acting anymore..."

In the mid '70s, Starr made (along with some really dud LPs) a couple of splendid pop singles: 'Photograph' and 'It Don't Come Easy'. The man who, in 1963, said "whenever I hear another drummer I know I'm no good" (and who sits here today peering at me with a certain chill and insisting "I am the best rock drummer on earth and it's not just me saying that, many fine musicians say that" when I have never even questioned his capabilities) comes over refreshingly modest for once when I say I liked those tunes.

"Well, I just decided to make some singles because The Beatles always took so long to make albums and so I started to write but I could never finish a song. I was great for two verses and a chorus but I could never finish a song so I'd have to ask George to finish it and we'd just have rows because George would always put in the 'God verse' and I don't sing about God, so after a few smashes it all went downhill because, er, well, yer know..."

I do know. It all went downhill because Ringo was hitting the sauce with alarming abandon.

"It was my addictive personality. Suddenly you're starting to drink at nine in the morning and I was procrastinating me balls off and I was just trapped as an alcoholic, a drunk."

He was too drunk even to pay any great attention to the shooting of John Lennon, he says.

"I wasn't well when he got murdered and I wasn't well after it. I was in such great pain that I hardly noticed..."

The voice of Thomas The Tank Engine and The Fat Controller was killing itself with booze. But then – hey presto! – Ringo booked into De-Tox Mansions, USA, and everything was all right again.

"One day I had a second, maybe half-a-second, of clarity and I was in so much pain and I knew that Barbara (Bach, second wife who he met on the set of the dismal Caveman film in '81) had mentioned a sort of re-hab situation. She had a problem, too. She found this place in Arizona. I haven't had a drink or a drug since and that was October '88 and I've given up smoking cigarettes, too."

Ringo was cured of his urges by the power of love.

"It was love. It's love. And the proof of the difference in my life-style is that I've put a band together, I've made this album and..."

Ringo takes this opportunity to tell me what a great musician he is and how his new LP is really jolly good and everything until I interrupt to suggest that however good his new LP is, it can hardly hope to top Abbey Road, can it? He looks at me as if I am deranged:

"What, as an album? My album can't beat the Abbey Road album as an album?" That is, in a nutshell, what I was driving at.

"Well, the so-called B-side of Abbey Road is one of my favourite sides, the one with 'Bathroom Window' and 'Polythene Pam', but just by chance I was re-listening to Sgt. Pepper the other day and that's a fine album too and it's a bloody marvellous album, it's a bloody fine album and The White Album was great because we were like a band after Pepper and all the craziness and Rubber Soul was great and the first album which took 12 hours to put down was an achievement...So I don't know what you're talking about. That was 30 years ago, man. I'm still making records and you can hear that I'm a great musician on the new record, Time Takes Time, if you can ever be bothered to mention it. This is an actual bloody legend in front of you. I'm not expecting you to comb the bloody legend's hair but you could mention the new LP and these other fine musicians I'm still playing with."

Ringo Starr is close to rage and I don't know quite why. I decide to placate him by talking about his All-Starr Band. This ploy is not a success. What is it like working with Todd Rundgren, I enquire? Todd Rundgren's a bit mad, isn't he?

Ringo lunges forward in the sofa, almost doing himself a mischief.

"What? What? Have you met him? Why would you say shit like that? You don't even know the man. How dare you say shit like that about a friend?"

I meant "mad" as in "genius". It is a compliment.

"You're talking shit. That's like saying Frank Zappa's mad. Frank Zappa's probably the nicest man I ever met in this business. I've been in the game too long for this shit! I've done my bit. I've made a record, I've made the thing and I hope it's a Number 1 because I've done my bit, I'm promoting the thing...or I am trying to promote the thing..."

What manner of umbrage is this? Ringo Starr seems to feel – and strongly – that my failure to spend this interview discussing his new LP and the brilliance of Tom Petty and Jeff "Skunk" Baxter and Harry "Schmilsson" Nilsson and everybody else who played on it – is impudence of the first order. But wouldn't such an interview be a trifle limiting and boring and...? I am unable to make this suggestion because The Clown, The Lovable One, seen here in his updated role of Pop's Mister Crosspatch, continues to rant away...

"If you bothered to listen to the single 'Weight Of The World' you'd hear this line in it which goes...er, er...well, it says that you can't live in the past and that sums it up. Because you're living in the past. As far as this interview has been going on, it's shit because it's been The Beatles interview and you haven't even mentioned Time Takes Time or Weight Of The World. But that's OK. You've got the time. That's what you asked. I've answered your questions. And..." Ringo rises from the sofa, two feet nine inches of unbridled anger ..."That is it!" And it is. He flounces from the room, a cry of "Thanks a lot!" that oozes with sarcasm, his cheery farewell. What this man needs, in my estimation, is a stiff drink, or a cig, or both...

THAT NIGHT, on stage at the Albert Hall, George Harrison played 'Taxman' and a lot of other aged songs and then announced "a blast from all our pasts" and on bounded Ringo. How could this be? Had not the man assured us earlier in the day that he would most definitely not be gracing this political rally thing with his presence? Well, there he was, anyway, and he played drums on 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' and 'Roll Over Beethoven', no doubt feeling all the love wafting up from the auditorium. Then, at the conclusion of this horrid old rock'n'roll novelty, up strode some representatives of the peculiar Natural Law Party to talk embarrassingly about this "night of magic" that the crowd had been privileged to witness. And as the spiritual oration continued, a lone cry of protest rang out from the back of the stage, a bellow of annoyance, a sharp "Shut up!" The culprit of this ill-mannered intrusion was identified only as a man with drumsticks and a great big nose…

[pixelhotsauce]

Women are perverts y'all...

[louebel]

— [ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒. ]

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: trafalgar law × gn!reader 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 1,655 wc. mentions of the law novel and spoilers for his backstory, descriptions of his trauma, panic attacks, angst, hurt with comfort, law slowly tries to embrace his past, rushed + not proofread. divider by @ benkeibear. 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: law has a nightmare. he appreciates your comfort.

“Hnn..!”

It was one of those nights again.

Sweat tumbled down his temple. No source of light. The polar tang was deep in the abyss. Your soft snores. The blanket hooding you both.

His hands were shaky. His chest was pounding. His lips agape.

“U—uh…”

Just a dream. Just a dream. No.

Not a dream. Reality. The past. Their corpses. The ruins of his city. Bestowed upon him, the laments and dirges of Flevance. They chanted and howled, damned souls who shrieked and condemned the morose government, a newborn Canto VI; Dante’s most passionate inspiration. Mystical, a fantasy, but no dream it was. No, it was not.

If only it could be.

The repugnant fetor of sulfur and acrid smog, ingrained in his nostrils, the buzzing of the flies as he walked among the stench of methane. It was a remote remembrance, clear as a fragile vase of glass, one that would shatter over and over and make his sluggish heart weep, no matter how many times he fixed and carried it. A life torn piece by piece by what was, and is, the ruthless world.

Gone were the days he could live free from his mind, the faces of those he yearned to meet once more, nothing but an ignis fatuus, one that served heartache and warmth in unison. Acerbic, pungent, more than any fruit, acidic upon his tender skin, spilled upon his skull and dissolved it without an ounce of control.

His favorite comics brought dolor. What was formerly one of his dearest pages developed into the fuel of his insecurities, thoughts.

“Look, brother! Sora didn’t die! I told you he wouldn’t!”

His sister’s giggles, nebulous; muffled, lost in time.

“Is it clear, Law? If you’re uncertain, tell me, alright? I’ll explain it to you as many times as you need.”

His father’s lessons but a distant reminiscence.

“Like this, sweetie. You’re a fast learner! Look at you, my smart baby. Mommy’s always here.”

His mother’s delicate hands guiding him, now a phantom.

His childhood companions’ cheering whenever he scored the max on a test, quieter than the gale. The nun’s concerned gaze when he carried Lami and asked to bring her home when she got wounded, forever gone. Corazon’s clumsy scenes he wanted to see again. His smile.

“I love you, Law!”

All their unconditional love.

Love. Love.

He shut his eyes.

How much he craved it. Tore apart in a single night, shredded in another after so thoroughly rebuilding it. And now here he was, trying again. But oh, was it difficult. His breathing often faltered, one false move able to destabilize him. Reconstructing it with paper was an enterprise. A fragment given by each of the people he met — little ones by the citizens in Swallow Island, bigger ones by Wolf, Bepo, Penguin, Shachi, his crew, and what survived of his fractured history was utilized as a base. Yours was almost a blanket. It was a prodigious sheet.

They all supported themselves simultaneously. But it wobbled. A lot. Often he couldn’t manage it. Terrified, alone, as he watched all his efforts about to topple. But it never did.

“… Law?”

Oh no. He woke you up.

“Go to sleep.” It came almost like a snap — to not show he was suffering.

Just go to sleep. Don’t bother with him. Don’t.

“Well… now I won’t do that.” you groggily said, his fingers clenching as you propped yourself up with an elbow. “Nightmare?”

You couldn’t see him in the darkness, but he was still an open book. He couldn’t lie to you, nor did he want to. He tried his best to change his mannerisms and patterns.

You’re his partner. Not a stranger.

“Yeah.” he exhaled tremulously, thorns in his throat.

He heard the rustles, the heat of your frame radiating against his. He couldn’t see you, but he imagined you — feeling your massages and head upon his shoulder. It tickled his neck a little.

“Mh. Baby … it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Obscurity and death clutched him with crisp, meager bones and itching shadows. However, a minor light banished them all; tender, so generous. That sound, yours… Fleeting fingers and honeyed pampering.

His droopy and heavy eyelids fluttered open, those golden eyes that carried unspoken anguish all but courageous; what was a mask he got used to wearing now sunk in the void, crystal tears brimming and gushing down his visage, scrunched up and full of lineaments. Quakes wracked his body, hisses leaving his quivering lips.

“I—I…” Nothing came out. Yet your arms remained still around him.

“Sh … Slowly honey. Take your time. I’m here.”

Here. With him.

“I… I’m so sorry. So sorry. Please forgive me. Please.”

Oh, that poor, poor man … What did he do to deserve this? To experience a catastrophe?

“M—Mom… Dad…”

“Law, hey—”

“La—Lami, Cora… Cora-san..!” He couldn't stop. As one sob wrenched from his lungs, another came, and another, and another, and another. His spine twisted, facing down; curling against you, your lips on his brow.

"Law." You called him gingerly, smoothly, hugging him close. Don't let me go, was all he thought.

"It's not your fault. Never. It's okay. Shh… Honey, hey… It's okay baby, it's okay. You're okay. Shh… Look at me."

And he did. Your palms seemed so much more real. An opportunity, some place to run. A light.

"There we go. Good job sweetie. It's okay. You're okay. It's not your fault."

"… N—not …"

"Not your fault. Never your fault, sweetheart. Everything is okay."

"… Mh. Mmhm."

He responded, unable to form coherent sentences, and cradled you close like a lifeline — the only anchor in this storm. You held him just as tightly, grazing his tense, knotted back. He was shuddering so much.

"Good job. That's my Law. Shh…"

It hurt. It truly did. To catch him like this, to see him so bare. No child, person, should ever go through such horrible things — you remembered how you both cried when he opened up. That confidence he wore for all of his crew finally crumbling at the ounce of vulnerability the universe granted him.

Shachi and Penguin never mentioned it. They divulged tales about Swallow Island — but they kept quiet about Law's other past, respecting his privacy. Bepo was a bit more clumsy with his sayings, information slipping from his fangs before he could stop it. (He'd quickly cover his mouth, a little squeak escaping it.)

When Law revealed everything, it was chaotic. You both had an argument some hours before. You were shocked he didn't crumple in your arms.

Seldom you’ve seen him cry.

"They—they would've liked you," he mumbled between hiccups, the tinge of nostalgia palpable.

"Law…"

"I wish you could've met them. I- I really wish they were here." They’d be proud, wouldn’t they? He could’ve worked with his father. His mother. Lami would’ve been a wonderful nurse or a doctor. Corazon would have joined him.

In another life, perhaps. Now the Rose held them.

"I wish I could've met them, too. I know you miss them… But they're—" his skin molded under your pointing finger as you pressed right on his sweet, scarred heart, "—right here. Forever. They're proud of you. I know they are."

"… I … hope so." he believed so, too — but saying it felt too egoistic of him. If you knew, you’d knock his head. He could tell.

"No no, baby. They are. I'm proud of you, too. So proud. Okay?"

He breathed deeply, nodding slowly.

"Okay. Okay."

“Good. You’re getting better,” you assured him, and those words never felt more gratifying. He had to be kind to himself. Gentle. The mind is fragile. He hopes — no, he knows you’d forgive him for being harsh on himself before. He knows. He knows.

“I try. I do. It's so hard, though,” he sniffed, resting his forehead on yours, to feel your warmth, your breath, your vitality, his "Beatrice", “they went too soon, sometimes I wish I could’ve followed them.” he admits, and your eyes grow more compassionate.

“But … my friends. My crew. The people I’ve met. What my family would want, Corazon’s wish. You. I’m glad to be here,” he says, taking deep breaths between. He’s safe in your arms. He can go at his own pace.

“Are you glad to be alive?” Some might see your question as idiotic, but Law knows the difference.

“That … I cannot tell. Sometimes I still feel like I don’t deserve it.”

“Mh.”

It was rather quiet after that. Only your breathing and his. The stirring of your pajamas. The hushed buzzing of the submarine.

It was welcome, though.

“Change is complex,” he then spoke, looking at you with a glimpse of hope. “but … I’m willing to try. I have to. For the crew, for you, for—for me.”

Tranquility took him when you smiled, something unlocking in his spirit. It wasn’t onerous anymore.

“Good. Especially for you, honey. We appreciate you being so tough, truly, but…” you brushed your lips on his jaw and peppered soft, tiny kisses. “There's nothing wrong with being weak. We all are. If you fight it, it hurts. It’s just us. Our feeble little selves. Give yourself a break from time to time. You are doing well.”

Law deeply appreciated your snogs, his frantic heartbeat calming. You led him down onto the mattress again, covering both your forms with the blanket.

“Let go, honey. Cry. And don’t hold back. You’re safe now.”

Tender murmurs filled the night. Law's head rested in the crook of your neck. His frightened mourns eased, his restless limbs no longer a problem — caresses and soothing, calm words eased the poor child, who wanted nothing but to live in peace.

And so he reached Eden, your pious hand accompanying him to Paradiso.

[sandeebridges]

I don’t think I really need to say it, but this entire fem-Custodes debacle is completely and utterly ridiculous.

Getting upset and worked up over certain people being allowed to exist in your fictional universe is amongst the most unpleasant ways anyone can act, and is a thoroughly repugnant type of behaviour to see in someone.

If you can’t handle women, or societal minorities for that matter, being present in the fiction you consume, then, quite frankly, you can take your bigoted, misogynistic opinion and shove it up your ugly arse, because none of us want to hear it anyway.

You’re the reason this community, and many others, get a bad name, so if you could kindly do us all a favour and come back when you’ve learned how to behave as a mature, grown-up man, rather than as a spoiled, whiny toddler, that’d be great.

For the rest of us, who are capable of intelligent thought and basic human respect, we can enjoy our fiction like adults, while the manchildren and the incels throw temper tantrums in a ditch full of their own shit.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I heard your hometown is known for wooden alphabet blocks so here’s a few for you! F is for friends who do stuff together, U is for you and me, N is foe anywhere and anytime at all down here in the deep blue sea

Like Fire, Hellfire.

You knelt on the carpeted floor at Rollo’s feet, singing as you stacked wooden blocks beside one another. F U N was spelt out, and you were now starting on a new word: F R I E N D S.

Towering above, Rollo was unimpressed. He squinted down, regarding you from behind his handkerchief with barely-masked repulsion. It was as though he was looking at a bug rather than a human.

Of course he was already well-acquainted with his alphabet: A is for Abomination, B is for Blasphemy, C is for Contrition, D is Damnation, E is for Eternal Damnation…

But F for Friendship? He reeled at the thought. No. F is for Fire that burns down the whole town—and every last mage in it.

Alas, not even that blissful image could being him a smile. His scowl remained.

“Are you enjoying your childish romp in the dirt and dust?” Rollo asked sarcastically. “You ought to wash yourself thoroughly after this. Who knows how long it has been before that carpet was given a deep clean?”

“Don’t be a Debbie Downer. It’s really fun to play like this. It lets your inner child out. Come on, join me!” you suggested, gesturing with a hand. “There’s plenty of blocks for us both.”

The third word was underway as you sandwiched an E between B and S. Sliding a T beside the S, you made B E S T. Once placed in front of another train of blocks, a new phrase was born: B E S T F R I E N D S.

There was a stifledp cough.

You glanced over—and, much to your surprise, Rollo had deigned to lower himself to your level. (Granted, he was carefully crouching so as to not allow himself nor his clothes to touch the potentially filthy floor.) Rollo stared intensely at your handiwork, something dark in his eyes.

You raised your brows and offered a block to him.

“That will not be necessary.”

Rollo reached past you and plucked a block up from your phrase. Robbed of a vital R, it now read: B E S T F I E N D S.

He smirked triumphantly. “Fufufu. There, now it’s perfect. Such an apt description of the rabble that study at this school.”

“H-Hey…!” you protested. “That’s not what it’s supposed to say!! This was meant to be a friendship exercise to deeper everyone’s bond…!”

An audible scoff sounded from him. Rollo stood again, R still captive in the palm of his hand.

“R is for Repugnant,” he recited, “just like the very nature of this ‘friendship exercise’ of yours. Enough—I can waste no more of my precious time on these pointless games.”

[darkmaga-retard]

By Helena Glass HelenaGlass.net

August 9, 2024

MEDIA:  Tim Walz backed illegal immigration!   ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS:   We will vote for Walz.  Twenty million under Biden and counting.  

Walz is upstaging even Kamala in his cackling dances and wide girth of gesturing while his wife waves in awe to all the applause she appears to believe is all for her.  She is drawn into the melee of audience worship like a rapper on crack.  Walz is most deceivingly NOT a democrat.  His ideology is half Communist and half Zionist.  Communist fiscally and Zionist Socially.  His Open Secrets donations are a who’s Who of Unions.  His social stances are on par with Nineveh.

While Kamala keeps discussing her grand wealth accumulation from thousands of small donors, the Biden For President Committee just transferred ALL funds to Kamala For President = nearly $500 million raised on $220 million spent leaving Kamala with $231.4 million.  Everything remains the same – they simply erased Biden’s name and wrote in Kamala.  Donors, large and small, had no say.

Having not vetted their candidate thoroughly, the hiccups are already in full force revealing every repugnant act ascribed to the potential VP, Walz.  Since the appointment, Walz bio has been massively altered to reduce the realities of his crimes as Minnesota Governor and repaint him with the artistry of a Hunter painting.

A member of the Farmers Labour Party, which was the FDR New Deal derivative, Walz was a war defector from the Army National Guard where he served as a Sergeant Major.  His one and only deployment was to Italy.  The 1st District in Minnesota where Walz entered the political arena was/is dominant republican white.   Yet, somehow, Walz was able to defeat his republican opponent…

[forced-sissy-daughter]

Forced Sissy Daughter Kisses Her Man

Mommy’s son Chris has been thoroughly and completely transformed, trained, and conditioned by his mother to crave the attentions and affections of men.

Before, her son Chris used to find the idea of kissing a man disgusting and repugnant.

Now her daughter Crissy welcomes her husband’s tongue in her mouth and his hands on her body.

Crissy now knows that a good and proper wife always submits to her husband and that it is her solemn duty to take his seed inside of her as often as possible.

Her day is never complete unless and until she gets her man’s cock buried deep in at least one of her holes.

After much practice, Crissy can be very convincing...

#sissy #sissy daughter #forced sissy daughter #daddy daughter #sissy daddy #sissy mommy #forced feminization #male to female #boy to girl #sissy slut #sissy bride #sissy wife #sissy cock slave #sissy chastity #sissy clitty

[legacyshenanigans]

In a very HC information mood today, don't mind me 😊🤍

🐍Marvolo/Rowan🐺

A HC on information about them regarding the way they are.

(TW, I guess: Mentions of them being killers, but if you ain't new here, you already know that, haha)

Though they're friend's, and similar in some ways, Marvolo and Rowan are quite different.

Make no mistake of Rowans sometimes playful and silly ways, he's a killer, that's just facts, Rowans need to kill comes from of course instincts, but also his own personal trauma. Behind the mask he's filled with anger and resentment, and those feeling have to come out, it's not enough for him to just hunt animals in the woods, he enjoys the fear of others, he likes seeing it on their face, he likes hearing their screams. In a calm state Rowans personality would appear like he wouldn't hurt a fly, he can be very soft and affectionate, but agitated and worked up, Rowan is a violent man, and wouldn't think twice about ripping someone apart just for looking at him funny. It's an extreme "switch" situation for Rowan. His feelings burst, and that comes with every emotion, not just anger, and it can switch from one to another in the blink of an eye. Which is why you need to be careful around him. Though he's a killer, and weird as it may be to say, in general, Rowan isn't a "nasty person." But he CAN be when pushed or when driven by his intense flare-ups and mood swings, which can happen at any given time for seemingly no reason.

Marvolo, on the other hand, is a "nasty person" in general. He has a mean and malicious demeanour, which is constantly evident in the way he acts, carries himself, and talks, although he's VERY good at being incredibly charming with it. Though Marvolo can and will get extremely angry at times, he isn't so much filled with pent-up anger like Rowan. He's full of repugnance and abhorrence, which drives his 'want' to kill. He finds certain things and people DISGUSTING, which comes from his father, with him being a Gaunt (Ominis also carries similar traits but goes about things differently to Marvolo. It's just "Gaunt traits.") And in Marvolos fucked up and conditioned head, those things and people don't deserve to live, and he has no issues making it so. It's all a power thing with Marvolo, that's always the goal with the things he does, though he does thoroughly enjoy being "challenged" at times, he likes power dynamics and shows of power. Like Rowan, Marvolo does have a "Soft side" kept very private for those he actually cares about, which isn't MANY people, he has to REALLY like you for it to come out. When he loves, he loves HARD, He can be romantic, he can be sweet, but it still feels a little odd to him when he has these moments of love and sweetness, they were feelings he'd never really properly had..Before he met you.

~

[steampunkforever]

What WAS with that late 90s stepsibling love story thing? For a brief moment people kept making these movies like it wasn't weird. The Royal Tenenbaums is, as a 2001 entry into this really weird genre, both a later entry into this and probably the most normal take on the subject matter. On the flip side, the 1999 stepsibling erotica film Cruel Intentions leans into making it edgy. It isn't good.

Normally here is where I'd go into some sort of analysis of how the messaging behind "if you're not genetically related you're not *really* siblings" as an explanation for allowing this gray area canoodling is harmful, or at least counterproductive, to the notion that adoptive/blended family is still family. Except Cruel Intentions sucks so bad it doesn't matter. Don't see this movie. Other films have explored more repugnant concepts more thoroughly, and the social contract of the artist allows them to. This one is just bad.

The actual plot of the film revolves around two stepsiblings who make a bet between socially manipulating each other and their peers in the Manhattan upper crust youth scene. The brother (played by Ryan Philippe) must deflower the chaste daughter (Reese Witherspoon) of their prep school headmaster by the start of the school year or he must hand over the keys to the vintage Jag roadster. If he wins? His stepsister (Sarah Michelle Gellar) promises to boink him. I'll admit this isn't my normal beat, but even so Clueless definitely wins out for "less-contrived stepsibling relations."

The cast, the soundtrack, and the cars are all solid examples of late 90s cinema. And you can tell all three are trying, but even in concert none of them can save this movie. I need to stress how awful a film this is.

Everyone talks and acts like they're doing American Psycho's take on upper class vapidity and scheming, but with some of the most wooden, unconvincing performances I've seen in my life. It's not like the cast can't deliver either, I just think the script and direction were that bad. As this was the director's first film, I think this may be the case but considering that scattered episodes of Pretty Little Liars are the more notable entries into his filmography, I'll hazard a guess that the Written and Directed credits for Cruel Intentions are a large part of the problem.

In watching this film I simply did not get why it has such a cult following. There are many better bad 90s attempts at being edgy, why pick this one?

[deborahdeshoftim5779]

Thank you, but I didn’t actually get cancelled in any meaningful way. Valiant attempts were made to drown me (figuratively), but since I don’t have a job I can’t be fired, I’m a tough old bat, I’m too elderly to give much of a poop about my future “career,” it’s not the first hanging party and book-burning featuring myself, and it seems that my Dear Readers were having none of it. Thank you, Dear Readers. It is for you, after all, that I write, not for some craven scholar trying to save her own behind by beating herself up in public for having built her reputation on studies of my oevre. (You know who you are. I accept apologies.) Why the posse tried to take me down: I signed (and refused to retract, Bad Me!) an open letter to the University of British Columbia (“UBC Accountable”) calling for due and fair process for writer Stephen Galloway, who had been accused — dubiously, it now strongly appears —of rape –a violent criminal act, lest we forget. Nine years later, this claim has still to be thoroughly investigated in a court of law, due to the prolonged and frantic efforts by those being sued for defamation to keep such a trial from happening. But enough preliminary court cases have gone on so that a number of folks have now reversed their snap judgments, and some have gone full Mea Culpa. You can read all about it in Brad Cran’s Substack called Truth and Consequences; start at the bottom and scroll up. It just gets worse and worse. What was amazing to me was the casualness with which the posse — mostly academics — tossed the Declaration of Human Rights and the Canadian Rights and Freedoms out the window, with cries of “Burn it all down” and the like. But every sword has three sides: your side, the other side, and the Oh Shit! side you didn’t anticipate. Some are now beginning to smoulder themselves, as folks set fire to their feet. Darn, where are those Rights and Freedoms now that a person might need them?

The novelist Margaret Atwood responds in an acerbic style to the attacks she received for having called for due process when the writer Stephen Galloway was accused of rape.

The fact that calling for due process was treated like a crime, while presuming an accusation was true without due process was treated as normal behaviour, shows the level of dystopian tyranny that has overtaken Canadian institutions.

It shows how academics are at the forefront of trashing fundamental pillars of civilisation for the sake of their own ideologies and malignant self-righteousness, which includes smearing and threatening anyone who dares to disagree.

When we acknowledge that many malign tyrannies have been spearheaded by academics (Nazi racism was promulgated by German academics in the 1920's; China's Revolution of 1949 thrived in the universities), then we cannot be surprised by examples such as this.

Such conduct wouldn't be nearly as effective if so many refused to be intimidated and toe the line. When the majority are cowards more concerned about their reputations than about justice, brave voices such as that of Atwood and others who have dared to displease the disciples of currently fashionable movements are seen as radicals: easy to intimidate, abuse, and threaten.

It's time for people to stand up to such intellectual thuggery by defending freedom of speech and the right to the presumption of innocence. When the bullies see that people have a backbone and can't be threatened into silence, they lose their repugnant air of impunity and imagined righteousness.

[hobbitsetal]

Hi! A while ago you made a post about realizing you're demisexual. I've been questioning my own experience of sexuality lately, and what you said about thinking you were just really good at following a Christian sexual ethic kinda hit home for me. I've questioned my experience of sexual attraction (or. lack of it) because I can't help but wonder if I've trained myself to ignore it growing up in the church. Like. How do I know what my genuine experience is?

So anyway this is getting long, but if you're willing to share about it I'd love to hear about your experience, and also your thoughts about labeling sexuality. I'm side b, but as I've been thinking about this for myself I've been questioning whether it's actually valuable to have a label for my experience.

Hi! Welcome to the realm of belated realizations XD The whole "oh wait this is actually a thing" hit for me about a month ago, so we're newbies to this together.

First, my experience: I've dated three guys, and married the third. The first was long distance, and somewhere around the seventh month mark (shortly before we broke up, lol), I found myself wondering what it might be like to kiss him. As a bit of background for you, I was raised to save my first kiss for my wedding day, so that thought was rather daring of me.

My second boyfriend, I liked holding hands, but didn't want to go further. This was partly because I wasn't really attracted to him as a person or really much as a friend. We broke up after three months, when we spent a weekend hanging out at the beach and I felt like I had to entertain him, rather than enjoying his company.

My third boyfriend, the one I married, was again long-distance...and I kissed him about four months after we started dating. Physical chastity was actually a bit of a struggle for us, and now that we're married, I thoroughly enjoy marital relations with him.

So why, then, do I call myself demisexual?

Because I've realized that without a solid relationship, without deep trust and comfortableness and friendship, the idea of sex with someone is uncomfortable to me. Repugnant, even. Those "celebrity lists" of the celebs you'd be allowed to sleep with, no questions asked? I'm baffled by the notion. The whole idea of cheating? Excuse you, you made a commitment. One night stands? y tho.

I spent thirty years of my life thinking I was simply Good At Christian Morals when it comes to sexuality. I'm not lol. I was simply not tempted by the same things others are tempted by.

Why don't I call myself asexual? Because I'm not indifferent to sex and I do actively desire it. I just don't desire it with anyone I'm not comfortable with and close to.

This is a hard one to differentiate, and the thought experiment of "if I were not Christian, would I feel differently?" is likewise hard. I grew up Christian. I live in America, in church circles. "Not Christian" is a bit like asking myself "if I were not American or a woman or white, how would I feel about x?"

I cannot fully comprehend how my upbringing and world views shape my biases.

However, I can talk to other people and recognize differences in how they think and relate to others from how I think and relate to others. I have never in my life looked at a stranger sexually. I've never wanted to kiss someone I didn't know well. All of my sexual desires stayed in the realm of "I want these sensations" apart from any other person until I was married.

This doesn't make me a better Christian. This just means my sexual walk looked different from others.

~~~

Now to the labels question. Frankly, the older I get, the more baffled I am by the controversy over labeling one's sexuality. We're humans. We label everything. God told Adam to name the animals as a means of ordering them. We buy a home, we label the rooms. We make political decisions, we label and sort those decisions. Heck, walk into a grocery store and we've labeled the aisles! We love labels!

Why would we not label our sexual experiences when we find ways to group them? I experience less social sexual desire than others, but I do experience desire. I'm not quite asexual, but I don't fit the experiences of my peers. Demisexual is a great way to explain myself.

But even as I ask why we hesitate to label, I can understand. The LGBTQA+ community has been demonized, oppressed, abused, and harmed by Christianity. Why would someone who calls themself Christian want to label themself "Sinner" and "Outcast"?

I can understand the hesitation. And that isn't good. That honest conversations are a source of fear and shame isn't good. I have no solution to it, but recognizing that the church's attitude is harmful is a good first step.

A good second step, I think, would be to recognize that labeling ourselves can help us understand both ourselves, each other, and how our communities work.

There is no sin in describing yourself as something. Honesty should not be a sin. Use whatever label makes sense to you, love, and may God grant you peace and self-knowledge.

[liberaleffects]

I'm a fervent believer in democracy, but this bullshit we have going on in this country now doesn't feel like democracy. With billions of hard-to-trace dollars spent to advance candidates, with our mail boxes and our TV screens jam-full of expensively produced campaign propaganda used mostly to obfuscate, we've corrupted the very idea of government by, of, and for the people. With so many Americans willing to support anti-democratic forces, have we shown ourselves to no longer be capable of self-governance? With so many billions of dollars being used to blow smoke up our collective ass, how is it even possible for the truth to become general? If, by chance, a little useful information does leak out from that cloud of smoke and that hall of mirrors created largely by donations from corporations and the very, very rich, it is usually negated or nullified by denials, or lies, or scurrilous counterattacks.

It is so wasteful. If you set out to create a system that would intentionally sow cynicism, disdain, and irritation with the process, you could hardly do better than doing democracy the way we are doing it now. If the "will of the people" can yield a man like Donald Trump or a political party like the GOP, is it any wonder that democracy is under threat throughout the world.

If the idea is for a democracy to give voice to the will of the people, how can all this money spent on obfuscation be helpful in pursuit of that goal? What do we learn from all these fliers, and what is gained by these interminable election seasons that are treated like TV entertainment by most of the reporting across the spectrum of opinion?

The right wingers are always invoking and evoking the "founding fathers," but even with the contradictions and hypocrisies found in the motivations and the hearts of some of those men, I cannot believe that they intended a democracy to look like this. Sure, they would have probably been ok with the voter suppression efforts, especially where minorities and women were concerned. And they wouldn't have been at all ready for that statue in New York harbor welcoming immigrants from places that didn't even have names yet. The founders were far from perfect people, and neither are we. But we sure as hell ought to be better than we are now. Why are so many of us so crabbed, so mean, so profoundly ignorant? Why are races so tight, with so many votes being cast for people who are so transparently corrupt, incompetent, dishonest, bigoted, venal, and greedy?

"Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others." I thought those were Ben Franklin's words, but the quote is attributed to Winston Churchill. He was a Tory, not my favorite political party, and he was an aristocrat, not my favorite demographic. But I am glad he was so determined to see fascism defeated unlike far too many Brits, then and now, who thought maybe the Nazis were onto something.

What the hell is the use of these so-called "debates" which have become a sideshow to the process of seeking election. Few people watch those "debates" because real debate of issues seldom occurs and everything is seriously dumbed-down. A televised debate to become a U.S. Senator seems less dignified and substantive than an argument between 6th graders on the playground at recess.

The right wingers have so thoroughly undermined confidence in the integrity of elections that we can anticipate probable violence either at the polls around the country, or in the courts or on the streets once the votes have been counted and the winners declared. Democracy, the expressed will of the people, was intended to insure against that kind of disorder. But is what we have now what democracy was supposed to be? Is this how it was best meant to function?

I am anxious for this interminable election to be over. I'm so tired of the fucking polls, the strategizers, the talking heads, the coverage given to so many repugnant people who play peek-a-boo with their real motives and intentions. I'm so nauseated by the amount of money being spent to hide motives, or blur the malevolence that money is so often used to hide. I'm so weary of the daily reminders of just how far we fallen from the kind of government Lincoln described as being by, of, and for the people, not just the plutocrats, not just the corporations, and not just those who would befoul our most noble humanitarian dreams, but pollute our air, our water, and our founding principles. I'm sick of untaxed money from churches going to support politicians who would deny rights to people who don't believe as they do. I'm sick of a system in which one of two dominant political parties is now made up of people who make Joseph McCarthy and his henchman, Roy Cohn, look almost honorable and decent by comparison.

Most of all, I'm sick of anticipating the news we might learn on November 9th. On that morning, we may find that we proved unredeemable as a nation. Thanks to the corrupting influence purchased by goo-gobs of cash from secret sources, we may learn that the intolerable status quo is still securely in place and that we will be hearing more from people like Marjorie Taylor Green, Herschel Walker, Chuck Grasseley, Lauren Bobert, Joe Manchin, Mitch McConnell, Matt Gaetz, Brett Kavanaugh, Kevin McCarthy, Marco Rubio, Lindsey Graham, Clarence and Ginni Thomas, Steve Scalise, Donald Trump, Steven Bannon, or innumerable other scoundrels whose names may not be on ballots, but who wield power and pull the strings behind the curtains.

Can such a nation long endure? And if so, why?

[jaspersboy]

Donald Trump was his thoroughly awful self at last week’s train wreck of a town hall with CNN. But perhaps you noticed that, as the evening went on, his performance became a little extra repugnant—like when he told moderator Kaitlan Collins, “You are a nasty person.” Well, apparently, that was thanks to a Trump adviser waiting in the wings, who pushed him to amp up the assholery.

Yes, Axios reports that Trump “got more aggressive” and “more dismissive of” Collins in part thanks to adviser Jason Miller’s using the first commercial break to show Trump “moments-old tweets from Democrats blasting CNN and saying Trump was winning,” an effort to push the ex-president “as if psyching up a boxer in his corner or egging on a bully.” The tweets Trump was shown included one from Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, whose criticism touched on his vicious attack on writer E. Jean Carroll: “CNN should be ashamed of themselves. They have lost total control of this ‘town hall’ to again be manipulated into platforming election disinformation, defenses of Jan 6th, and a public attack on a sexual abuse victim. The audience is cheering him on and laughing at the host.”

[lys-9-10]

Posted Ch. 4 of In which Enjolras spurns Grantaire's affections and Éponine gives him a piece of her mind... possibly prompting him to reconsider Preview:

“Cake?” 

Enjolras, who had been watching the affectionate horseplay that had broken out between Grantaire and Gavroche, started and whipped around. Éponine was stiffly holding out a piece of cake to him, set on a plastic flower-shaped plate. Her face was twisted in a rather grimace-like smile.

“Oh.” Enjolras gingerly took the plate. “Thank you.” 

Her duty done, Éponine turned and took to washing the pile of dishes that had been stacked up by the sink.

“May I help?” Enjolras offered. 

Éponine grunted. “No thanks. Eat your cake.” 

Enjolras hesitated a moment — it felt wrong standing here idly watching Eponine work. But as she continued scrubbing the plates without so much glancing in his direction, he eventually bowed his head and took a bite of cake. 

A moment later, a tousled-looking Grantaire appeared in the kitchen doorway. 

“Hey guys. All’s well in here?” His gaze settled on Enjolras’s slice of cake and he beamed. “It’s good, isn’t it? I told you.” 

Enjolras nodded. “Indeed.”

Grantaire reached around Éponine and grabbed the hand towel that hung by her elbow. Enjolras observed as the man seamlessly inserted himself into Éponine’s dishwashing routine, drying every item she washed and putting it away in the appropriate place.

“So, Enjolras, have you and Combeferre settled the thing you were debating last meeting?” Grantaire asked as he rearranged the stack of plates in the cupboard above Éponine’s head (he moved the larger plates to the bottom so that they fit together more neatly). 

“Ah. The matter of the supposed counterargument to consequentialism?”

“Yeah. Something about a doctor killing someone who comes in for a nose job to donate their organs to three dying people...” 

“Indeed. We’ve not settled it between us, no, but Combeferre is wrong. It’s perfectly consistent for a consequentialist to reject that repugnant conclusion. The farther removed consequences that would result from having a society where doctors can sacrifice their patients are, nonetheless, consequences — and undesirable ones at that. That thought experiment, while widely employed to refute consequentialism, is ultimately unsuccessful in doing so.”  

Grantaire’s mouth tweaked into a lopsided, admiring grin. Éponine, on the other hand, rolled her eyes in a thoroughly unimpressed fashion. This did not escape the attention of either Enjolras or Grantaire, and the latter kicked his friend in the ankle. Éponine looked up to meet Grantaire’s unhappy gaze. Then, she ducked her head penitently. 

“I’m gonna go get the gift opening started,” Éponine mumbled, and quit the kitchen.

Grantaire and Enjolras were left alone, the former frowning after Eponine’s retreating back and the latter staring uncomfortably at the floor. Finally, Enjolras cleared his throat. 

“Grantaire,” he began. “If Éponine would rather I not be here, I can —” 

“No. No, E.” Grantaire shook his head vehemently. Then he sighed and dropped his drying cloth on the dish rack. “Look... I’m sorry about Ép. She’s trying. This is just new to her. But she’ll come around.” 

Enjolras blinked, then stared. This?  What was “this”? Was “this” hanging out with Éponine and Grantaire in her apartment? Was “this” a thing now?  

Grantaire stepped towards Enjolras. Enjolras started and almost backed away — but Grantaire only placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “Come on,” he said kindly. “Let’s go watch Azelma open her gifts.” 

-----

Enjolras watched as Grantaire fastened the new necklace Azelma had received around her neck, fluffing her hair when he was done. 

“Stylish!” he exclaimed. Then, turning to her friend, “Good taste Rachelle!” 

Éponine clucked her tongue in appreciation. “Zelma, that would go so well with your green dress, hey?” She too thanked Rachelle, and then she was passing along the next gift. 

Enjolras shifted his feet awkwardly. He wished Grantaire was the one passing out the gifts right now... That would be easier. He considered navigating around the gaggle of teenagers to get to Grantaire, but decided he couldn’t do so without looking like a fool. So, when Éponine stepped back again to watch Azelma open the next gift, Enjolras drew closer to her and coughed lightly.

“Éponine.” 

She turned to him. Enjolras observed that she flinched ever so slightly, and he felt a wave of guilt. He shouldn’t have come here. It was clear he was ruining this special day for Éponine. He would just give her his gift now and take the first opportunity to leave.

Enjolras straightened his shoulders and held out an envelope to Éponine. 

Éponine’s eyes flicked down to it, then widened in surprise. The envelope was addressed to Azelma. 

“Oh.” Eponine lifted her head again to meet Enjolras’s gaze. He wasn’t certain, but he thought she looked a little abashed. “Thank you…” she said, and her voice was softer than Enjolras had heard it yet. 

When Azelma and Grantaire had finished cooing over her last gift, Éponine walked up to her sister. Dropping the envelope in her hand, she said something too quietly for Enjolras to hear. Azelma cast a surprised look in his direction. Then, her eyes crinkled in a smile. Behind Azelma’s shoulder, Grantaire too was smiling — it was a smile that overflowed with warmth and seemed to make his entire face shine.

“It’s a gift card to Duckfeet Dancewear,” Azelma announced, once she had opened the envelope. “Enjolras, how did you know I dance?” 

“Your sister mentioned it,” Enjolras replied. “She said Grantaire was teaching you. I’m sorry, I’m aware gift cards are dull presents, but I didn’t know —” 

“No.” Azelma shook her head, still smiling kindly. “Thank you. It’s perfect.” 

-----

Grantaire and Éponine stood in front of Enjolras as he slipped his shoes on and retrieved his jacket from the closet. Grantaire was grinning at Enjolras he leaned against Éponine, his elbow perched on her shoulder. As for Éponine, her face was twisted in a rather strained, discomfited expression that solidified Enjolras’s resolve to hurry his departure. “Thank you very much for having me here tonight,” he said, his voice carefully measured. He nodded first to Grantaire, then to Éponine. 

“Our pleasure, E.” Grantaire chirped. “Was fun having you around. Come on over anytime, yeah?” 

Enjolras flinched. Then, he frowned. “Grantaire, with all due respect…” He had intended to finish by saying that that wasn’t Grantaire’s invitation to make. However, at that moment his mind flashed back to Grantaire effortlessly putting away Eponine’s dishes, play-wrestling with Gavroche, fastening the necklace for Azelma… and he wondered whether that would even be a correct statement.

Suddenly, Enjolras’s reverie was broken by Éponine stepping towards him. She looked distressed, and Enjolras again felt remorse at having intruded against her will. But then, she extended her hand to him to shake. 

“Thank you so much for bringing Azelma a gift,” she said quietly. “That was really nice of you.”

Enjolras’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “But of course. You needn’t thank me for that. It was her birthday party after all.” 

Éponine smiled at him — a small, rueful smile that nonetheless seemed to soften her aspect. There was a moment’s silence, in which Eponine and Enjolras simply stood looking at each other. Then Grantaire cleared his throat.

“You’re supposed to shake her hand, E.” His voice was loaded with amusement — perhaps even joy.

Enjolras started. With a somewhat spasmodic gesture, he reached forward and clasped Éponine’s proffered hand.

“À plus tard,* Éponine.” 

Her grip tightened on his hand, and her words somehow seemed laced with significance as she responded: “À bientôt,** Enjolras.” 

------

As soon as the door closed behind Enjolras, Grantaire’s arm flashed towards Éponine and hooked her waist. With a flourish that could only have come from his dance training, he spun her into him and enveloped her in a hug. 

“I’m proud of you.”

Read more on AO3

*À plus tard = See you later **À bientôt = See you soon

[mollydollyuk]

What a thoroughly unlikeable, repugnant individual he is.

[rjalker]

I started highlighting and then I just had to keep highlighting.

There is so much going on here but first of all I hope this weyrwoman dies for abusing children.

But Tana neatly demolished his disbelief when she pinpointed yet another festering puncture wound in the arm of a weyrchild who kept complaining that his arm hurt. The headwoman had been sure it was an attempt to avoid his chores. Tana not only was correct about the infection but she touched her nose on exactly the point which the skeptical Persellan was to poultice.

The next morning the infection had come to a head and in it could clearly be seen the needle fine thorn which caused the problem.

Thorns from a variety of vegetation on the Southern continent were a constant problem to the healers. Most people wore little in the hot summers so there was more bare flesh which could be invaded by a casual brush against leaves and plants. Even tough dragon hide was not impervious to the problem though the protective layer just under the skin was rarely penetrated.

More often it was the rider, scrubbing his dragon, who found a thorn imbedding itself in a water-soaked hand.

Uh the rest is under a read more with a trigger warning for what I assume is...uterine cancer? Or something???

I'm glad they at least have AIVAS to ask about the proper procedure to perform because it is not fair to ask a dolphin to know how to perform a surgery from 2,500+ years ago. And like, she literally should not have this information at all but Anne McCaffrey is terrible at writing so whatever.

Not by any means thoroughly convinced of this method of ascertaining pregnancy, Persellan did bring women in various stages of a known pregnancy to test Tana and other members of her pod who seemed eager to prove their abilities. It was, however, a broken bone that persuaded Persellan. A broken bone, moreover, that had healed badly just below the elbow, inhibiting the free use of her right arm. The woman had come to discover if she was pregnant again, a condition she didn’t wish to continue since she considered that three children were more than enough to saddle the Weyr with.

“Bone broke. Healed wrong,” Tana told Persellan. “Here.”

“What about a baby, fish?” the woman demanded even as Persellan seized her arm, his trained hands finding the thickened joint. “I’ve had no bleeding in two months.”

“How long ago did that happen?” Durras jerked her arm out of his grip, scowling at the Healer.

“I didn’t come about the arm. I was a child when it broke. Fish, what about the baby?”

“No babbee, but full womb. Not good. Needs cleaning out.”

“WHAT?” The woman backed out of the water and ran up the sands and away from the diagnostician.

“What do you mean? Full womb? Needs cleaning out?” Persellan asked. He had been startled by Durras’ reaction but, in his long apprenticeship, there had been not infrequent occasions of interrupted flows where the patient had later had severe and constant abdominal pains and several instances where the woman had died: where only heavy doses of numbweed had eased the resultant pain.

“Growwwwsse,” Tana said, trying to enunciate a difficult word. “Bad things.”

“Growths?” Persellan asked. Intrusive surgeries were not a facet of healing, though he now knew that specially trained healers were actually cutting into a human body to relieve some conditions. Aivas had had much to tell the Healer Hall but very few had actually undertaken operations. He’d heard that the Hall had authorized after-death examinations. Even thinking about such intrusions made him shudder but valuable information had resulted. “Did the Ancients cut into a body to remove growths?”

“No need. Opening is there. Clean out. Then have babbee.”

“How? What opening?”

“Main one down below. Way babbee comes.”

Persellan shuddered again. The very idea of entering by that passage was repugnant. Still, a healer was often required to perform measures unpleasant, and even hurtful to the patient, to restore health.