viscountessevie

[viscountessevie]

Reading Seduction by Amanda Quick and there's something powerful and refreshing about a historical romance heroine acknowledging that her late sister, who was pregnant out of wedlock and ultimately ended up overdosing on laudanum, could have sought out the local herbalist, a woman who could safely administer the herbs needed for an abortion— this is a book written in 1990 and is a) explicitly stating the word "abortion" and includes a conversation on it and b) advocating for it as a valid choice by way of the heroine who is also something of a herbalist, and c) telling in the way the hero on the other hand is a BITCH about it and threatens to boot the herbalist off his land if she is, in fact, helping women get abortions.

My point is, there are VERY FEW romances out there that spell out this option, both in historicals and contemporaries even though women generally have always... had their ways of going about contraception and getting abortions, and more tellingly, contemporary romances of late are extraordinarily mum on the issue.

[viscountessevie]

bringing it up again for the millionth time but I'm still obsessed with the way that hannibal lecter is canonically aware of the narrative not because its ever explicitly stated but because the author who created him genuinely believes this to be true and stopped writing the book series because he's afraid of him

[viscountessevie]

I just finished We Were Liars (wanted to watch the show first so I wouldn't be spoiled) and I am actually devastated

[viscountessevie]

[viscountessevie]

“remember Peeta can camouflage himself because he’s a baker” said with a mocking tone makes me so mad because they completely misunderstand why he’s able to camouflage and why decorating cakes is mentioned in that context. Peeta was poor, a different kind of poor from the seam, but poor nonetheless. he didn’t have money for paints nor canvases. he is an artist, he creates, he uses his paintings after the first hunger games as his therapy. he loves painting, so he used whatever was available to him to show his artist soul. he was able to decorate cakes and pastries as if they were canvases because they were going to gain a profit from it, but I’m certain that in his free time he probably used the elements to draw and paint, these being water and mud and flowers and whatever he could find. plus he received official training the days before the games.

please learn how to read, stop skimming through pages to fulfil your yearly quota of books read.

[viscountessevie]

It’s kind of insane that Katniss and Peeta chose to spend nights together on the Victory Tour considering that their day activities involved being shoved in each others faces all day.

Even people who are in romantic relationships could possibly be sick of touching and spending all their time with someone. They would need a break. Let alone Katniss and Peeta who just started being friends and are anxious.

But what do both of them think of as bright spots to the tour? Choosing to spend the nights together, and it’s not even the comfort of having someone in the same room. They’re taking that time to be close enough that Katniss has a spot on Peeta’s chest for her head.

The argument that Katniss and Peeta were forced together really holds no water when they take opportunities to be super close where they would be right to want some distance. Their friendship and love was a choice they made over and over, not something forced on them.

[viscountessevie]

[viscountessevie]

that's a happy ending, kindness in action can do some good here and there.

[viscountessevie]

[viscountessevie]

DAMSON IDRIS 📹 2025 Met Gala

[viscountessevie]

AMBIKA MOD

— british, south asian (indian), 20’s

[viscountessevie]

[viscountessevie]

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

[viscountessevie]

part of the reason I think it’s so sad that we collectively write so few stories about unrequited love is bc I feel like there’s very little public acknowledgment of how much it sucks to be the one somebody is in unrequited love with??? and not in a way of like, oh they’re crossing boundaries or putting expectations on me or whatever. becoming close friends with someone and then finding out they’re in love with you and you don’t love them back the same way is heartbreaking, bc a) someone you love is in pain and there is literally nothing you can do about it, and b) it usually means that whether you like it or not there’s going to be distance in your friendship that wasn’t there before as they try to get over you. idk man I just feel like we’ve all discussed the tragedy of loving someone who doesn’t love you back quite a lot and very rarely discuss the tragedy of finding out the way that you love someone just isn’t enough.

[viscountessevie]

thinking about all the “small” art that’s ever existed. songs that were only ever sung in one village. stories written by children that got lost in the shuffle. personal paintings that didn’t survive the test of time. how they affected the lives of just a few, but still existed, still mattered to someone.

[viscountessevie]

we are forcing mike to discuss top 40 pop girlies in the groupchat #elderabuse

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Potentially hot take but one of the reasons we need art and music in schools is that, taught correctly, they are ideal avenues for teaching kids how to do something, kinda suck at it, keep going anyways and improve over time.

And THAT is one of the most valuable skill sets a human being can have. THAT is the skill set that unlocks soooooo many others.

A LOT of people I see with anxiety and depression do not have this skill set. To suck at something is a threat. Proof that they are doomed to suck at it forever. And then, often, that either THEY suck forever or the task must be stupid/useless/pointless (whence we get AI art fans who have decided actually making art is pointless and degrading the labor and skills of others is fine because these are useless skills).

Or you get the freeze- the inability to try things in case you fail. The sudden lancing shame and humiliation or hopelessness. The sense that anything you haven't learned by now you can't learn. Which is so heartbreaking and so untrue.

I just hate it.

"What if I write it and it's bad" "what if I draw it and it's bad" "what if I play it and it sounds bad" DOING IT BAD IS HOW YOU LEARN TO DO IT GOOD! You can't skip the process of leaning and the process is FUN if you let it be what it needs to be!