#Infantilizing a mental illness? More common than you think

[train-fans-anonymous]

(Probably Lukewarm) Hot Take: I fucking hate it when people infantilize Red Alert, there is something so 😬 about it..

[freakinator]

sorry im gonna yap in here bc i feel like you might get it

the way kab treats zam drives me up the WALLS. he doesnt owe her SHIT. kab MADE THE CHOICE to open up zam, sure, but the way she acts like that means he's obligated to follow her to the ends of the earth and tell her everything. holy shit. admittedly i havent seen kabs stream from today yet so i dont know what the fuck was going through her head but the way she got upset at him for not wanting her help with HIS mental health (???) is crazy.

"i cant spend my energy on you when you dont want to be helped" Zam, who deadass doesnt think theres anything wrong and has no fucking idea where this I Can Fix You shit came from:

feel free to ignore this btw im just watching the vod and i keep pausing to stand and walk around the room and say "you dont owe her shit" out loud

no i get it anon, the thing about kab is that she seems to think she can fix zam — not in a direct way like vi or minute but in a trying to become his therapist friend way which is Wild to say the least

she shares two things in common with vi and minute in regards to zam: 1. they care about him. a lot. and because of that they 2. impose what they think is best for him upon him despite the fact that he neither wants nor has asked for any of it, but they do it cause they care and they want whats best for him and they want to show it but in that desire to show him they care they instead end up being really fucking ableist to him

like theres a reason why i said the ppl who love zam the most are also the ones who are the most ableist to him and this is part of the reason why, because they think love and care and effort is enough to help someone become "better" without taking into account that everyone is an individual and not all methods work

vi is a more complicated situation than the other two cause a lot of miscommunication between them was borne out of an impossible compromise that they tried their hardest to reconcile but never could, but with minute and kab zam has said to them to their faces that he doesnt need or want their help (at least not the kind they offer) and yet still they keep doing what they thought is best for him (for parasocial reasons for minute and for attempt at connections reasons for kab)

and the thing is the reason they kept imposing their care upon him is cause of this distorted image they have of him: vi thought zam was mentally ill and just needed to be coddled to feel better, minutes image of zam as a hero who fought even against impossible odds got shattered when he realized zam was no longer the person he used to be, and kab thinks zam is an emotionally closed off self-pitying hypocrite who never puts in any effort in their relationship together

this screenshot of one of her chatters (whose sentiment she agreed with btw) explains why kab infantilizes him so much i think (explains as in its how she thinks of him)

[stuckasmain]

Hal as an “Evil AI” is a prevalent misinterpretation that we all heavily dislike but I don’t see anyone addressing the other prevalent misinterpretation of “Hal did no wrong” and not in a joking or genuine exploration of technology and morality way but a flat out “owo” way.

The infantilization of Hal is absolutely rampant and I think part of it may be a overlap with how the mentally ill (in this case serious disorders like schizophrenia, that Hal displays symptoms similar to) are either overly demonized or overly infanalized. In this case people using his glitch as an excuse rather than an explanation IF AT ALL because “he was just scared they’re so mean owo” is another common thing I see which… no. People heard the self defense argument and then run to demonize every other possible character.

The thing about Hal is that he knows what he did was wrong, he understands why even. In the cases of computers like him one can even have a interesting discussion onto wether our sense of morality should apply at all— how much free will does he exactly have as one could argue all actions still come back to the limitations of his programing etc. and a lot of his more “sinister” or “innocent” traits are outright our human projection but that’s rarely the conversation.

It’s all “sweet little thing could never even think of violence it’s too scary” (he’s killed four people…) or they were going to/killed him for no reason because they’re bad.

Idk it’s really tiresome seeing him babied… that’s a grown man… computer… he likely knows more than most of us even. Self preservation was a factor but not in the “he was scared they were so mean and wanted to kill him for no reason🥺” I discussed it before but really I think he would’ve went with it had he been healthy but that’s neither here nor there. I think a lot of the infanalization comes from hearing of this and well… he’s simply a very pleasant fellow and you can’t help but feel for him.

But you can feel for a charecter without mischaracterizing, you know? That’s the thing about Hal he has both more and less emotion than you think.

[girlytips]

I feel like japanese people DO reclaim words/insults (ie: the word fujoshi, regardless of your feeling on the community itself.) To argue that reclaiming isn't something japanese people do is kind of orientalist and othering.

It's a common misconception that "fujoshi" has been reclaimed when it still has the same negative meaning, being "unmarriable" and "rotten" for their interests in fictional content. For people interested in BL and yaoi topics, the term "BL fan" is commonly used by those who don't want to align themselves with the meaning of fujoshi instead. Most "examples" of Japanese reclamation are like this- insults (not slurs) that some people use because they agree that they fit the bill while people upset by stereotyping use a different word (otaku to wota, fujoshi to BL fan, etc).

I get a lot of comments from people who are not from Japan claiming that pointing out cultural differences is "othering", which in my opinion seems a little more disrespectful than simply mentioning that cultural differences are present between Japan and the countries I typically get readers from. When doing my own research for years in this community, I prioritize the voices of Japanese people who wear the fashions originating from their country. This has been especially true when we wrote our big article on the history of stereotypes in Girly, which was reviewed by a Japanese friend who has been in the menhera (mental health support and art) movement and wearing Girly for over a decade, and used Japanese sources by actual Japanese people almost exclusively. It's not dehumanizing to say that some cultural practices surrounding words, specifically slurs, are present in English speaking cultures but not Japan and need to be noted in order to have context.

That being said, we do get bothered by the fact some people seem to think that it's dehumanizing or racist to point out that certain practices are not present in Japan and we have even been told that the practice of reclaiming slurs for groups you belong to isn't a cultural or linguistic trait but instead a "human trait". The implications that unless Japanese people conform to Western conventions of language evolution, they are "others" or just not exhibiting the "natural human behaviors" surrounding slurs seem far more racist to me than simply acknowledging that the cultural practices surrounding slurs and the amount of respect (or lack thereof) given to mentally ill people in Japan should be taken into account.

This issue seems to coincide with the fact that until this whole "landmine isnt offensive because people use it" line of thinking by westerners looking to profit off of whatever tags are most popular at a given time, the fact that Japanese society sees mentally ill people as undeserving of the little respect even other minorities get in Japan and are seen as a fetish or a disease was well known and well discussed in communities surrounding anime, jfashion, manga, and Japanese games. However, as soon as an instance of this discrimination, fetishization, and lack of respect is "cute", suddenly people are acting like Japanese people can do no wrong and cannot be a part of the problem so long as they are attractive and fashionable. It is incredibly infantilizing to say the issue can't be a big deal anymore just because Japanese women can be part of the problem and can do no wrong. The willingness of the non-Japanese communities surrounding Japanese art and culture to turn a blind eye towards a deadly social issue that they've been openly discussing since the 90s just because they have realized that it's not just old men who are contributing to an ableist society really speaks volumes to me when it comes to whether or not a lot of people who consume Japanese culture care about Japanese people who aren't celebs or influencers.

That's my two cents on the topic. The blog has been mostly running in queue and reblogs by my friend over at girlyholic while I've been busy in my personal life, but I should be back to running the blog full-time by the end of next week. - ribon

[problematic-faves-appreciation]

This Blog's Most Important Posts:

— Fiction —

Fiction is NOT Education

Fiction itself doesn’t affect people or give them Bad Ideas.

No amount of dark fiction would make someone with a solid moral core harm another person.

The guys who stormed Capitol Hill were dressed as Captain America.

Children & Fiction

We as a society already had this discussion with the violent video games nonsense.

 “Well if you don’t support it irl then why would you like it in fiction?!”

Why should the writers be held responsible for the bad choices of anyone who picks up their book and ignores what’s actually in it in favor of the version of the book they made up in their head?

People just blame mental illness or past abuse or their victims if fiction isn’t an option.

Fanfic writers are the product of the world they’re in, far more than they are the cause of what’s wrong with it.

Don’t fucking trivialise Nazis and their crimes against humanity by equating them to the fucking “dewit” wrinkle man or the guy who tried to eat a unicorn.

“Fiction affects reality!” It does… but also it doesn’t, and certainly not on a one-to-one level.

Magic Bullet Theory

Fiction affecting one’s perception does not equal the hypodermic-syringe model:

Jaws

It is not necessary for fiction to be good for people’s mental health.

— Romanticization —

Definition of Romantic

What “romantic”, in a literary sense, actually means.

Romanticism is the opposite of realism.

A PSA reminder: Fiction is entertainment, not nonfiction!

Hey fandom, fiction doesn’t have to be realistic!

Romanticizing an aspect of fiction isn’t that much of an issue, actually.

For god’s sake, the reason we tell stories is so we can engage the imagination.

Most fiction “romanticizes” human experiences and behaviors. 

Hey, did you know that rape fantasies are really common, especially in women?

Women are infantilized so much.

And ultimately, we should not take away women’s abilities to explore their fantasies through fandom.

A fandom fictional ship should not be an example or a role model of a healthy relationship.

Seriously if you need fanfiction to teach you what healthy and normal relationships are like, you don’t need fanfiction you need resources geared towards teaching you what healthy and non-abusive relationships are like.

— Normalization —

Your words aren’t magical and don’t brainwash people into doing what you imagine

People do not copy fiction as a rule. 

Fiction isn’t going to normalize problematic concepts to anyone to a significant degree, unless the problematic concept is already normalized, and then it’s a societal problem rather than one of expression.

This

How ‘normalization’ works:

What antis don’t understand is that exposure =/= normalisation, exposure = recognition, which is not the same.

Normalization and Desensitization regarding Fiction

To antis, this lack of disgust is the normalization they are fighting against

Abusers choose to hurt you. They know that their actions will hurt you, and they choose to do it anyways. Everything after that is an excuse.

Blame the abuser, they did the abusing.

— Villains —

Reasons I have liked villains/antagonists before without agreeing with their actions.

What I mean when I say I like villains:

“The good guys are boring”

The Villain Police

No, the characters one fans over do not “define” who they are as a person, nor “confirm” their political beliefs. 

The "women who like villains and ship them with heroines are messed in the head and will end up in toxic relationships" argument is nothing but misogynistic hot garbage.

Excuse me, are you asking if I know that murder is bad? 

PSA to the Minors™️ and fake activists:

— Redemption —

Nobody "Deserves" Redemption

Exactly! Redemption is for VILLAINS.

Anyone who says certain characters do or do not "deserve" redemption arcs: shut the fuck up like PLEASE.

The only thing that makes a villain irredeemable is if they choose to be… and redemption is a series of choices, not just a singular moment.

They think that “redemption” is not “becoming a better person and fixing your mistakes”, but “being accepted by the good guys”.

I think it’s really important to talk about how different people have different power fantasies.

No one deserves a redemption arc!

Forgiving is not synonymous with redeeming.

Anyone else think people tend to get the wrong idea about hero/villain relationships where the heroine “”“fixes”“” a male villain?

It’s pretty disturbing tbh, to treat basic things that every human needs (like being loved) as a “reward” that you get for good behavior.

— Shipping —

I ship people because I think their story is interesting, not to get relationship advice.

Reasons Why People Ship or Enjoy Problematic/Toxic/Abusive Relationships

Unhealthy relationship means just that, a relationship that is unhealthy.

Love Redeems isn’t “Lazy” storytelling.

Antis are worried that we "normalize" and "romanticize" abuse for harmless FICTIONAL ships.

Shipping doesn’t mean condoning.

Enemies to Lovers =/= Belligerent Sexual Tension

Enemies to Lovers is about:

Women and their tastes in fiction aren’t responsible for abusive men.

Here’s a take you all need to hear: People do not deserve to be mistreated over a fictional character, even if they…

PSA: Shipping is not activism.

Why Shipping is Not Activism

— Fanpol —

Trying to dictate other people’s expression based on your preferences and opinions makes you an anti.

“Censorship is like telling a man he can’t have steak because a baby can’t chew it.” 

Fandom is not activism.

90% of the problem with Twitter is treating fictional people like they're real and real people like they're fictional.

I’ve noticed that the younger crowd requires villains to adhere to a strict moral code. lol

And the girl moved on with her life.

Antis are the one hurting people.

Self-Projection

Hey guys, guess what? According to Twitter, you're "promoting" a villain's actions if you're their fan!

Fandom Frollos

The Moral Crusaders of the 1950s

You are taking responsibility away from the person who has made the decision to abuse and instead placing the blame upon the tools they used.  

[missmentelle]

What makes a codependent relationship? Is it healthy for someone to rely on you as a constant source for support, talking all the time? Getting seperation anxiety and experiencing extreme stress when they are without you? Is it selfish to not necessarily reciprocate that stress?

Let's start by defining what a codependent relationship is.

In a codependent relationship, one person (the codependent) consistently enables the dysfunction of another person, often assuming a "caretaker" or "protector" role. The dysfunctional person usually struggles with a serious issue that may make it difficult for them to function on their own - often addiction, mental illness, or serious underachievement/irresponsibility - and the codependent partner will make extreme personal sacrifices to take care of this person and shield them from the consequences of their actions.

Codependent relationships aren't always romantic relationships - they can be found between friends, parents/children, coworkers, other family members, or any other type of relationship. Wherever they exist, are very unhealthy for both of the people involved in them. The codependent person focuses so heavily on the dependent person's needs that they entirely neglect their own, while the dysfunctional person is enabled to continue being dysfunctional and is often prevented from making any kind of progress toward recovery.

Common traits of codependent people include:

a fear of being alone. They often seek out relationships with people who will depend on them and encourage that dependency to ensure that the other person will not leave them.

extreme fixation on the feelings and needs of others. They often view their own needs as unimportant or secondary and prioritize the needs of others, even when this has not been asked of them.

a compulsive need to "fix" the problems of others. when they see a person who is struggling, they feel the overwhelming need to step in and start "fixing" the situation, even if doing so is not their responsibility.

low self-esteem. They often have chronic issues with self-esteem, and don't feel that they "deserve" to have their own needs prioritized. Their self-esteem is often tied to their ability to maintain their caretaking role at all costs, even when it is incredibly harmful to them.

controlling and perfectionist tendencies. Codependent people often struggle to cope when they don't have high amounts of control in their relationships, or when things aren't done "just so". They gravitate towards caretaking roles where they have high amounts of control, and struggle to let go.

external locus of control. They often feel powerless in their lives, and feel that they simply have to accept their circumstances and the way that others treat them.

high capacity for denial. They often cannot or will not see problems that are right in front of them, and refuse to acknowledge the seriousness of a situation - the house will be burning down around them and they'll refuse to even admit that it's getting a little warm.

a history of interpersonal trauma or abuse. Codependency is often a learned behaviour - many people who fall into these patterns experienced codependency from their parents, or witnessed their parents' codependent relationship at a young age. Many have also experienced extreme emotional abuse, from their parents or a past partner.

a strong need for approval. Codependents need to be liked. They need approval. Doing things for others and letting others walk on them is the best way they know how to gain that.

boundary issues. They often cannot and do not set personal boundaries - they take a "Giving Tree" approach to helping others, endlessly giving even when it seriously hurts them. At the same time, they may overstep boundaries to try to fix others' issues, even when it is not their responsibility to get involved.

a lack of personal identity. The codependent relationship often becomes the focus of their whole life. They invest so much time and energy into it that without it, they wouldn't know what to do with themselves.

a tendency to be drawn to close relationships with substance addicts, alcoholics, people with personality disorders, or other codependents. Codependent relationships are usually not a one-off thing - they tend to be a recurring pattern in a person's life. In particular, people with untreated BPD often seek out relationships with codependent people, as they tend to prefer relationships with people who don't set personal boundaries and are willing to provide the extreme amounts of reassurance and caretaking that they need. People with BPD also tend to be codependent themselves, further complicating things.

an appearance of being "addicted to chaos". Codependent people often appear to gravitate toward drama, dysfunction and chaos. Having relationships with people who have healthy boundaries, autonomy and stable personal lives often holds little interest for them - they prefer relationships where they feel needed and depended upon.

Codependent people often have a "martyr" or "victim" complex - they often feel that it is their lot in life to suffer for others, that self-sacrifice is a key part of their identity, or that suffering is simply a part of loving someone. The idea that they should set expectations in a relationship, leave a relationship where they aren't treated well or have an identity of their own outside a relationship is something they struggle with. They often hop from codependent relationship to codependent relationship, becoming steadily more beaten down and burnt out in the process - breaking free from codependent tendencies can be a long process, and often requires professional help.

There is a lot of variety in what codependent relationships look like. Some examples of codependency in action would include:

A mother allows her chronically unemployed and irresponsible 38-year-old son to live with her, and does everything for him. She never confronts her son about the fact that he doesn't contribute financially or help out around the house, even though it's placing a great financial and personal strain on her. When other family members ask why her adult son isn't taking steps to get his life together, the mother becomes highly defensive, and may make up lies about the progress he's made, or insist that he's still young and that this is normal for his age.

A woman assumes the role of "caregiver" for her unstable and very mentally ill partner. She bends over backwards to keep her partner happy, and doesn't seem to notice or mind that her partner never does the same thing in return. Her partner constantly burns bridges with their own family or friends with their explosive anger, and she rushes in to make excuses and try to fix the situation. When friends raise concerns about the relationship, she brushes them off, insisting that she's happy and everything is fine.

The parent of an autistic teenager infantilizes their autistic child, and insists that the child needs much more care than they actually do. Being an "autism parent" is a huge part of their identity. The child has never been allowed to attend an overnight camp, go for sleepovers or stay at home with a babysitter, as the parent is highly fearful and believes that other people will not look after their child properly. The parent strongly resists all of their child's attempts to gain more independence, insisting that it's too dangerous or that the child cannot handle it.

The US version of the television show Shameless is almost entirely centered around codependent relationships. The main characters are all in codependent relationships with their alcoholic and dysfunctional father, Frank. Although the main characters are often angry with their father, they constantly allow him back into their lives no matter how horribly he treats them - at times, they give him money, provide him with alcohol, let him move back into their house, visit him in the hospital and cover him with a blanket when he passes out on the floor. The boundaries they set with him never last long, and they always resume having a relationship with him, even after he does things that most people would find unforgivable.

So with that said: is it healthy for someone to rely on you as a constant source of support?

It sort of depends.

Relationships are supposed to be a reliable source of support for both of the people in them. That's sort of what they're for. I worry sometimes that the internet is making us too transactional in our relationships, and too quick to think that someone is taking advantage of us if they constantly turn to us for support. It's normal to find comfort in your relationships, and to turn to your loved ones whenever you need someone to talk to. I talk to my partner, my parents and my closest friends every day - that often means mentioning things that we’re stressed or anxious about, or venting about problems in our lives. Sometimes people are going through something and need extra support for a while - that’s just a normal part of close relationships. 

With that said, there are times when someone leans on you too hard. If helping someone is starting to take a serious toll on your own life, that’s a problem. Every relationship needs boundaries; if your boundaries are consistently pushed or broken in the name of supporting that person, it may be time for a serious talk. Staying up until 4am to talk someone through a crisis is fine if this is a rare occurrence. Staying up until 4am to talk someone through a crisis multiple times per week, every single week, is an issue - that’s you sacrificing your own need for sleep, and something needs to change. Are you willing to set boundaries and balance your own needs with your friends’ needs? Is the other person willing to respect boundaries, or do they lash out with anger, guilt-trips, accusations of not caring for them or threats to harm themselves? 

If you and a friend are both willing to communicate and work on establishing boundaries, I think it’s fine for one person to need a lot of support. If the relationship is damaging for you and one or both of you just isn’t able or willing to discuss boundaries, that’s a sign there could be some codependence going on. 

A person experiencing separation anxiety and extreme stress when you aren’t around could be an issue - but again, it depends on how it’s being handled. Is your friend able to cope with this anxiety on their own, or are they constantly putting this anxiety on you? Are they blowing up your phone and getting anxious if you’re 10 minutes late answering a text? Do they ever try to guilt-trip you or blame you for triggering their separation anxiety? Do they accuse you of not caring about them if you try to take time for yourself? Are they jealous of your other relationships? Is their extreme stress taking a toll on your life and preventing you from having other relationships or having personal boundaries and space? If your friend is willing to work on boundaries and find healthy coping mechanisms for their stress, this might be something you can overcome. If your friend is burning you out and one or both of you is unable to set boundaries, this might be a very unhealthy situation. 

Not feeling the same stress and anxiety, however, is definitely not selfish. It’s not healthy for someone to feel that level of extreme stress and separation anxiety - it’s not your friend’s fault that they experience that, but it’s still very unhealthy. The fact that someone feels an unhealthy attachment to you does not mean that you should feel an unhealthy attachment right back. No one benefits from that. In any healthy relationship, both people have a life and identity outside the relationship. This is, fundamentally, the issue at the core of many different unhealthy relationships - whether they are codependent, enmeshed, or abusive.

 Being so attached to someone that you can’t handle them needing friends, hobbies, space and independence isn’t a compliment or something to aspire to - it’s just unhealthy.

Hope this answers your question! MM

[gentlemancrow]

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

OK so I saw @hey-there-hunter ‘s JMart Wedding Challenge and I pretty much fan ficced immediately??  Like it was an instantaneous plot bunny that stabbed me in the brain and would not let me free until I made it exist.  SO HERE YOU GO!  Read it here or head on over to AO3 below!  And enjoy some unapologetically aggressive fluff with weddings!  Also subtitled someday Crow will stop abusing excessive astral imagery and symbolism for extended metaphors, but today is not that day.

Read on AO3 instead!

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

Jonathan Sims always thought of himself as a man with a deep appreciation for the great literature of the world.  A passionate turn of phrase, crystalline motes of clear imagery like snowflakes reflecting light in his mental scape, a devastating contemplation on the nature of good and evil in the hearts of all mankind, everything that could express the beauty and tragedy of the world in ways he never could.  Prose was a bright paintbrush on a ragged canvas of the universe he had known from an early age was swathed in shadow and pain and evil, and those words on those pages, for at least a moment, were another world he could hold in his hands, could cradle and protect, could mourn.  He liked the power of them as well, of the tinkling brightness of alliteration, the oaky sophistication of a well-aged metaphor, the evocativeness of the idiosyncrasy in a simple simile, laying bare truths in ways he never could have articulated for himself.

There was one thing he could not abide by in language, however, one cardinal sin liable to besmirch any piece of lush and sparkling verse or prose and taint it forever.  And that was idioms.

Jon loathed idioms and their dismally quirky cliches dressed in familiarity’s tacky clothing almost as much as he hated spiders.  Perhaps it was something about their reliance on common knowledge and repetition.  He couldn’t bear reading the same book twice, or even a book that felt too familiar, it only made sense that hearing a hackneyed phrase repeated in that awful singsong sardonic tone of someone who knows full well they’re saying something asinine that has been repeated ad nauseum for millennia would scrape at the back of his skull and down his spine.  They were too whimsical and blasé, crutch words for when one’s limited lexicon came up empty, or worse, for ill comedic effect.  They reinforced that staunchly English notion of skirting about the true depth and breadth of emotion for clipped niceties and unfeeling banalities.  Idioms to him were mere verbal window boxes, colorful and meaningless, dressings for untold disasters behind the shining windows they peacocked before.  

He hated them all with vaguely equal rancor, but there was one he could definitely single out as the one he hated the most, and that was the one about hanging the moon.  Such and such thinks you hung the moon, to me you hung the moon, and so on.  This particular rhetorical felony attracted his wrath only marginally because any moon symbolism never failed to feel outlandish and infantile, a mawkish image of love and care rampant in nursery rhymes and cheap commercialized slogans for t-shirts and wall art.  That was the least of it.  He hated the idea of hanging the moon mostly because once, another lifetime ago now it seemed, Tim Stoker had lobbed it in his face in a fit of smoldering rage and he had been completely, complacently, ignorant of its magnitude.  

Funny thing was, he couldn’t even remember what the actual fight had been about any longer.  Though he could remember exactly where he was standing, cornered next to the file cabinet for the year 1985, January through February, and the label had been peeling up on the upper left-hand corner.  He remembered he’d discovered a hole in the elbow of his jumper that morning and he had been obsessing over it all day, fussing with the dangling green thread and tugging at the knit as if it might magically close the wound.  He’d put his finger clean through it with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest without even realizing he’d been fiddling with it when something flippant about Martin came out of his mouth.  It hadn’t even been cruel, he couldn’t even remember how Martin had come up in the argument in the first place, he could only remember Tim’s mouth moving like he wanted to say something else, then him forcibly stopping himself before he snarled.

“Yeah well, god knows why, but he thinks you hung the moon, so you might try treating him at the very least like a human being once in a while.”

It was such a small thing.  Small words for a small feeling cloaked in a chintzy veneer of idiomatic dismissal.  A trembling little bird cupped in his scarred and battered hands and smothered.  Or so he thought.  Sometimes trembling little birds turn out to be phoenixes, and those who looked to someone else to hang the comfort of a wise, silvery moon in the sky already have the hammer and the picture wire at the ready.

As far as Jon was concerned, the moon only rose on their Somewhere Else because Martin deigned to pull the strings every night, not him.

It was Martin who brought him tea every morning, set it down on the breakfast table with that little flip of the tag and the deft, one-fingered turn of the handle toward him.  It was Martin who scolded him because whites are a separate load, Jon, were you raised in a barn?  Martin who talked him through every episode of the Doctor Who reruns that were the only thing their ancient aerial could pick up.  Martin who planted flowers in the garden and brought muffins from the sweet old lady at the grocers because they traded baking recipes.  Martin who still looked at him with diaphanous pools of ethereal moonlight in his eyes and his smile like he alone hung it in the sky over his head to wash him in its radiance.

Even after everything.

Even after it had been Martin who had to hold the knife buried in his chest as he lay gasping wetly for breath in an alleyway in Another Chelsea to keep the hemorrhaging at bay.  Martin who had cupped his face in his bloody hands with tears streaming down his and forced him to focus, furious love blazing in his sea mist eyes as they locked with his, screaming at him and him only, heedless of anything else.

“Look at me.  LOOK at me, Jon!  Stay with me!  Stay with me, DAMN YOU!”

Stay with me had not been a plea, it had been a command.  He had never once said please because it was never an option.  Shivering, breathing blood through his teeth, the streetlights a fading, star studded halo in Martin’s strawberry blond curls be damned, he was right.  Against every tangled thread of fate twisted deep into his flesh, or perhaps because they had been the only thing that held his torn innards together, he made it to the part where he awoke a few fractured times to nothingness, and then to fingers he knew every inch of inextricably bound up in his and a fierce whisper in his ear.

“I’m here, Jon.  I’m still here.  I’ve got you.  I’m going to fix this.  I’m going to get us out of here.  We’re going to be okay.”

It had been Martin who orchestrated their clandestine escape from the hospital the moment they both agreed he was well enough to survive under his rudimentary medical care and before the authorities got too invested in an urban ghost story of two men who didn’t exist.  Not to mention one of which should, by all medical and logical law, be dead.  It had been Martin who had stolen the necessary antibiotics, drugs, and wound care supplies, Martin who had picked enough pockets to buy passage on a midnight train to the only place they could think to go, and expressly told Jon not to ask where he learned how, even though he knew full well he would later.  Martin who had fought for everything and kept him hidden and safe while he lay in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Scotland, drifting in and out of consciousness between kisses, cold compresses, spoonfuls of whatever he could get him to swallow and keep down, and desperate ‘I love you’s.

Martin had been the one who hung the moon even on the nights Jon couldn’t see it, just so he knew it was there, that the light might finally guide him home.  Not him.  He could have never done something so selfless and simple and beautiful.  No not him.  Not The Archivist.  How could he have ever known that?  Stupid, myopic, pedantic, all-seeing and blind.  A blustering, sanctimonious Tiresias in a sweater vest and half-moon glasses.  And how important was the moon, anyway that he was expected to hang it too?  Would not night still come and the stars still shine?  The stupid, vapid saying should have been about the sun anyway.  Something that nourished and guided and warmed.  Not the moon.  Not the thing of night and hungry wolves and quiet loneliness.  Not a thing of the darkness they fought and still not won, not exactly, not in a way that mattered.  How could he have known the weight of such a thoughtless, frivolous, meaningless phrase and how far and how long Martin had borne it for him to protect he who hung his moon?  

He could see the weight of it so clearly now.  He could see it especially on the darkest days, which came, in grotesque mockery, the moment they found something like their safehouse and rest at last.  Jon had conned his way into a job at the village library with an ancient head librarian who didn’t care much for too many questions, or background or credit checks, and was more than happy to pay in cash.  With Martin’s help of course.  Martin himself had taken up stocking at the village grocers, and their life had teetered onto something so close to quaint and normal it suddenly laid bare the gravity of the depths of darkness they had escaped.

No longer did they have to run, no longer did they have to fight, they could finally lay down the chase and curl in upon each other to lick their wounds in quiet.  But without the driving, primal instinct to live, to survive, that ushered in the days where all the hurt came back to roost and brood and fester.  The days where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, or the days Martin couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, or the days they shouted themselves hoarse, stormed apart for hours then came back, silent and broken, red-eyed and exhausted to hold each other and weep into the spaces between neck and shoulder where it still smelled like love and home.

He could see so painfully clearly the toll following him to the ends of the cosmos and back had etched its marks into his goodness, his body and soul, see how often he would walk down the road from their cabin, just a little ways, to stand on the heather spotted hills and gaze out into the frigid infinity of the gray sea.  Cold terror would grip him then, incite a desperate want to run after him, to throw his arms around him and bring him home, but also the fear it would only be to have him turn to mist and slip through his fingers forever.  He always had a cup of steaming tea waiting for him when he came back, just in case.

But again, and always.  It was Martin who would pick up Jon’s hands, kiss every slender, scarred finger through his tears and be the first one to utter ‘I’m sorry.’  Martin who told him with just a single scathing flash of stern blue eyes and not a single word uttered that he was certainly coming to bed and not banishing himself to the couch like an idiot.  Martin who wrapped him in his arms and warmth and boundless love and reminded him, “One way or another.  Together.  That was the deal, right?  You don’t get to back out now.  No returns, refunds, or exchanges, I’m afraid.”

And even through the deepest sobs he would find the laugh Jon didn’t think was in him.  Martin sifted through the mire and the muck and held fast to the tiny, shining things so easy to lose in the darkness.  Things Jon was certain were lost forever, only to be reignited and hung in the brightening sky of their story.  Even if they weren’t quite the moon yet.

It had also been Martin who, on a perfectly ordinary day, on a simple walk through the local farmers market, stopped to peruse one of the usual unremarkable stalls filled with crystals and oils and trinkets.  Jon had wandered off to procure the parsnips and the strawberries, unrelated recipes Martin swore, he had been tasked with finding.  When he returned he found him, a radiant monument tall among the faceless locals, rusty curls caressing his face in the salty breeze, carved of marble and rose quartz and gazing down at a pair of hematite rings on a velvet display box.  His eyes were distant, but not in the enthralled, disembodied way they were when he looked at the sea, or the broken way when they weren’t speaking, but in the contemplative, regarding of puzzle pieces way when he would look into the fire during their talks and turn his words in his mind over and over again like a rock tumbler until they were polished just right.

“Getting into crystals now, are we?” Jon had joked, “Surely I’m not so dull to be around that that’s becoming an attractive hobby.”

Martin snorted and shook his head.

“Supposed to mean healing, or grounding, or something.  Aligning your meridians, I think the lady said?  Whatever that means,” he elaborated, reaching out to touch.

They clinked weightily together, thick and glossy and the dark astral gray of a moonless night.  Martin turned over the card that went with them and read.

“’A grounding stone that belongs to the planet Mars.  It strengthens our connections to the earth and aids the warrior on their journey.  It is a stone of invincibility, but also fragility.  It balances yin and yang energies with its magnetic properties for the perfect reflection upon one’s own soul, astral, physical, and spiritual.’”

“Hematite, is it?” Jon asked, “Also more commonly called bloodstone.  You know if you scratch it, it leaves a red mark.  Like it’s bleeding.  Watch.”

He picked up one of the rings and firmly ran it down the corner of the card Martin had been reading from.  Sure enough, the black stone had left a faint, but starkly crimson mark on the yellowed paper.

“It BLEEDS?” Martin exclaimed in horror.

“It’s just a kind of iron oxide, so, rust, basically,” Jon explained with a chuckle, “Kind of weirdly romantic if you think about it?  This intimidating shiny black stone like armor, made of iron to boot, but with a bleeding heart at its core.”

“I just thought it was pretty, I didn’t know it bleeds,” Martin had laughed in that incredulous way he always did when Jon was telling him something he didn’t actually want to know, but appreciated anyway.

“I find that the strongest, prettiest things often do,” Jon had said in reply.  He remembered saying that particularly clearly, waxing poetic, feeling a swell of affection for the hugely beautiful man he leaned against and was adorably aghast at bleeding rocks.

“Yeah, I reckon they do,” Martin murmured back.

And then his cheeks had flushed bright red under his freckles and the stone steps of his shoulders crumbled a bit under the crushing ancientness and vastness of what he had originally been pondering.

“So, I mean, before you spoiled it with the blood thing.  I was thinking… Well, I was just having a browse and I saw these and I thought they were quite fetching, and then the lady told me they meant grounding and healing and a journey, like on the card.  A-And there were two of them, all by themselves, and everything else was so colorful and flashy these were just so… Um.  Maybe the blood and rusty iron thing makes it more poetic now, actually?  I don’t know.  Sorry I-  This sounded so much better in my head.”

It wasn’t his fault, Jon remembered thinking.  Martin couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any.  Not in this universe or any other.  Not for what they’d gone through, and especially not for what they meant to each other.

“I guess I was just thinking.  If… I bought one.  And wore it.  Sort of like.  Um.  You know.  Would… Would you-?” he had asked, his voice trembling.

Jon had never said yes, yes of course he would, faster or with more conviction in his life.  And there was that look again, rising from the ashes, that flooding of golden, unbound love and light, of eyes turned sky blue, of looking at the man who hung his moon in the sky come back to him.  He could still hang Martin’s moon all over again after so many nights of black clouds and darkness, even if it was only paper.  They’d paid for the rings in rumpled bills, exchanged them right then and there, and kissed each other as the crowd of oblivious people in a world they did not belong in flowed like a river around them.  Jon forgot the bag with the parsnips and strawberries.

But it didn’t matter.  It didn’t even matter that Martin’s fit nicely on his ring finger, but Jon had to wear his on his thumb, and even then sometimes on a chain around his neck for fear of losing it.  It didn’t matter that it was the closest thing they were ever going to get to a proposal and a wedding, consigned now forever to the shadows in a borrowed reality with only each other.  Because it was theirs, and they could begin to figure out how their broken pieces fit back together again.

But like most things that don’t matter, it didn’t until it did.

It began as simple things.  Seeing a wedding on some program they weren’t actually paying much attention to and Martin making a flippant, innocuous comment as he combed his fingers lovingly through Jon’s long and silvered chestnut hair in his lap about how he would have loved to have a cake that had a different flavor on every tier at their wedding.  Just so everyone could have something they liked.  And Jon woke up from his half catlike stupor and looked up at him with such aching regret as those words settled into the pit of his heart alongside ‘he thinks you hung the moon.’  

And soon they began to gather a collection of completely innocent remarks that ran the gamut from ‘would they have worn black or white?  Or one of each?  I don’t know… does it really matter?  And were these engagement rings or wedding rings?  I don’t know.  Neither?  both?  And do we say husband instead of boyfriend now?  Fiancé?  Whatever you want, Martin…’ To the heavier, cancerous weights that sank to the bottom of his gut, even below hanging the moon, like ‘I know Tim would have thrown the most amazing bachelor party for both of us, and his mum had always talked about him getting married someday like it was a farfetched pipe dream, but she would be happy for them, he thinks.’

He could never answer those questions.  There was too much at stake, too much finality and familiarity in them, a strange weightlessness in a world that weighed far too much.  The sun and moon continued their eternal dance of time, ignorant, unbothered, but Jon kept collecting those silent debts of normal life, secreting them away in a hidden singularity in his heart that only grew heavier and metastasized farther the more times Martin walked out at night, not him, beaming starlight from his eyes and his fingertips, to hang the moon again.  So soft, so full of wooly cows and pink heather and the smell of tea and sea salt and Martin’s shampoo on the pillow next to him did it become, that it was almost inevitable that one morning Jon awoke absolutely convinced none of it could be real.  

The moment he decided that, everything made so much more sense.  He could breathe again.  There was a reason he could never sit still, never just feel at ease or talk about the future like it was a real thing that could still happen.  He knew why the silence made his brain itch and why he still glanced around corners and glowered at anyone who dared let their gaze linger on his Martin too long.  Why Martin’s ring fit and his didn’t.  There was too much debt to the universe to be paid, too many broken promises, too many corpses in his wake, he had done nothing to deserve this idyllic life of love and peace and smallness and Martin.  It had to be Her doing, It’s doing, some carefully woven torture chamber that would lure them to the apex of their joy, the center of the web, where they would just be devoured over and over to empty husks and set up like chess pieces to fill with love and light just to knock down again.  He wasn’t free after all.

Jon had been halfway into his coat and halfway out the door to do, he didn’t know, something, anything, to go to the library to use their computer and research something he didn’t know he was looking for when Martin had seized his hand and whirled him around.

“Jon.  STOP.  It’s over.”

And he’d stopped.  He’d looked into those baleful blue eyes, fallen into their depths, landed on the precipice of madness, and broken.  It wasn’t over.  Not for him.  He finally understood.  It was still there.  The Eye.  It always had been.  Though not really, he understood slowly as he wept on his knees in their doorway into Martin’s chest, it had indeed closed forever on him, but it lingered as distant static, like a phantom limb, a metaphysical itch that could never be scratched.  Martin had cradled him close and listened, listened so patiently as he ripped the jagged black fear from the deepest, ugliest part of his heart, hauled it up bloody and messy from his throat and finally laid it bare for both of them to see.  And when it was done and he couldn’t cry anymore Martin had locked eyes with him in a way that made him forget any others could have ever existed outside of crystalline blue and filled with moonlight.

“Listen to me.  I know you think you have some cosmic burden to bear.  That you’re still wearing some… some fucked up crown and sitting on a throne of skulls and death and eyeballs or whatever image you want to put there, and that you have to sit and hurt and watch over everything so it doesn’t happen again, but...  Sorry, Jon, but that’s bullshit.  It’s just a scar now.  That’s all.  Just like the rest of them.  Ugly and beautiful and proof that you —Jonathan Sims— are still alive.  And you are not The Archivist anymore.  You’re just mine.  My Jon.”

He’d held his Jon’s stunned face in his hands and peppered kisses over the pock marks in his skin, over the slash on his throat, the burnt fingers that still couldn’t bend quite right, even the one on his chest, the one almost always hidden by fabric but the one he didn’t need to see to find.  His heart and fingers would always remember exactly where it was.  And he’d kept his lips there a moment, then turned his ear to his chest and wrapped his arms around his waist to listen to his heartbeat like a trembling little bird.

“If I can hear it and feel it.  So can you,” he whispered.

Unsteady fingers curled desperately into Martin’s silky locks, hematite loop cool against his scalp, “Thank you…”

Martin stayed for the kiss on top of his head he knew was coming and smiled.

“Okay, so it’s simple to fix if you think about it,” he murmured into Jon’s chest, “We just need that thing, you know?  The thing that makes you feel like you’re still doing the thing, but you’re not.  What was the word for it again?  A placeholder?  Like when you quit smoking and you hold a pencil or a straw or something that’s not actually a cigarette so you can wean yourself off the ritual?”

Jon blinked owlishly down at him as he dried his eyes.

“A… placebo?  Are you talking about a placebo?”

“Yeah!  That’s it!  We just need to find you a placebo for Knowing things!  That’s all.  Like… reality shows, or-or zoo cams or something!  We’ll figure it out together.  Alright, love?  I promise you.  It’ll be okay.”

Jon was skeptical, so very skeptical, but if Martin was determined to find a balm to soothe his jagged, ontological scars he would happily play the part of lab rat for him.  They’d tried a myriad things to replicate the feeling of Knowing and looking something deep within him still craved.  The zoo and animal livestreams were a bust, cute and entertaining as they were, but animals weren’t ever the purview of The Eye and the camera itself was barely a scrap.  Reality shows came closer, the more salacious the better, but even that temporary fix wore off when Jon’s disgust with the overall content and participants outweighed any benefit.  Martin was just happy to have finally converted him to Bake Off, at least.  They tried people watching in the square in the village, but it made Jon far too self-conscious and guilty.  He used the binoculars exactly once, and that was to look at the cows in the fields, and the choose-your-own-adventure books Martin had been certain would strike a sagacious chord wound up in the donation bin at the library.  But that was when he was struck with a bolt of genius.

Unbeknownst to Jon, which brought him no small measure of glee, Martin ordered, received, and then set up with a literal bow in their back garden the finest telescope he could afford on his meager savings.  He’d researched for days, asked on every amateur astronomer forum he could find, and had it delivered to the grocers so he could make it a proper surprise.  He’d even gone so far as to attack and blindfold a hapless Jon the moment he made it home from work on the day it was ready, and stood behind him giddily bouncing as he tore the tea towel away from his eyes.

“A… Telescope?” he’d blurted dumbly.

“Yes!  It’s perfect, right?  I asked around to find the one that had all the best features, and this one has the best overall magnification and the most lenses, but it doesn’t have the little satellite positioning thing?  I figured you wouldn’t want that anyway, you always like figuring things out and finding things on your own better.”

Martin had been positively radiant.  Jon had just stared at the gawping black tube and chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed what to say.

“I mean… thank you, Martin, really.  It was a sweet thought, but if the binoculars didn’t-“

“Screw the binoculars!  This is different!” Martin happily insisted, “You can look at so much more!  Stars and planets and galaxies and what have you, and it can maybe be sort of like you’re looking for other worlds?  Wormholes or whatever?  Or signs of The Fears and where they’ve gone?  Or even if the stars are the same here as they were back before?  Space literally has so many things to LOOK at we can’t even count them!  This has got to be it!”

Jon tried to smile and laugh and agree to try it out, at the very least, if only because Martin was beaming so sweetly with pride and hope.  Though that first night he didn’t, ushering them back in with promises of tomorrow, Martin, I promise tomorrow.  Tomorrow had been a lie.  As had been the next night.  In fact, it took Jon a full week to even remember they even had a telescope, and that was only after getting the smuggest, Cheshire grin out of Martin after casually mentioning there would be a visible, if partial, lunar eclipse that night.  He’d relented, only because he’d entrapped himself, and they’d both bundled up, looked in the manual for the best size lens to view the moon with, poured a few glasses of wine, and turned their eyes to the stars.

Martin had gone first, gripping the eyepiece and adjusting the focus all the while gasping in awe.  It was so beautiful he’d burst into poetry with a crooked grin.

“Art thou pale for weariness?  Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy?  Sounds a little familiar, eh?” he joked, casting a wry look over his shoulder.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly.

“Gross.  Keats again?”

“Nope, Shelley this time, and even he thinks you ought to have a look at the moon.  I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Jon had sighed obligingly and shuffled to the telescope, fully expecting to look at something bright and round with a bit of a shadow on it that was distinctly unremarkable, have another glass of wine, and then go back inside to snuggle by the fire.  What he saw in that tiny pinhole of light pierced straight through the hazel brown of his eye and plunged him into another world entirely.

The sands of the moon glowed the purest white in the refracted light of the distant sun with which it waltzed.  He could see in crisp, shadowy relief the innumerable scars she bore, the depth and breadth of Ptolemaeus, the boundless lonely flatness of the maria, named for the oceans they were once thought to be, an insult to the rock plains forged a millennia ago in birth by cataclysmic fire.  Every crater remained wrought in perfect, frozen detail with no erosion or foliage to slowly heal them over, and she beamed them proudly, ostentatiously in her heavenly light.  A hulking, ancient protectorate, hung by the hands of creation at the dawn of time for a fledgling planet, hundreds of thousands of miles away, and yet so crystal clear and unafraid as he perused her millions of years of cosmic sentinel through a lens.  It was dwarfing, humbling, viscerally awe inspiring in a way he dared not voice for fear of snuffing out the fragile glow of wonder and excitement welling in his chest he had been so certain was gone forever.

Astronomy had never been something that had particularly interested Jon, back when his entire reality from the moment his childish hands had touched a single book was spent peering into shadows and watching his own back.  There was no point in wondering what lay among the stars when danger and death lurked so close behind with slavering jaws ever poised at his throat on terra firma, but now.  Now, he had been living in an alternate world, dimension, reality, somewhere, he couldn’t even say for sure.  He’d been hurled potentially through the very stars that twinkled coquettishly above, flashed through their nebulous veils and curtains under their indifferent gaseous gazes, but seen nothing.  Here was a vast expanse of complete chaotic indefiniteness inviting him in to see what few had ever seen, to guess and hypothesize and gesture wildly at secrets only the stars could keep.  To Know.

Jon had jerked back so suddenly from the telescope to survey the entirety of the astral dome above them that Martin had choked on his wine.

“Jon?  Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I…” he’d murmured, only even half hearing that Martin had said anything at all, stars reflected in his wondering dark eyes, “I’m fine, I just… How… How much more can this see?  How deep does it go?”

Jon hadn’t seen the victorious smirk on Martin’s face as he set down his wine glass and picked up the instruction manual and lens guide.  They’d watched the rest of the eclipse, of course, marveling through the lens at the inky trickle of shadow over craggy white, but then they’d changed the lens to the strongest one, according to the guide, and spent the rest of the evening triangulating their position beneath their slice of the universe and plotting out the various stars, planets, and constellations above.  Jon had even dashed inside to grab a mostly blank notebook and had filled several pages with notes and observations and things to research later, all while Martin held back tears watching him come so alive over a project he didn’t even know he needed.  Eventually though, sleepiness and cold claimed him, and he kissed his beloved goodnight and left him, more than gladly, to ride out the intellectual flare up until it burnt both him and itself out.  

Martin had no clue what time it was when he finally returned, and it didn’t even matter.  All that mattered was at some point, a practically frozen Jon had climbed into bed, snuggled up close behind and wrapped his arms around him to kiss the back of his neck so softly like the wings of a butterfly and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Another victorious smirk and a loving murmur.

“Told you so.”

Where there had been nothing but an Eye shaped hole in him, scarred around the edges and aching in its vacuum, Jon had filled it with the names of nebulas and quasars, of the myth of Andromeda, and Orion, and Castor and Pollux, or Hercules, and why they had all been hung in the stars for eternity.  The stories were much the same as he remembered, but he’d found slight eccentricities, tiny irregularities in the sky which fascinated him even more so.  Night after night he would look at a different astral body, chart it down in his notebook, then come bounding in with starlight beaming from his eyes and his fingertips with some cry of eureka.

“Martin!  Did you know here Polaris is in the south and Sirius is in the north?”

“Martin!  Did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is actually a little closer to the Milky Way here?”

“Martin, you have to come see this!  Oh, no it’s not weird this time, it’s just I finally got Saturn in the telescope and you can actually see the rings!”

His nightly herald would always be different, but Martin would always rise from the comfort of the couch, put his slippers on, and let Jon talk as long as he needed to about his latest discovery, watching him smile again while he, too, watched the matching smile it never failed to ignite illuminate Martin’s face and they lit each other up in the fused brilliance of a binary star.

Martin no longer hung the moon for Jon, he’d finally just up and quite literally given it to him, and there was no mortal way to repay him for that.  Or so he’d thought.  It came to him, as most flashes of brilliance do, on a night he hadn’t even been thinking about it at all.  All he had been doing was sitting in a lawn chair with his telescope long after Martin had gone to bed, chewing his pencil idly, vaguely missing a cigarette and pondering notes on Vega and Lyra between watching it through his lens.  He’d been stuck for days on Vega and its potentiality for another solar system and what that could imply for their new Earth and their new sun, as well as Lyra and the tragic tale of Orpheus and his doomed love.  Even in their new reality he still turned back at the end of the story, still could not contain the roiling, effusive adoration to his own downfall.

Bitterness had risen like bile in the back of Jon’s throat as he replayed the myth again in his head, unsure why it was vexing him and rewinding in his brain so torturously.  “Stupid, stupid man, if he’d only just…” he’d thought again and again, each time giving the star-crossed musician a different decision, a different choice, urging him down another path somewhere, anywhere along his journey, but in the end, he’d always looped back around to the original.  It was the point of the story, after all.  Not so much the love itself or even the loss of it, but the power of it over one man and the creation born from his mourning and eventual destruction.  Patently Greek.  But the chorus would always begin again in Jon’s head.  If he’d kept his Eurydice, if his songs had been happy, if he hadn’t spent the rest of his life mourning so intensely he was eventually destroyed for it, would he have become the paragon of healing he was, the oracle, the lynchpin of the fate of the world he had eventually become?  Which of them was the stupider man?

Jon was only mortal now, he was no longer all-seeing oracle and dark savior, he had no authority to say, but it was a trifle easier to ponder the hubris of Orpheus instead of his own.  He couldn’t help but think, achingly, sometimes the heroes just deserved to pull their beloved from the pit of Tartarus, promise to love them for eternity, and then simply get married, ride off into the sunset, and live happily ever after.  A story wasn’t a story if it didn’t write itself upon the very bones and sinews of its heroes, that was the law of the universe, but when the story was done and the cracks and fissures in their tissues had faded to myth and legend, what became of the heroes who did not die a tragic or heroic death and were not hung in the stars?  What happened to heroes left behind?  Twisting his bloodstone ring on his thumb idly as it caught the shivering fire of those stars in its dark mirrored surface, the musical arrow of the muses pierced his heart, wide-eyed in wonder.  He’d asked the universe, but he already knew the answer.  He’d always known.  He knew, and he knew it with such clarion joy as he had never known anything before.

He could no longer be the man who hung Martin’s moon, he hadn’t been for a long time.  That much was clear to him, but he could certainly do something else.  Perhaps they had grown past the need for moon hangings in the first place.  He knew how their story ended.

It took months of saving, secreting, preparation, and then finally just simply waiting for the perfect, clear night.  The moment it came, the moment he knew it was the night, Jon struck without hesitation.  Poor Martin wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the couch, into Jon, when he returned from a late shift at the grocers, but found himself instead stuffed right back into his coat with a picnic basket in hand and hauled out into the frigid night in a flurry of Jon with little time to protest.  He bounded up the hill behind their little cottage beneath a perfect blanket of stars flaming coldly overhead, trailing Martin’s hand in his behind with his breath coming in silvery puffs of clouds, and paying no heed to the whining.

“Jon, whatever it is, does it have to be NOW?” Martin panted, “I am absolutely knackered and it’s beyond freezing and wouldn’t it be nicer just to curl up with a cuppa and fall asleep in front of Star Wars or something?  Doesn’t that have enough stars and space in it?”

Dauntless, Jon only tugged harder.

“There’s tea in the basket, and I’ve seen Star Wars.  And yes, it has to be tonight, it’s really important, I promise.”

“Look.  I love you.  So much.  You know this, and please know it is with the utmost love and deepest affection in my heart that I point out that you say that every time, and you’ve still shown me Pluto like, a hundred separate times.  While I quite like it, and I still feel sorry for it being bumped out of the solar system and all, it’s just a dot?  How many times can you look at a dot?” Martin sighed.

His words finally threw a caltrop into Jon’s warpath, and he paused, turning over his shoulder woundedly.

“What?  No, it’s not Pluto, I swear just- Please, Martin?  I’ll never ask again if you don’t want to, but just for tonight, please?” he pleaded.

Martin winced, and immediately folded under the onslaught of doleful honeyed brown eyes under a nimbus of stars.

“Oh, lord there you go with the puppy dog eyes.  Okay, okay fine, but there better be a nip of whiskey in this,” he chided lovingly with a gesture at the thermos in the basket.

The smile flared back to life brightly on Jon’s face as he turned back up the craggy little footpath to the top of the hill.

“Of course, hot toddy with tea.”

“Ooh, lovely, you do know me.”

The rest of the way was trivially short to the small, flat hilltop surrounded by heather where Jon had already set up a blanket and the telescope over a pristine vista of the dark line where the stars sank into the sea.  He ushered Martin to sit down first, then perched on his hip beside him and poured him a generous helping of tea and whiskey from the thermos before pouring his own.

“Thanks, much.  Right then, what exactly are we up here to look at that we couldn’t see from our garden?” Martin asked, accepting his cup of potent hot toddy and sipping it gratefully around the lemony steam that billowed up.

Taken aback by the sudden logic lobbed into the center of his romantic posturing, Jon looked momentarily stunned, as if someone had slapped him upside the head.

“Oh!  Oh, um, well-!  Ahah, that is to say- Uh.  There is a reason for all this.  It’s not that we couldn’t see it from our garden, we very much could have.  B-But it’s so beautiful up here, and you can kind of hear the sea?  And it’s nice and peaceful, and the heather is still blooming a bit and um…” he trailed off, cheeks burning.

“Okay…?” Martin probed, frowning a little.

“Er, actually...  It’s less about the stars than it is- W-Well it is about the stars.  Let’s get that clear.  But to be completely honest I mostly just… I-I well.  There’s something I need to tell you?”

Jon was ill-prepared for the look of abject horror on Martin’s face as he went paler than the moon overhead.

“Shit, what is it?  Did you find something?  You saw something?  There’s been a sign of The Fears?  Oh god it’s not HER is it?” he asked frantically, nearly slopping hot toddy all over his lap.

“What?  No!  No, none of that!” Jon spluttered, aghast.

Martin regained a modicum of color in his face and breathed in measuredly.

“Okay, so then what is it?  Oh god, you’re not… Jon you’re not ill, or something, are you?  Please, you can just tell me if-“

“No, I am not ill either, damn it, Martin!  If you would just listen to me!  I-!” Jon moaned exasperatedly, “I just wanted to do something… nice.  Something nice for you.  And nicer than I normally would because I am apparently much worse at crafting romantic moments than I thought and-“

“Wait…” Martin cut in, eyes gleaming with realization, “Jonathan Sims… Are you grand gesturing?”

“Well I am certainly trying but you are making it exceedingly difficult!” he retorted, red in the face and breathless.

“Oh my god, you are!  I’m so sorry!” Martin laughed brightly, “Oh god Jon you poor thing I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m the absolute worst!  No please!  Don’t let me spoil it.  Please go on.”

Grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, Jon tried to summon the words again, only for Martin’s strong, warm hands to take it from him and tip his chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“Hey.  Hey, Jon.  Look at me,” he breathed, looking into his eyes idolatrously, “I’m sorry.  I love you.  You can tell me.”

Taking the steadiness from those clear blue depths he needed, Jon focused on them, on the strawberry blond curls tossing in the icy breeze, of the kiss of chilled pink under his freckles, and that eternal, sunshine smile.

“Okay,” he finally answered, smiling softly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, and a long swig of whiskey laced tea for good measure, Jon drew himself up and fished deep in his soul for the words he had waited a millennium to say.

“Okay… So here it is.  Um… I’ve um, I’ve had a lot of time alone lately with my new hobby, as it were.  So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.  A lot of it is overly complicated and ridiculous and doesn’t deserve to live outside of my head but… a lot of it has been about you, about us.  And I know we don’t need to-to put a label on us or put us into a… a box or anything like that.  But every time I look at this ring on my finger, I can’t help but remember we never actually talked about what they meant,” he began, holding out his left hand and fidgeting with the loose band around his thumb.

“Oh Jon, don’t worry about that.  It was just me being a big sappy, sentimental dork.  And if I recall correctly, we’d had a pretty awful row a night or two before, and I just wanted to feel close to you again, I guess?  We both know what they mean to us.  It doesn’t matter,” Martin assured him sweetly.

“Except that it does!” Jon insisted passionately, “That’s the point!  You are a big sappy, sentimental dork, Martin.  I bet you were the kid that had a dream wedding all planned in a notebook with pictures cut out of magazines and everything.  I adore that about you, but big sappy sentimental dorks should have big sappy, sentimental moments like huge, expensive seaside weddings with three-flavor cakes and all your friends and family and rose petals and dove releases and whatever else your heart could dream up.”

Martin snickered and shook his head, charmed at least by the mental image of kissing Jon on a seaside cliff at sunset while doves flew in glorious formation around them and everyone they had ever known and loved cheered.

“Pfft, I don’t need a grand wedding and all that, I just need-”

“Me.  I know,” Jon finished for him with a smirk, “I knew you’d say that.  Maybe not.  But you deserve one.  And I know I don’t use that word lightly, but it’s necessary in this case.  You deserve it.  All of it.  Me on one knee with a ring in a box, you deserve us picking out flowers and tuxedos and arguing over the font on the invitations.  You deserve Tim’s awful bachelor party and laughing at me at the altar because I had to read my vows off a card and they’re still so stiff and awkward and they pale in comparison to the beautiful poem you wrote about me.  You deserve smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and crying as we exchange rings.  All of it.”

Martin weighed his words carefully on his tongue with a sip of his boozy tea to chase away ghosts of things that never even were.

“I mean, sure, not going to say I never wanted that.  And I did have that stupid wedding notebook, by the way.  But all that became a pipe dream the minute we wound up here, right?  No use being upset about something that can never be.”

“That may be so, but the crux of it is… you also contented yourself with the idea of it never coming true not because we’re here, but because you didn’t think I wanted it,” Jon answered, his unspoken truth hanging heavy in the chill night air between them, “Every time you tried to tell me you wanted to be with me forever, I brushed it off and painted it gray and tucked it away and carried on the way we always were like nothing happened and it didn’t matter.  Because it was alright, really, you were just so happy to have what we have, that I didn’t die in your arms that night, that we were still together after everything.  That I at least kept that promise after I’d broken so many.  You were so grateful just for what you were gifted after we thought we would end with nothing you didn’t dare think to ask the universe for more and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to see that, Martin.  I’m so sorry.”

His voice broke.  The breath caught in Martin’s chest as he reached out to touch his wrist comfortingly.

“Jon, I-“

“No, please.  Please let me finish I… I can’t give you any of those things.  I can’t give you our friends back, I can’t give you cake and doves and the sunset and crying through vows in front of the vicar.  I can’t even give you an elopement at the register office because we still don’t legally exist.  And I guess for a long time I resented myself for that.  For all of it.  For stealing that from you, for dragging you through literal hell only to give you a shadow of a life stuck here with me because I betrayed you.  But- no stop, don’t say anything yet I’m not done.  B-But now I finally realize.  You’re right, Martin.  You were always right.  It doesn’t matter.  Those things are all just… things.  I said to you once, a long time ago, and I’m still not even sure if you really heard me, that I didn’t want to just survive.  It was true then, and maybe it wasn’t true for a while, but it’s certainly true again.  We did not fight tooth and nail to just survive.  We fought to live, and live together.  So what I’m saying is… I know now I don’t have to give you tuxedos and white roses as long as I give you something… Something to prove to you that you are my everything, my entire world, something to show you that I love you more than I have loved anything in my entire life.  That I want forever with you.  S-So I…” he trailed off, sucking in his breath to give his gesture of undying love the ardor and grandeur it deserved, “I bought us a star.”

The proclamation rang out like the toll of a bell, its gravity sonorous and quaking.  Martin blinked.

“You… I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Jon set his empty thermos cup aside, flailed his hands in the air and shook his head frantically

“I-I know, I know it sounds mental just hear me out!” he protested, “Technically I didn’t buy the star, if we want to get picky about it.  I mean obviously no one can own a star.  Just the rights to name it?  It’s a thing you can do online.  I was a bit gobsmacked it was real to be honest.  I just had this silly idea when I was out looking at the stars.  I was looking at Lyra and thinking about you and Orpheus, and I… W-Well I just typed it in, ‘can you name a star?’ and it came right up.  Right then and there.  It um… comes with… hold on.”

Remembrance placed a gentle bookmark down on Jon’s fluttering thoughts, and he rummaged in the picnic basket for a moment before pulling out a navy-blue manila folder covered in stars and full of the paperwork and certificates that had come with registering theirs.  He handed it to Martin, who took it in place of his own empty cup, numb, muscles quivering under his jaw, and opened it to the glittering gold typeface that proclaimed ‘Congratulations!’.

“It comes with paperwork, too!  See?  So, it’s official, at least?  The Jon-Martin star.  Not a marriage license I know, but at least our names are together on something legal?  Our real names?  I figured even if we manage the fake identity thing we’d have to get married as not us.  Not really.  So…  I-It could be like our marriage certificate?” Jon explained, chewing his lower lip.

Martin said nothing as his hand turned the pages of the documentation, his eyes distant in a way Jon had never seen before.  Not disembodied and enthralled, not broken, not even regarding puzzle pieces.

“Oh!  Um, also I-I got us a binary star.  I forgot to mention that bit,” he went on, filling the sudden void, “It’s, ah- What a binary star is- It’s technically two?  But they’re caught up in each other’s gravity and they orbit each other so tightly they look like one star together, one that just shines a little brighter.  They’re bound together forever by the most powerful cosmic force in the universe.  Just like us.”

Only silence answered, punctuated by one last crisp whisper of paper, and then the folder closing with Martin’s spread fingers atop it, bloodstone gleaming in the vivid pale light of the night.  Jon’s heart pitched frantically in his chest, and desperate, stranded tears pricked at his eyes.

“I uh… I would have rather gotten us a whole constellation.  Heh, you know?  But they don’t do that, obviously,” he tried softly, his fingers barely brushing Martin’s knuckles, “They record heroes in constellations, after all.  Great deeds, doomed romances, lovers who can be together no other way… That would have been a better way to honor us, I think.  Our story.  A-And who knows?  Maybe back on our world there are a few new stars to remember what we did, to mark the place we left it, so that everyone we left behind can look up and remember us.  They don’t know how the story really ended, and they probably never will, but we do.  We do, and I want to end it right here, right now.  With our star shining above us ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Martin still said nothing, but his head bowed, casting a slice of shadow over his eyes, and his shoulders quivered as a thin, bright line of wet silver trickled down his cheek.  Jon felt the very sky shatter above and begin to crumble around him.

“Please… M-Make no mistake, Martin.  P-Perhaps the gesture is silly and meaningless, but it was all I could think to do to go with everything I’ve said tonight.  Martin… Martin, don’t you see?  These are my wedding vows to you.  This is me saying ‘I do’ and also ‘Martin K. Blackwood would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the universe?’  All at once.  This is me saying I swear to you I will be yours, through everything, until the end of time.  M-Maybe I wasn’t before.  Maybe I was still punishing myself, but I’m telling you, I’m ready now to have my happily ever after.  With you, Martin.  If you’ll have me.  If I haven’t-“

He would never finish.  In a dizzying blur of blue folder, flashing hematite, and a wreath of golden curls, Martin kissed the words off his lips.  He kissed him so hard and so fierce, through wracking sobs with his hands woven so raptly into his long, wavy locks he thought his lips would bruise and his fragile soul would finally shatter to pieces in Martin’s arms.  Undone, all Jon could do was surrender and kiss him back with equal passion, thumbing away the hot tears as they spilled freely down his cheeks and anointed them both with their cleansing, hoary heat.  Their lips parted and they panted softly against each other in the space between, each afraid to break the sacred, pulsing silence.

“You’re crying,” Jon whispered at length, “I’ve said something wrong. Martin, darling I’m so sorry.  I never meant to-”

Martin laughed, raspy with tears, but ethereal, sparkling, like stardust floating on the breeze.

“People are allowed to cry when they’re happy you stupid, silly man,” he murmured in between kissing him again, and again.

“Oh.  Oh.”

He kissed him one last time, that idiot man who always burnt the toast and always knew the facts but never knew what to say, who finally figured it out and bought him a star, and threw his arms around him, enveloping his slight, fragile form protectively in his embrace.

“I love you.  I love you so much.”

Jon sank into that warm, familiar comfort and buried his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too, Martin.  I want to be yours for the rest of my life.  I want to be me, I want to be us.”

“I know.  I’ve always known.  Oh god, you do know that right?  I know that you love me, it’s written in everything you do and say.  I have never, ever once doubted you love me with everything you are.  Even in the moments I was afraid that… that maybe we just weren’t meant to be together, I still knew it wouldn’t be because you didn’t love me.  Never because you didn’t love me.  Just maybe that we didn’t fit together anymore,” Martin replied in a small voice through his tears as they spilled down his cheeks.

As much as he wanted to vehemently deny there was ever a chance they might have not fit back together again after they had both been so shattered, to kiss him and tell him not in a million years would there ever have been a future where they weren’t Jon and Martin against the world, Jon knew it to be inescapably true.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to be afraid of that,” he swore, digging his fingers into Martin’s back pointedly, “After everything.  After we fought so hard to escape fear itself.  That I almost let it truly win in the end.  That I couldn’t just let go… Because… Because this was never about The Eye, was it?”

A heave of breath and its shuddering exhale shook Martin’s body free of lifetimes of grief, and fear, of ugliness carried far beyond the borders of their souls.  His fingers curled tighter in unspoken reply.

“No Jon, no it wasn’t, but I’m so very glad you finally figured that out.”

“Me, too…” he whispered.

They held each other in the quiet wake of being a moment and let the astral plane wheel calmly overhead.  An impatient star twinkled.

“Wait… you never answered me,” Jon finally said as he pulled back, sliding his elegant fingers down Martin’s strong arms.

“Huh?” Martin blurted, scrubbing under his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“About marrying me tonight.  You never actually said yes, so…”

A twinkle in his eye and a slight mischief to his grin, Jon dove back into the picnic basket and emerged with a velvet ring box.  Martin’s hands flew to his mouth.

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did!  Nothing fancy, but I thought it was high time to retire the blood rings,” he explained rising from his former perch on his hip to kneel properly.

The box cracked neatly open, and inside lay a simple, white gold band with a tiny circle of milky moonstone embedded in it on a midnight-blue satin cushion, blindingly bright against the dark.  Martin sobbed joyfully all over again.

“So, uh… I suppose if it had just been us, if we’d just been together, without everything, and we’d arrived at this moment.  I would have done much the same.  I would have brought you somewhere beautiful, somewhere I could teach you some inane fact you didn’t actually care about, but liked because it came from me.  Emulsifiers in ice cream and rum raisin…” they both snickered, “And I would have tried my best to make it into some sort of romantic metaphor but completely bunged it up and you would be laughing as I got down on one knee, just like this.  And it would have just been simple.  To the point.  Just… Will you marry me?  So…”

Jon assumed the traditional position, on one knee, arms outstretched, his every slender point a star in a perfect constellation of love.

“Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met, across a thousand different realities, across a thousand different worlds, carried on celestial winds to fall hopelessly, inexorably, into each other’s orbit.

“Yes, yes I do believe I will.”

With one last farewell kiss upon it for what it had meant for them both, Jon slipped the bloodstone ring from Martin’s finger and replaced it with the delicate band made of starlight.  It took its place radiantly, and shone as Martin drew his hand back to admire it with an equally radiant grin before it dimmed with concern.

“But what about you?” he asked worriedly as he watched the old ring entombed lovingly in the box.

Jon only smirked and produced a second box from the basket, which he offered on his open palm out to Martin.

“Naturally, I got one for myself.  Couldn’t pass up a chance to get a wedding ring that actually fits, could I?  It’s just… Don’t you think you deserve to give it to me the way you would want?” he urged.

Martin took the box eagerly, biting his lower lip in thought.

“Not sure you want to give me that freedom.  I had about five different ways of asking you in my head and all of them you would have hated so, so much.  But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t kind of the point,” he answered wryly.

Jon chortled.

“Sorry I, the unromantic one, sprung this on you, the romantic one.  But I did want to surprise you.  I-I mean you can still write me a vows poem later?  If you want to, of course.  I’d love to have it, even if I don’t actually get to hear it at our wedding.”

Martin’s face flushed immediate crimson and his eyes darted coyly away as he toyed with the wedding band box in his lap.

“Oh that?  A-Actually I… I have it memorized, i-if you really wanted to hear it.”

“You- WHAT?” gasped Jon, his cheeks flushing in tandem.

“Oh yeah, I wrote my vows poem for you ages ago and I’ve gone over it so many times I know it by heart.  It was comforting, okay?  I-I’d read it again when times were good and I thought maybe you’d actually- um… a-and when times were not so good, when you were gone, in your own head, when I was afraid we were broken for good, whenever I needed it.  I’ve read it over a thousand times and never changed a thing from the first time I penned it.  Never needed to.  I’m surprised I haven’t recited it in my sleep at this point,” Martin admitted sheepishly.

Jon’s entire body flushed with a solar heat that melted his joints and his heart into a swirling flare of adulation.

“I can think of no better way, then, to receive my ring,” he breathed, reaching out to cup Martin’s cheek in his hand, “I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours.”

In mirror ballets of love exchanges, Martin cradled Jon’s hand against his cheek as he spoke the first lines of the vows etched ever on his being softly into his palm.

“Let he who, shadow dwelling, must In paper, pen, and book be bound Shake off the chains of dark and rust And chart his own bright fate unfound.

Let he with lifelong burdens borne Cut paper wings with thread of gold And hand in hand, the sky forsworn Flit clouds and sun in laughter bold.

Let he whose blood and soldier’s ken The world did shield from dark and fear Heal fast those wounds, be whole again And sleep at last, held close and dear.

Bring him to me with spirit free With stars in eyes and music sung From lips a joyful promise be One soul conjoined, one fate’s thread strung.

Two hearts rejoice in love renowned. We lift our heads, alive, uncrowned.”

He waited until the last couplet to pull the ring from the box and slide it onto Jon’s finger where it too, fit perfectly, like it had always been there, and shone defiantly bright in the moonlight.  Jon wept.  He had been weeping since the first words of verse left his beloved’s lips, but seeing that ring like a piece of his missing soul returned to him undammed the tears effusively.

“God that was… Martin, I don’t have words.  I-It was… so beautiful.  You’re so beautiful.  Thank you,” he cried fervently, “I wish I could tell you properly how much that meant, but I just-“

“Hey… That’s alright.  I’m the words guy.  You’re the emulsifiers guy.  Making you cry is all I need to see to know how you feel,” Martin assured him warmly, reaching out to brush his tears away as he chuckled.

“Yeah… add this one to the running tally.”

“Oh, I have,” Martin snickered, “Speaking of!  Now we’ve done the crying through vows bit.  Shouldn’t we say the ‘I do’ bit, as well?”

Jon pursed his lips with a shrug as he reached out with his left hand to take Martin’s left as well, twining their fingers together

“Yes, I suppose we should.  I don’t see why not.  Well then, Martin, do you?”

“I do.  And Jon, do you?”

“I do.”

“You may now soundly snog the groom.”

“Martin…”

The emphatic drawl of his name the way Jon only called it when he was frustratingly enamored of him perished gently against Martin’s velvet lips as they caressed his.  They kissed slowly and reverently, sealing a pact ordained by the heavens long before either of them had seen the stars in the other’s eyes, lighting with white flame the torch to guide them for the first time, forward.  They broke it only to punctuate it with two more featherlight kisses and a breathless laugh, bowing their foreheads together in deference to the forces of fate and the universe.

“I know this isn’t the wedding either of us ever dreamed of, but as far as I’m concerned, it was perfect,” Jon murmured, nuzzling closer into his husband, swaddling the new, fledgling and beautiful word in his heart.

“Well, hey, what is a wedding really other than just a formal declaration that this is it?  This is us, we’re forever, no matter what.  We did it.  And you did it for me, in the STARS, Jon… Can we just remember that again?  You put us in the actual stars.  I am so writing a ballad for our constellation later, you do know this.”

“Oh lord.  Of course you are.  But really, it was the least I could do, after you’ve done so much for me, sacrificed everything for me.  Waited for me for so long.”

“And you came back to me,” Martin reminded him passionately, “And I don’t just mean back to life, here, in this world.  I mean you came back, Jon, MY Jon, the Jon I was in love with the moment I laid eyes on him.  The fidgety and obstinate Jon who can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life, who puts on two different socks in the morning because his nose is already in the paper or a book, who teaches me about bleeding rocks and binary stars and still reacts to the simplest acts of kindness like a warm cranberry orange scone without asking for one like they’re divine miracles he is undeserving of, who looks at me like I hung the moon or something every time.  Even when I thought I was a complete and total waste of a human being, you, Jonathan Sims, the most beautiful, amazing, brilliant man to ever walk the Earth, looked at me like I hung the moon.  And that was… Still is… everything to me.”

The heavens shifted, the stars wheeled, the last piece clicked smartly, smugly into place.

“W-What did you say…?” Jon asked with such urgency, grabbing his hands so fiercely, Martin startled.

“Wh-I-I don’t-?  Which part?  The moon hanging part?” he stuttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he realized mid-sentence, “Oh, right.  Ugh, Jon are you seriously going to get after me about your weird vendetta against idioms at our wedding?  Because if you are that would be annoyingly adorable and so intensely you and kind of perfect, but also can you not on THIS particular occasion?”

The laugh that tore from Jon’s throat was half mad, half euphoric as the weight of the moon lifted from his shoulders and became naught but an indifferent sentinel disc in the sky once more.

“No no no, it’s just… It’s funny, I had more than a few things very, very wrong for a very, very long time.  That’s all.  Don’t worry about it,” he explained, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to Martin’s forehead, “If you’re the one who hung the moon after all, then I suppose ‘written in the stars’ will have to do for me.”

Martin lit up with literary glee.

“Oh ho!  Two space related idioms in one go?  What a rare treat!  Maybe this is your gateway drug into puns…” he teased impishly.

“Absolutely no chance in hell.”

They both laughed, laughed with the billowing icy breath that reached with victorious fingers up to the heavens.  They laughed, messily sniffing back the pesky drip of tears and cold.  They laughed with lightness of the encumbrance of hematite armor shed, its bloody protections no longer needed to cage wounded hearts and keep them safe and close.  They laughed in breath and also in the dancing points of light in their eyes as they fell into one another free from gravity.

“So uh… Do I get to see my star tonight, or don’t I?” Martin finally remembered, relishing the utterly horrified yelp from Jon.

“Oh god I completely-!  Y-Yes!  Yes of course, it’s already set up at the proper coordinates!” he had already sprung to his feet, “Oh, though, hang on, it took longer to get to the star viewing part than I anticipated, so I might need to adjust it a bit.  Oh!  And I have a little strawberries and champagne, if you like?”

“I do like, please and thank you!”

Jon set to readjusting the telescope to the proper ascension and declination while Martin poured them two glasses of crisply bubbling champagne.  They twined their arms to drink a toast from each other’s glass, ‘to us’ or ‘to happily ever afters’, or to several other messily rambled toast worthy sentiments.  They couldn’t decide and toasted to all of it.  They ate plump red strawberries and licked the juice from each other’s fingers as they looked at their star, which was, after everything, just a dot, just like Pluto, but Martin had to admit that he rather liked looking at dots after all.  And that one was their dot.  The warm intoxication of love and champagne begged for music, and someone fumbled in the cold for a wedding playlist on some app, somewhere, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could join hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and dance inelegantly, stepping on each other’s toes, under the umbrella of stars in a gentle rain of moonlight.

“I don’t see your problem with cliches, idioms and all that, really…” Martin mused at length, laying his head on Jon’s shoulder as they slowly spun to the rhythm of a longing ballad and the song of the sea, “Like this stupid, great song.  They’re familiar and cozy and everyone knows them.  They’re like… like old friends.  Always there to rely on when we can’t come up with the words ourselves, because sometimes we can’t.  And if something trite and silly sums up the way you feel, why not just let it be?  Sometimes things are said over and over again because some truths are universal, you know?  They’re just… human.”

Jon pressed a kiss into the mop of curls that tickled his nose and smelled faintly of toasted sugar and lavender and mused on all of the romantic cliches that had just passed through his mind unbidden.  Who was he to deny he was but one star in the sky, a single gear in the grand mortal mechanism of the universe.  If he had handed himself over to the humanity of it all instead of rusting, stopping, looking outside where there was never anything to see, perhaps he could have had this dance much sooner.  It didn’t matter though, until it did, because that night Martin took his breath away, made his world go round, he was head over heels for his match made in heaven, and better than heaven, they were written in the stars.

“You know what, Martin?” Jon laughed in reply, “Tonight, being what it is, I am willing to concede.  You are absolutely right.”

“I’m glad…” came the tender acceptance, followed by a distinctly puckish beat of silence, “Then does this mean I can I start saying love you to the moon and back?”

“Don’t push your luck...”

[0ttogutz]

Op you are so so correct. Imo this one of the most interesting phenomenon in the fandom, because when you actually look at the actions taken / the in world treatment of Bubba vs. Nubbins, there's not much difference, yet their common perception by fans is night and day. There's so much that I think plays into specifically the projection of innocence onto Bubba, including how he shows more remorse than the rest of his family, the very true situation of his abuse at the hands of Drayton (thought I think the relationship between Drayton / his family is a whole lot more complicated than that in a way I won't get into here), his lack of speech, body type (as others have mentioned), and even the fact that he's depicted as having some sort of romantic(?) feelings in the second movie— relating to this common conception of romance being representative of pureness. That's a different rant for another time though.

Wether it's characterizing him as a 'victim of his abusive family' 'an unwilling participant in the violence' or even 'unaware what he's doing is wrong' people are very desperate to take blame away from Bubba. Maybe that's because hes easier to sympathise with, maybe its because he's simply more popular, maybe— most likely— it's a combination of these things plus more. It's much more difficult to justify these sorts of forgiving / sympathetic stances with Nubbins because in many scenes he openly antagonizes his victims, clearly finds some enjoyement in those actions, and is shown to have a more sadistic side than Bubba or even Drayton. With that said, he's never shown to be abusive to Bubba or any of his family really; Teasing maybe, but not abusive.

The movies themselves present Leatherface as somewhat more sympathetic than the rest of his family, and I find the fandom has really run with that, sometimes at the expense of other characters and their accurate characterization. Bubba is not moral at all— hes a serial killer— but I think many people find it uncomfortable / unreasonable to sympathize with a blatantly immoral character; to justify that, the immorality of other characters is exacerbated to such an extreme it can be used to explain / justify a lot of what Bubba does.

Anyways OP I completely agree with you on Bubba being more capable than people give him credit for (again, something I think is ignored due to his lack of speech— dare I call it ableism). I also believe him to be just as much of a willing participant in the 'family business' as his brothers, even if he's missing that certain sadistic streak seen in the rest of them. There's no kind way to torture, kill, and eat someone; all of these characters do explicitly horrific things. It's kind of wild to me that Nubbins is perceived as so much more violent or abusive with little else in canon to support this idea ultimatly than some differences in personality.

Sorry if this isn't fully on topic, or makes zero sense. Many people have explained this much better than I could. There's more I definetly could have touched on, including the demonization of mental illness with Nubbins, but that's a much, much longer rant. A lot of it really just is that good ol' demonization/infantilization juxtaposition. Just wanted to let out some personal thoughts and feelings on this trend because it really rubs me the wrong way sometimes.

One of the things i find really interesting about Nubbins’ character is peoples perception of him depends a large amount on what their character interpretation of Bubba is.

I’ve noticed that fans who interpret leatherface as being a victim of his family, or not much of a person outside of his disabilities, tend to have a more negative view of Nubbins, often lumping him in with the abusive family member label (even though the opposing canon shows him being the one abused). This being further carried by the Jason x Leatherface comics, solidifying this interpretation of the character to some viewers.

Despite being in the same home circumstances as Bubba Sawyer and despite also being mentally disabled (Both Gunnar Hansen (leatherface) and Ed Neal (Hitchiker) referenced real life mentally disabled people for their performances) his character is treated as more capable and held to higher scrutiny not only by fans but by Drayton Sawyer himself in canon.

My own character interpretation of Bubba Sawyer affects my opinion on Nubbins also, which is probably why I like him so much. I see Bubba as someone who is more capable than people give him credit for. Especially within the family dynamic. He’s not just the physical strength of the family but he has the skills of all family members combined whilst also filling in for the roles of family members which are missing (aka grandma).

Maybe it’s his violence being more on the unpredicatable side or a specific scene or interaction that people are put off by him. I would love to know other people’s thoughts on it bcs I could be slightly biased.

[oranges8hands]

It's Not Your Life to Give: Booker Edition

I'm assuming somewhere out there is already meta for why the exile wasn’t wrong, but fuck if you can find shit on tumblr anymore, so here's mine:

I'm not denying Booker needs help; he's suicidal, he's depressed, he's tangled in his own grief and loneliness, he’s got survivor’s guilt, he's likely got complex-ptsd along with his alcoholism and probably some other stuff. I admit, the shorthand of "fuck Booker" is not nuanced to that. That said, I am really not a fan of this fandom narrative that his depression, grief, etc, is a good reason for his actions [1], that his victims owe him enough immediate forgiveness to continue to help him in the aftermath of his actions, that he is the only hurting person in this situation, or that his (self)-destruction - obviously a common symptom - didn't blow up a very basic foundation between him and the others that doesn't just get waived away by an apology. (Which... he never actually offers?  Fandom posits he apologizes and feels bad for what he does in the aftermath, but that's one interpretation, and canon can just as easily be read that he gets a little bit of a rude awakening when Andy is mortal, but frankly he comes across as someone who is sorry it didn't work out and he ended up in a worse place, not for what he did.) 

  Plus, I think a lot of fandom mindset works under what happened [2] and not on what he either planned or did not see the obvious pathway was going to happen [3], as well as ignoring some of the context he put into the situation (his resentment of Joe and Nicky didn't just magically disappear after they escaped), and are looking at his end result (even less familial support than before, in the apartment getting drunk - and shit knows loneliness/isolation is an esp hot button for people right now) and not on the fact he just sold out his family to experience their worst nightmares (a fact he's reminded of again in the middle of his betrayal) and that they can't trust him.

THEY CAN'T TRUST HIM. They had no way to see this coming because it would never have occurred to them, but that barn door is open now. What keeps him from calling in their new safe house? maybe finding a different kind of partner, leading them to another trap on a job? hell, maybe contact Kozak again [4] and see if she made any progress. share their secrets with someone new. do they have to hope Andy's mortality (which is the only thing that made him pause) will reach him enough when apparently their love and affection didn't before? what happens when she dies? what sign are they supposed to somehow intuit if he tips from bad mental health to making actionable decisions to try to die and dragging everyone else into it with him again? if someone picks up this trail of breadcrumbs Copley and Merrick left, is he going to help clean up or go with it? Basically, what stops him from doing this to them again?  Like, I can arguably make a list for reasons I don't think they should have 100 year exiled him (though again, time works on a different scale for them [5]), but at this point I am definitely pushing back on the dominant fandom idea that the exile in and of itself was wrong [6], or that it was only a punishment.     They are going to feel guilty for what they did/didn't do to help him, for not seeing how bad it got [7], (in Andy's case esp) for helping him lean into the bad coping mechanisms, and yeah some of that does need to be owned, but they should not feel guilty for him betraying them or needing time away to deal with that betrayal.  It's funny, cause my immediate response after seeing the movie was that the betrayal story line did not work for me, but it's canon and the response that they should put aside their reaction to help him definitely feels like it ignores the severity of what he actually did to them and how long it could take to (emotionally, mentally) recover from it. That they owe Booker to put it aside to help him. That the others are wrong for the choice they made because of a situation he put them in. [8]  He didn't mind them being tortured, being separated, or being dead; if they want a 100 years to figure out how to continue to love and welcome someone who would do that to them, how to trust someone like that again, they get a 100 years.  And at the end of the day, even Booker understood that.

____________ [1] mental illness does not cause you to try to murder someone (and it is very clear that even if he thinks Andy wanted to die, he knows Joe and Nicky do not, not to mention Nile), and that's frankly a very harmful myth used to dismiss larger violent patterns irl

[2] 2 days of medical experiments, Andy being (luckily!) non-lethally shot, I'd add Nile's general mental well-being but lbr that doesn't tend to factor into it for fandom

[3] Joe, Nicky, Andy, and later Nile be taken and medically experimented on/tortured until... well, forever, cause honestly it's a big assumption they'd let them go or kill them even if they discovered the secret to their death; earlier on, Nile either being left alone - yanno, the thing he said was his reason for doing this (even if it's obviously just a part of the tangled reaction for why he did it) with no answers and forever dreaming about their torture and/or more specifically Nile being left at the mercy of the us military/govt with no answers and forever dreaming about their torture while experiencing her own. 

[4] them not killing Kozak or destroying the lab was hollywood-sloppy - even though I totally love the hc that either a) their spilled body parts disintegrate after a bit or b) there is absolutely nothing in their system that shows their immortality - but it does mean there's a little more clean-up needed than Copley erasing some tapes. 

[5] which is not an excuse to infantilize him? he's a grown man. he may be young compared to the others, but he's not actually a "teenager" and he's esp not too young to realize the ramifications of his actions (aka that his family won’t react well to him selling them out)

[6] maybe not the smartest choice in terms of safety since they'd have even less ability to see if he betrays them or himself again, and being split up makes them more vulnerable, but also not wrong; it's basically a load of shitty choices and that's the one they picked. cause like he said, what else can they do? frankly, now or in a 100 years, Booker is the one that needs to rebuild trust, but at least 100 years gives the rest of them some time to deal with their own trauma before having to deal with him either trying (or not) to fix what he broke, leaves them possibly more open and receptive to changes he’s made.

[7] though as someone whose been on both sides of it, the idea you should be able to just tell how bad it actually is for someone (or even tell that it is bad) is frankly not actually that realistic or fair; people are very often good at hiding and/or downgrading how bad it is 

[8] and specifically that Joe is wrong for the choice they made. like the fact Andy and Nicky both want to get him out the building or that Nicky isn't vocal in his reaction means they didn't reach this decision together, that Joe is the only angry one, that Joe is the only one to aggressively pursue this course of action. like, come on, the pattern of this definitely comes from fandom's racism

[armillary-spheres-lover]

Hey

Idk if you ever got the answer to your thing. But I’m a person who is queer but regularly uses the term lesbian to make things simpler. I can tell you why I hate the phrase monosexual- it feels transphobic to me- I am not attracted to men at all, but I am attracted to women, non-binary folks, gender queer folks, and agender folks. If I was with a partner and they transitioned to be a man I would still love them. That wouldn’t change. Sexuality is fluid and calling someone monosexual seems to erase that and really put people in boxes. Everyone has exceptions. And as someone who has identified as bisexual and pansexual in the past and find those not to suit me and fit right (especially since I am not sexually/romantically attracted to people physically/based on appearances- it’s more about personality and what I could do with a person)

I don’t mean this in an antagonistic way, I really hope it doesn’t come off that way(I’m bad expressing myself sorry).

(I’m sorry, I know you’re not trying to be rude. My answer, however, will sound rude and upset because you touched upon some stuff that needs a lot of unpacking to me lmao. Just know this anger is not necessarily directed at you but at biphobia in general.)

Why do bisexual people may need to use the term monosexual?

A. It is descriptive

I see what you mean but as you said you're queer and lesbian is a term to make things simpler, right?

So I wouldnt call you monosexual because you’re clearly not attracted to only one gender (but if you want to who I am to stop you?). Monosexual is someone who is almost exclusively dating/is attracted to people of one gender. There are plenty trans people that are straight or gay that would NOT date a partner if they realized they were a different gender. For real: kat blaque made a video (here it is if youre interested) on youtube about this - she’s trans and she wants to date men and wouldnt feel comfortable on continuing dating if a partner of hers realized they were actually a trans woman all along. She wants to date guys not girls and that's FINE it just means A. She actually recognizes the girl gender, obviously B. She's straight af and that's wonderful! It’s not a box if that’s how her experience is and she likes it that way!

Also how is being monosexual transphobic? Cant a girl just like guys exclusively (both cis and trans) or like girls exclusively (both cis and trans)? It's not even enbyphobic since you dont need to be attracted to a person to support their rights. (Gay men arent attracted to women but can be 100% feminists.) Being open to fuck somebody is not the same as supporting their rights: fetishization is a thing. Again, I refer to the video Kat Blaque made.

Sexuality IS fluid but to some people (like me and you) it is more than others. Some people don’t feel comfortable dating people that dont fall into the gender theyre usually attracted to and thats 100% okay.

B. It helps in talking about biphobia and panphobia in society

Biphobia and panphobia are for the large part based on the assumption that you cant be attracted to more than one gender (not even non-binary and so on) and that if you do you're weird/disgusting/mentally ill/a sexual predator. I can tell you 100% that's the narrative both straight and gay people can and may perpetuate since I struggle w this kind of shit every single time Im attracted to someone no matter their gender (YES, EVEN IF THEY'RE A GUY, BECAUSE THE OTHER DAY I WAS ATTRACTED TO A GIRL AND NOW I FEEL LIKE A FUCKING ANIMAL THAT CANT CONTROL ITSELF, even though it makes NO sense because if it was two girls or two boys the actual number of people my hormones activated to wouldnt change, but it would make my experience not subjected to biphobia!). I’m not saying gay people are the same as straight people. But I do feel alienated BOTH from heteronormative society AND from (subtly biphobic) gay spaces because of my bisexuality. I costantly feel like I’m outside both of those worlds and you know how humans are: I just need a term to encompass it all easily, to say “I don’t identify with any of this” (which is both straight and strictly gay spaces: ie, monosexual). To me is literally the same as saying non-bisexual/non-pansexual.

I dont mean to say lesbians or gays have it easier or are just like straight people. But we do have different experiences and I need terms to express that. It honestly doesnt matter to me if you identify as lesbian or queer (though I think you’re implying you’re more queer than anything). But I do need a term to talk about how society at large treats sexuality; ie, as a monosexual thing. Another concept that’s been thrown around is bi erasure. A strictly monosexual society is bound to view a girl dating a girl (or girl presenting) as if theyre both LESBIANS and erase a queer person the moment they’re in a m/f relationship, because people cant COMPUTE that it may not be the case and that the girl dating a cis straight dude isnt betraying her queerness.To think so is basic biphobia.

In some ways, I think it’s the same as when transgender people started using the term cisgender - which is applicable to both straight people and queer/gay people. They simply needed a term which meant “not-trans” as they were saying “I dont identify with this” (ie the cisgender experience). Does it imply that cisgender people, no matter if queer, have something in common? Yeah, yeah it does. Does it imply that queer people are just the same as straight people, or face no oppression? Of course not. Seeing people being offended upon being called monosexual feels like people being offended upon being called cis to me.

Also, saying that the terms bisexual people use are transphobic is almost implying that bisexuality is inherently transphobic? Or reeks to me of that kind of rhetoric. I use the terms I need to use, just like any other marginilized group does, and nobody outside of that group has any right of denying me that. It’s like I’m trying to create a safe space for myself and people like me and yall come around to judge us YET AGAIN. And I'm just tired of hearing this bullshit. I could accept this kind of criticism only if it came from a trans person themselves, I guess? But it’s not usually trans people who accuse us of being transphobic, in fact, many trans people identify as bisexual and use bisexual terminology lmfao.

“Hearts not parts” rhetoric

Finally, about personality being superior to physical appearance. That's amazing but I do want to note that, not you necessarily, but many people who are into the “hearts not parts” rhetoric are, how can I say this. Slut-shaming people? I’m not sure if you are doing this but I feel it needs to be said just to be sure. A lesbian trans woman can be just attracted to a girl for her physical appearance and just want to fuck her - and THAT'S OKAY. That's fine. I am a sexually attracted to people and that doesnt mean I have to form a deep bond first. Sex positivity is about accepting that people can feel like this and not shame them for this. "Hearts not parts” rhetoric has in the past infantilized, sanitized or outright shamed other queer experiences. It's fine if you feel that way but dont start acting like you're morally superior because of that. That's catholicism with extra steps. My bisexuality its not the symptom of some predatory and animalistic thing that should be purified into something more palatable and less sexual. That’s the same thing they used to say about gay people and now gay (biphobic) people are using this against us. That’s also the kind of thing trans women (especially if they’re sapphic) constantly hear every fucking day. Queer people have a good part of their discrimination rooted in the shaming of purely sexual desires. Forcing ourselves to be more palatable and less sexual is just respectability politics. I’m tired of it. (This is obviously different from being on the asexual spectrum: but you dont see ace people going around pretending they’re morally superior than everybody else, and many are actually very sex positive)   You would still love your partner if they were a different gender: that’s great, but that’s not how some (most) people feel, and they aren’t superficial because of this, just different from you.

Also, I think you’d really benefit from hearing a trans person say they don’t care if someone has genitalia preferences. Here it is. This obviously doesnt mean that every trans person will feel like she does, but it does mean that we can’t generalize trans experiences/preferences/what they feel transphobia is. Just like straight people dont get to say what’s homophobic or not, cis people dont get to say what’s transphobic or not. The definition of those terms relies entirely on the community that is targeted by these things.

I hope this wasnt excessively confusing but I wanted to make my point clear.

[cowboyworf]

due to some recent events and reliving some past experiences lately, i think it's important to remember that mental illness does not excuse abusive behavior, nor does it obligate the people harmed to forgive their abuser, mentally ill or not.

this is a heavy topic that no one likes to discuss, because as a mentally ill person, i can attest to the fact that we are still stigmatized and face discrimination and violence for being mentally ill. in fact, it's well documented that those severely impaired by mental illness are much more likely to be victims of abuse than to be perpetrators of abuse. however, it absolutely happens and i hate seeing abusers being defended simply because they are struggling with their mental health.

some mental illnesses can heighten the chance for angry outbursts, emotional manipulation, etc., but an explanation does not a) erase the harm they have caused, b) mean victims are obligated to forgive them, and c) a free pass to do those things or continue doing those things. i have been physically, emotionally,, and sexually abused by someone who is mentally ill and it is traumatic to not only experience said abuse, but to have your abuser and those around you telling you that "they can't help it" or "you should forgive them, they are struggling."

one of the most common behaviors i have seen (and have been on the receiving end of) is the threat of suicide, especially in romantic relationships, but certainly not just exclusive to them. i was told time and time again by my abuser that they would kill themselves or self-harm if i left, and that is why i stayed and stayed silent for so long. if you take anything away from this post, please take this: that is never and will never be your responsibility. you ending a relationship or standing up for yourself does not make you responsible for their choices. does that sound harsh? sure. but i cannot tell you how many abuse victims i have met that remained with their abuser due to these exact threats.

and the thing is, excusing and defending abusive behavior is hurting mentally ill people more than it is helping, because it not only promotes the stigma that we are inherently violent and that people should us expect violence from us, but it also reinforces the notion that we must be coddled and infantilized.

you are not obligated to forgive or remain present in your abusers life, regardless of what mental illness they have. you are not obligated to defend them or describe your abuse with an asterisk. and you are not responsible for your abusers mental well-being.

ok to reblog, but if i see anyone act up on this post talking about demonizing specific mental illnesses or defending abusers, you're getting a hard block.

[innermysteries]

After nearly 2 years, I finally understand why I had to undertake this journey of voluntary poverty and endless wandering around the United States. Living as a homeless person simulates the vulnerable state of infancy in which I am completely dependent on a society that neglects, abuses and abandons me. This reopens and reactivates the primal narcissistic wound that caused the compensating defense mechanisms such as primitive dissociation between the hemispheres of the brain, the source of narcissistic rage, and causing failure to successfully complete the early stages of psychosocial development, resulting in a perpetual state of adolescent psychology into adulthood, otherwise known as narcissism. This existential therapy, which has no guidebook, allows a person to go back and re-experience the trauma so that the wound can heal. Only then can a person succeed at these early stages. In short, this provides a second childhood. Moving around the country simulates the exploration of toddlerhood in which the child learns to succeed and fail on their own.

I think that the primal wound is healed by seeing that people and the world are on one hand sadistic, neglectful and abandoning, but on the other hand are compassionate, attentive and nurturing. And the key is to understand why this is, that we have two hemispheres, and that the universe is made of opposites. The right of passage during adolescence is the appropriate time to be circumcised and integrate the dark side of existence. The problem is that infants and children in our culture are exposed to suffering and pain during a fragile period of development that operates on the pleasure principle.

The only way that the infant or child can survive this trauma is to dissociate The left hemisphere from the right hemisphere of the brain, and to dissociate the cortex from the limbic mammalian brain. This creates the shadow and the unconscious.

Narcissism is a secondary defense mechanism against borderline personality disorder. In order to eliminate the psychotic right hemisphere from the equation, the two hemispheres split apart. So treatment for either disorder would be the same. First, a time of infantile dependence in which more pleasure than pain is experienced and trust is developed, until the will to live is affirmed, nullifying the death drive, also known as the secret death wish. The next phase would be to resolve the existential crises of the early stages of psychosocial development, IE: self-acceptance and autonomy vs. shame and doubt, initiative vs. guilt, competence vs. inferiority. Then the rite of passage, the adolescent phase, can begin where one begins to experience humiliation, pain, suffering, adversity and integrate the dark aspects of life. If one does not voluntarily undertake this sacrifice and suffer of one's own initiative, then life will provide suffering in the form of physical illness or disabilities.

Before any of this process can take place, however, a person must first shed their respectable, grandiose, adult persona, or false beliefs about oneself. This is a complete farce, since there are few if any actual adults in our culture, and the sad truth of our psychological state is anything but grand or respectable.

Since the truth of our psychological state is, underneath the social mask, that of a traumatized infant.

The pain and suffering that life deals out in order to initiate this process, If not taking voluntarily, it's not a magical phenomenon, but a natural consequence of the secret death wish.

Here's a theory about how the false persona develops. Since the existential crises of the early stages of psychosocial development are not successfully resolved, when it comes time to develop an identity, during adolescence, since an authentic identity has not been achieved, a person forecloses on a false identity that is simply based on the expectations of society and a mimicry of those around them or based upon false beliefs that one has been conditioned to believe, brainwashed, In other words.

I may have laid out the first guide book for existential psychotherapy and the cure for borderline and narcissism, two of the most serious, most common, and most untreatable psychological illnesses. However, One can see why treatment would be difficult since this plan of treatment dabbles in the realm of mystical unconscious forces at work within the psyche, and the extreme nature of these methods of treatment.

Although I would give great credit to both Carl Jung and the Tao Te Ching as guides to existential psychotherapy and therapeutic methods for these mental illnesses, however cryptic, prone to mistranslation and difficult to understand.

I believe that the Taoist master is, in essence, the original existential psychotherapist.

This is why the Tao Te Ching says: If you want to be given everything, give everything up.

And this is what my unconscious said to me, with cranium shattering magnitude, before I left home, and so I did.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.

I believe that this is well depicted in the movie The Game, starring Michael Douglas. He signs up to play a mysterious game given to him as a gift by his brother. He is drugged, kidnapped and dropped off in Mexico with nothing and finds that his bank account has been emptied. He then begins a life-changing journey.

We spend our lives idolizing the wealthy and working to generate greater and greater amounts of comfort, convenience, safety and security, when, to the degree that we manage to acquire these, they actually work against our psychological healing and maturity towards enlightenment, balance, wisdom, serenity and a truly harmonious existence.

It occurred to me that another way that we seem to work through infant and childhood trauma is by reenacting it in monogamous, romantic relationships. Our mate becomes a replacement for mommy or daddy, and through these relationships and breakups we re-experience the betrayal, abuse, neglect and abandonment, activating the primal wound.

This may actually be the reason for monogamous, romantic relationships in the first place. We are the only primate that practices this kind of sexual relationships. Even tribal societies practice polygamy the way that other primates do, this is the harem of the dominant males.

Since we tend to replace our parents with romantic partners in order to reenact infant and childhood trauma, it is interesting that we tend to call our romantic partners baby.

[silver-wield]

this might sound weird, but while I understand how they meant it with "Cloud is mentally still 16", i do have to say there are a lot of people who make me extremely uncomfortable regarding this. the way they talk as if he's really JUST 16, makes me feel icky, cause a lot of the "hot takes" really infantilize Cloud. [ 1/2 ]

he's "mentally 16" cause he missed out on time. that doesn't mean he's actually a kid. he's mentally ill but still capable. idk, I'm sorry to coming here like this, but I saw some "hot takes" that were downplaying so much of Cloud and his behavior because of this. I guess I just needed to rant and you seem like the person who would understand it the most. [ 2/2 ]

Without seeing the content of these posts I can't comment on the angle of approach.

However, Cloud is absolutely emotionally stunted and at the development stage he was when he was 16. He was in a coma for 4 years and then still not fully cognizant until a year later when Tifa broke through the haze by calling his name (we're assuming OG bg is still exactly the same at this point). Her being alive is what brought him back from the edge and allowed him to cobble together SOLDIER!Cloud.

He did not suddenly mature from 16 to 21 in that moment. It's all a front. That's why he has very poor social skills and needs life lessons and examples of how adults act for him to emotionally grow.

Think of it like he's acting the part. He behaves how he thinks an adult should. That's why Biggs saying he's got a lot in common with the Leaf House kids makes sense. He's seen through the front because he can relate it to how kids try to act more mature than they are. That's not to say he's aware of real!Cloud.

Cloud got a lot of emotional development in this part of Remake. He went from openly hostile and emotionally closed off, to wanting to volunteer his time and mourning people he'd grown close to. He also learned how adults function in different situations, which gave him the necessary tools to comfort Tifa.

He is emotionally 16, but that doesn't mean he stays that way. Emotional character development is a long game not just going from A to B just because of the lifestream event.

I get people won't quite understand how it works, but that because it's complicated af and some of us who already understand it just short hand the whole thing, which sometimes causes confusion.

[dawsonrosendahl51-blog]

Seeing Clients with Disabilities as a Dominatrix

The actual world busy year and one half that Ive been being employed as a dominatrix, Ive had the pleasure of sessioning with a score of clients with disabilities. My experience of BDSM + PWD (people with disabilities) goes back much beyond this, though, to the beginning of my own exploration with kink. Yes, Im disabled myself (although most clients, colleagues, and civilians would never know.) This personal experience has given me a deeper and somewhat unique perspective exactly how to best to address the wants of disabled subs, and thought it would be to their benefit and yours to share the feeling. Ive condensed my insights into five simple points it sounds pro Dommes should keep in mind when dealing with disabled subs. 1. Be aware does not all disabilities are visible and not all visible disabilities are relevant. Like me, plenty of individuals are invisibly disabled. We dont look or act disabled (whatever that might mean), but we still have conditions that affect our functioning and may require accommodations. Diabetes, colitis, epilepsy, and PTSD are regarding some common invisible disabilities that you may would like to take into consideration when playing with a submissive, which is why its important to ask each client whether he has any disabilities or illness. Alternately, keep in mind that doesn't every visible disability can have an impact on your scene. For example, its unlikely youll need to accommodate a spanking sub whos had digits amputated, because dextral ability isnt a part of most physical discipline scenes. 2. Know the right terminology. Many PWD (especially those of older generations) will not be horribly offended if you use the impolite or incorrect term to refer these people or their think. However, knowing the proper terminology will likely a person with an in with PWD and make those clients more likely to stick just as much as. Ive included a few associated with outdated and offensive terms and their more current and appropriate counterparts, but doing some reading on your own cant hurt! *Mentally retarded ? Intellectually disabled *Mentally disturbed ? Mentally ill/ Psychologically disabled *Crippled ? Mobility-impaired *Blind/deaf ? Visually-impaired/ hard-of-hearing (unless theyre fully without sight or hearing, in which case blind and deaf are accurate and acceptable) *Wheelchair-bound -? Wheelchair user (I mean, unless theyve actually been bound to their chair during practice session!) 3. Ask questions-- but not lots of. You dont need to be an expert on every kind of disability there is, and no client would expect in order to be. If you havent heard of any particular condition or youre unsure the actual way it will impact your scene, dont worry to ask. What's more, it's a good idea to inquire about any accommodations customer has found useful in the past and whether or not he might require extra aftercare. However, its important in order to not ask invasive, irrelevant questions, or youll come across as rude and uninformed. How did you get like that? and will often you still perform? are two examples of inappropriate situations. 4. Get creative with accommodations. Often, figuring out ways to accommodate a PWD in session is only a matter of being imaginative. If your sub has circulatory issues,(such as people today who are common with diabetes), its one of the best occasion to skip the rope and break out the stocks. If your sub has knee problems and cant kneel to worship your feet, cause him to lie down while you shove your toes in his throat! Exercise your descriptive verbal skills with clients who are visually impaired or created a silly safe action for clients with speech impediments. Use it! 5. Above Escorts in Wilmington , understand that together with disabilities are more similar to you than different. Often without even realizing it, people without disabilities treat PWD in ways help to make them feel less-than, bizarre, or infantilized. If you inevitably be treating a PWD as if theyre worth less, strange, or childlike, the idea will help to remember that theyre like you in more ways than not. In order to sit instead of kneel doesnt make someone less submissive, talking differently doesnt change the essence of what theyre saying, and having trouble processing information doesnt mean someone is stupid or do not have adult sexual yearns for. A sub with disabilities doesnt necessarily be hit lighter or treated more delicately. Communicate openly about their needs, then relax and enjoy yourselves!

[silentshadowbl0g]

We mostly’ve been focusing on LGBT cats today which is great, however, I want everyone to keep in mind how ableist the canon books are and how uncomfortable the whole nationalism and blood purity obsession with the clans is (there was a rally where cats were called “filth”, starved, and killed in Darkest Hour for being of mixed blood for Pete’s sake). 

Please portray your disabled cats as normal cats and not sad plot devices and vehicles for other cats’ stories. Don’t lament about how the character would live such a better life without their disability. If you’re going to write a character who has a lot of internalized and/or external hatred of disability, then you need to challenge their mindset in the story in some meaningful way in the narrative. Real life physically disabled cats largely act much the same as non disabled cats if the disability doesn’t impede their movement or health that much (i.e. blind, deaf, and cats with missing limbs). Sure, they may be a bit more clumsy and not as good as their non disabled fellow warriors are at things like hunting or fighting, but there’s more to being a warrior than that stuff and having an accident shouldn’t mean a cat has to instantly go to the medicine cat den or the elder’s den. If you’re writing mentally ill characters, don’t portray their illness in some schlocky, B-horror sideshow type way. If they’re an antagonist or villain, don’t make their illness be the reason they’re that way. Don’t let them be the only character with a stated mental illness, either. If you have developmentally disabled characters, don’t infantilize them or make them caricatures, you can make them fully-realized, competent characters. 

As for the blood thing. It’s extremely uncomfortable to have such a...Real element in a story that goes unchallenged in a meaningful, point-blank way. The chauvinism the clan cats show towards loners and pet cats is annoying to say the least. The fact that they consider having been a pet or having an ancestor who was a pet something that you can blood quantum qualify is really messed up (i.e. descendants of Firestar being described as having “kittypet” blood, to say nothing of the fact he lived in a house for all of 6 months tops before going full feral cat). That Stormfur felt the need to leave his clan because of this and Hollyleaf discovering she isn’t of “pure” blood leading to her breakdown (hello! the implications...) also proves the clans’ conception of this shit is fucked up.

So like, if you have those elements in your story, please, please examine them. Even if your story isn’t specifically about that prejudice the cats have. In reality, the cats would probably either encourage or at the least not raise fuss about letting in “new blood” and I think the explicit “a mother doesn’t have to tell us who the father of her kittens are” is kind of a canon loop hole for that. At the very least, I think taking loner or pet mates would probably be common so as to prevent too high of an inbreeding problem. The whole “half-clan cats can never be trusted even if they’ve only known one clan for their whole lives they’re just inherently untrustworthy”, though, that can’t just be out there unchallenged. Warriors isn’t alone in this whole “fantasy racism” thing at all, but it’s just so weird to me how people who’ve never experienced or come from groups that experience similar real life things somehow end up writing that into their made up stories about animals (or aliens, or vampires, ect.) and then don’t actually do much with it (at least up till recently? I don’t catch up with the new books).

-mod Heck

[sclfmastery]

Headcanon: the Simm!Master is Neurodivergent (and probably on the Autism Spec)

(click on the word “neurodivergent” for a succinct explanation of the neurodiversity paradigm) Key: ND = neurodivergent.  

Initial disclaimer: Though I identify as neurotypical, I am also chronically physically disabled, so it is important to me to demolish ableist ideology. So. In NO WAY does the ND (neurodivergent) state of this character justify, explain or cause anything he does that is considered “evil.”  IN. NO. WAY. On the contrary, people who identify as ND are more likely to be victims than perpetrators of violent crimes. 

This headcanon has developed slowly over the entirety of my portrayal of this muse (so it’s taken two years to come to this conclusion).  It’s important to note that this idea does not originate with me, but is pretty precious to a number of ND Doctor Who fans ( @natalunasans , you asked me to tag you <3).  Initially, fellow Master muses  presented this idea to me, and I rejected it largely out fo fear of seeming to imply ideas counter to the above disclaimer.  I have since come to realize that it is possible to portray the Simm Master in such a way that separates his mental illnesses out from his moral reprehensibility.  

This is of course complicated multiple times by the fact that the Master likely also has more than one “Personality Disorder” (a veritable worm-can of issues that psychologists still debate in praxis), as well as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

Why do I think that the Simm Master is ND? For the following reasons drawn from canonical context: 

--Low empathy, NOT to be confused with low compassion (though he has that too, but that’s a learned and morally based character flaw).  People who are ND tend to have difficulty relating to the affect (emotional state) of others in parallel situations, beyond an intellectual recognition of said emotions.  They experience confusion and challenges in this regard.   --Difficulty with innately grasping social cues and expectations.  The Master is an expert politician, capable of reading and manipulating others to his will, it’s true.  But anyone who identifies as ND, if they are also intelligent and perceptive, can learn these skills, and mimic them in social scenarios the acceptable behavioral formulas of which they have memorized.  Not only does the Master love to dress up in elaborate disguises to thwart his adversaries, evincing a love of artifice in general (see the entire Harold Saxon persona, as well as Mr. Razor), he Master  also shows that, when he is not trying to rehearse the “script,” he is extraordinarily intrusive, aggressive, and blunt, and not always for the sake of being intentionally cruel.   --Hyper-fixation and obsession.  Not an inherently bad thing at all. But the Master’s ability to, say, spend ten years fooling one companion of the Doctor into fulfilling his revenge scheme; or comprehensively grasp the entire complex socio-political structure of earth so well that he can win an election as a major world leader; or build an entire nuclear arsenal as well as a floating fortress city in under  two years; and so on and so forth, not to mention have a literal addiction to a childhood best friend turned rival, without the capacity to tunnel-vision.  

--The “Savant” trope.  While it’s a HUGELY over-used and HUGELY exaggerated quasi-myth, there is allegedly a group of people who are ND, often identified as people with Asperger Syndrome, who are amazingly gifted in narrow academic, scientific, or artistic fields.  I’m on the fence about this one because the Master is gifted across the board, and this could easily be a matter of having an unfathomably high IQ (Intelligence Quotient), which exists in an entirely discrete dimension from ND traits.  

--So-called “infodumping.”  He does it.  Not always, but he loves to describe, in intricate detail, his plans and plots, and is that always just a case of bragging? Maybe, maybe not.   --Difficulty grasping personal boundaries.  This one is trickier, and may have to do with a so-called “Personality Disorder,” or otherwise an Attachment Disorder, more than being ND.  But fixation on the Doctor: need I say more?  

--So-called “naivety”.  Now I’m not a huge fan of the way that the media infantilizes ND people (see Sheldon in “Big Bang Theory”) so this is another one to approach with caution.  But a willingness to suspend disbelief is present in the Master at the oddest times: see his history of watching earth children’s television and believing it’s real, or his belief in the very far-fetched, fantastical “four-part gun” that Martha claimed to use to kill him.  

--Difficulty regulating emotion under duress, or recognizing it in oneself.  The Master can manipulate the emotions of others easily, but he seems to have tremendous difficulty recognizing his own fluctuations. He has self-soothing techniques that are evident in canon, such as that odd tic of twisting his head in a circle on his neck, when he is overly excited OR overly upset, but these seem to be unconscious mechanisms.  And more often than not it leads to emotional explosions on his part.  

--Hyper-stimulation (due to the “Drums”) leading to emotional agitation and exhaustion.  This is actually the biggest one imho.  The Master is so often keyed up, manic, aggressive, and angry because  these are very common emotional side effects of ND hyperstimulation, which basically means that the five senses are sending the brain an excess of information and it just shuts down, overwhelmed.  A deafening four-beat rhythm that started suddenly in childhood, that no one else can hear, that isolates you, that never leaves you alone, and that has mnemonic triggers to a moment in your youth when you felt like an inconsequential failure? Pretty sure that’d do the trick. 

Thoughts, reactions, tag-ons welcome!!!!