#and fundamentally she is not the master of course

[eretzyisrael]

by Terry Glavin

In Liberal circles, a new ideological construction is gaining ground—one that threatens to destroy all that it touches in much the way Critical Race Theory has done. That new idea is “Anti-Palestinian Racism,” defined in such a way as to place Zionism—that is, the view held by the vast majority of Jews—beyond the pale of polite society, and potentially beyond the bounds of Canadian hate speech law.

According to the Arab Canadian Lawyers Association, anti-Palestinian racism is defined as follows: “Anti-Palestinian racism is a form of anti-Arab racism that silences, excludes, erases, stereotypes, defames, or dehumanizes Palestinians or their narratives. Anti-Palestinian racism takes various forms including: denying the Nakba and justifying violence against Palestinians; failing to acknowledge Palestinians as an Indigenous people with a collective identity, belonging and rights in relation to occupied and historic Palestine; erasing the human rights and equal dignity and worth of Palestinians; excluding or pressuring others to exclude Palestinian perspectives, Palestinians, and their allies; defaming Palestinians and their allies with slander such as being inherently antisemitic, a terrorist threat/sympathizer or opposed to democratic values.”

It is worth reading that twice. It is a definition of racism that makes the most fundamental defense of Israel’s existence racist. It renders it impossible to describe antisemitism without running the risk of being described as racist.

Michal Cotler-Wunsh, Israel’s special envoy for combating antisemitism, has some special insight into Canada. The Jerusalem-born 53-year-old former member of the Knesset spent about half her life in Canada. She went to school in Montreal, completed a law degree at Hebrew University, then came back to Canada for a master’s degree. A decade later, she returned to Israel.

Anti-Palestinian racism is a legalistic rendering of a vulgar slogan routinely chanted at anti-Israel marches across Canada over the past 10 months: “All the Zionists are racists.” Cotler-Wunsh points out the obvious: “APR renders anyone who self-defines or who is identified as a Zionist or just believes Israel has a right to exist as a racist.”

What we’re witnessing in Canada is the diffusion of “a very particular kind of antisemitism,” Cotler-Wunsh told me. The country’s susceptibility to the “anti-Zionist” iteration of antisemitism is partly because Canadians have lost the capacity to identify with strongly held national values, Cotler-Wunsh argued. “Canadians aren’t especially patriotic,” she said. “So there’s a ‘live and let live’ idea, but it results in indifference.” And that has allowed antisemitism to course through Canada’s institutional bloodstream, largely unchecked.

Cotler-Wunsh’s adoptive father, Irwin Cotler, is a renowned international human rights champion and Canada’s former justice minister. A tireless advocate for dissidents in Russia, Iran, China, and elsewhere, Cotler served as Canada’s special envoy on preserving Holocaust remembrance and combating antisemitism until just days after October 7.“I have never seen in all my life such a thing, such expressions from people of all ages, such expressions of apprehension, of isolation, insecurity, foreboding, expressed in different ways,” said Irwin Cotler. (Dan Balilty via AP Photo)

Last December, after he failed to show up at a Toronto event celebrating the imprisoned Hong Kong dissident Jimmy Lai, it was disclosed that Cotler was under 24-hour police protection because of a threat to his life. The assassination plot was hatched in Tehran.

“Seeing that was heartbreaking,” Cotler-Wunsh told me. “The thought that this would happen in Canada, the thought that in this multicultural beacon of dignity for all, that Canada’s former justice minister, a human rights warrior who fought for hundreds of people around the world, is under house arrest—you could say, trapped in his own home—is really heartbreaking.”

Heartbreaking is a word that well describes the way Canadian Jews see their predicament these days. “I have never seen in all my life such a thing, such expressions from people of all ages, such expressions of apprehension, of isolation, insecurity, foreboding, expressed in different ways,” said Cotler, 84, when we spoke last week. “I see it when I meet with students; I see it when I meet with elderly people. I hear, ‘This is not the Canada I know,’ or ‘This is not the Canada I came to.’ Or ‘This is not the Canada I have ever experienced. This is something else.’ And they are afraid to publicly express it.”

In part, that’s because antisemitism is no longer just some protest culture eccentricity. It’s going mainstream, from the bottom to the top.

Consider the fact that the Toronto District School Board has voted to incorporate “Anti-Palestinian Racism” within its overall anti-discrimination strategy. APR has been endorsed by the NDP and championed by Liberal MP Jenica Atwin. Its most senior advocate is the Trudeau government’s own Special Representative on Combating Islamophobia Amira Elghawaby.

Last month. Elghawaby said Trudeau himself had agreed to come up with a definition of APR and put it into practice.

It’s already gotten to the point that if you enter public conversations by saying anything contrary to the APR doctrine, you’d better be very careful. Say anything that contradicts Palestinian narratives, or questions the right of Palestinians to sovereignty in all of “historic” Palestine, or something that could be construed as “denying the Nakba,” and you can end up destroying your political career, no matter how solid your progressive bona fides might be.

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

yaz, whose master mirror status becomes so very obvious when shes mad: nice house you got there.........would be a shame if someone..............burned................it down..............haha! unless

[corallapis]

ooc imo for tegan to be thinking this way but. still.

[princesssarisa]

As I've read different people's views on Little Women, I've realized that for different readers, it's a fundamentally different book.

When I see someone describe the "universal" experiences of identifying with Jo, wanting her to marry Laurie, and disliking Amy, I remember all the proof I've seen that these are far from universal. The latter two weren't even my experiences: identifying with Jo, yes, but shipping her with Laurie and disliking Amy, no!

Even people with equal amounts of knowledge of the historical context and of Louisa May Alcott's life seem to come away with vastly different feelings about the story and characters.

I suppose there are a wide variety of reasons for this. First and foremost, which of the four March sisters you personally admire or relate to the most. Then there are other factors like your gender, your age when you first read the book, your relationship (good or bad) with traditional femininity, whether you read Parts I and II as a single novel or as Little Women and Good Wives, your relationships with your own family members, your religion and ethical values...

The list goes on.

That post from @theevilanonblog that I reblogged recently about the different interpretations of Frankenstein makes me want to write out a similar list of ten different views I've read of Little Women. Here it is:

Little Women is about the March sisters learning to be proper virtuous women of their time and place. With Marmee as their role model (a role later shared by Beth as she becomes increasingly angelic in her illness), they learn to conquer their flaws, give up their wild ambitions, and settle down as good wives and mothers. This is especially true for Jo, whose character arc is a slow taming from a rough tomboy to a gentle nurturer. It's a conformist and anti-feminist message, which Alcott probably disliked, but she wrote it to cater to public tastes. (This reading seems mainly to come from critics who dislike the book.)

Little Women is about Jo's struggle to stay true to herself in a world that wants to change her. She struggles with whether to stay a tomboy or become a proper lady, whether or not to marry Laurie despite not loving him romantically, and as an author, whether to write what she wants, write what earns the most money, or give up her writing altogether. In the end, she changes only in ways that make her happy, e.g. by learning to control her temper, and later by embracing romantic love. But in more important ways, she stays true to herself: always remaining slightly rugged, clumsy and "masculine," finding success as a writer, and marrying Friedrich, a man just as plain and "unromantic" as herself, but whom she loves and who respects her as an equal.

Little Women is about learning to "live for others." That phrase is used often and could well be the arc words. Beth is the only March sister to whom a selfless life comes naturally, but the other three master it by the end of the story (as does Laurie). They learn to conquer their moments of pettiness and selfishness, to live in better harmony with each other and with their friends and love interests, and to give up their self-centered dreams of fame and wealth, building lives that focus on service instead.

Little Women is about growing up. The first half is mainly about the March girls' maturing by surviving hard times and learning to be better people, while the second half is about reaching adulthood and bittersweetly parting ways to start new lives. At the beginning, Jo is a girl who doesn't want to grow up: she wants to always be a wild young tomboy with her family (and Laurie) by her side forever. But of course, she can't stop time or womanhood, and is eventually forced to accept the loss of Meg, Amy, and Laurie to marriage and Beth to death. After grieving for a while, she lets go of her old life and willingly builds a new one with Friedrich.

Little Women is about family bonds and the fear of losing them. We meet and become attached to the wonderfully close, cozy March family, which gradually expands through friendships, marriage, and new babies. But throughout the story, the family is in danger of breaking apart, whether due to conflict (Jo and Amy's sibling rivalry, Meg and John's marital problems), or separation by distance (Father going away to war, Amy going to Europe, Jo to New York), or death (the danger of losing Father and Beth in Part I, and the ultimate loss of Beth in Part II). But in the end – unlike in reading #4 above – the family doesn't break apart and never will. Conflicts are resolved, travelers eventually come home, the surviving family members always live near each other and stay as close as ever, and even Beth isn't really gone, because her memory and influence live on.

Little Women is about femininity and each March sister's relationship with it. Meg and Amy happily conform in different ways: Meg to "domestic femininity" as a housewife, Amy to "ornamental femininity" as a society lady. Beth pressures herself to conform to self-effacing domestic femininity, until sadly, it kills her – either because she's too selfless and nurturing when she cares for the fever-infected Hummels, or because she has anorexia, as Lizzie Alcott might have had. But Jo strikes a successful balance in the end, conforming just enough to fit into society, but only on her own terms, and otherwise living a happily unconventional life as a writer and schoolmistress.

Little Women is about Jo's unlearning of internalized misogyny. At the beginning, she's a "Not Like Other Girls" tomboy, who wishes she were male, disdains feminine girls (especially her sister Amy), doesn't care enough when "her boy" Laurie behaves badly toward women, and is afraid to be vulnerable. But gradually, and without losing her strength of character, she learns to embrace the sweeter and more tender aspects of herself, sees that Amy's ladylike manners have practical benefits, and learns to say "no" to Laurie when he turns his childish, unhealthy romantic attentions to her. Then after Beth dies, she realizes how precious Beth's utterly domestic, feminine life was, and embraces a more domestic life herself. Yet by doing so, she becomes a true feminist, as she enters an egalitarian marriage and devotes her life to teaching boys to be good, respectful men.

Little Women is only what US Americans know as the first half. It's just about the March sisters getting by and learning moral lessons over the course of the year their father is away at war. Nobody gets married and nobody dies. Everything else is in Good Wives, which is a sequel with different character arcs and different themes, and which should be published separately, as it originally was and still is outside the US. Trying to tie them together into one narrative never feels quite right.

Little Women is Alcott's idealized version of her own life and family, where no one suffers quite as much as they did in real life, everyone is slightly less flawed, and Jo ends up happily married to a man very much like Alcott's lost love Henry David Thoreau. She wrote the life she wished she had.

Little Women is just a semi-autobiographical slice-of-life that Alcott wrote quickly for money.

Which is the truest to Alcott's intent? I don't know. But while some of these readings I like better than others – and some of them I despise – I'd say they're all understandable and reasonably valid. Some aren't even mutually exclusive, but can be used together... although of course, other readings are mutually exclusive, like whether the story is feminist or anti-feminist, or whether the March family ultimately breaks apart or holds together. And they're all worth using as springboards for discussion.

Alcott wrote more books than she ever realized she did, because Little Women can be many different books to different people.

@littlewomenpodcast, @joandfriedrich, @thatscarletflycatcher, @fictionadventurer, @fandomsarefamily1966

[igotanidea]

Probation : Dick Grayson x reader

part 2 to Shattered

the gif is there on purpose, you'll get it ;)

***

„Y/N!”

„No, Dick, no! We’re done. I’m done! Have a happy life or whatever-!”

She shut the door behind her, walking away from everything they build for the last months and years.

Something that could never been permanent only because the fundaments of their joined life were being successively undermined by a mole in the form of Barbara.

His best friend.

Huh! Even thinking that, was some sort of aberration of her. Best friend, damn it. Best friend who wanted nothing more then to jump his –

No.

No, enough.

Y/N was free. Free from manipulation, free from mind games, from fear, from pain and constant self-questioning her worth.

Free.

And if that freedom came with sense of betrayal, loneliness and stupid aching pain in the chest due to holding back tears – so be it.

***

“I don’t understand…”

Meanwhile Dick was sitting on the couch in his apartment, face hid in hands, shaking head and ruffling his already messed up hair.

At least he had some decency to put on a shirt, cause somewhere deep inside, the last of his braincells whispered that it was sort of inappropriate to sit half-naked alone with Babs.

And honestly, that was the first surprise, cause such thought had never haunted him before.

So why now?

“I know you don’t, Dick…” Barbara whispered sitting cross-legged next to him placing hand on his shoulder – “Me neither. I just don’t get it why she would suddenly get so – vicious and – and mean and – vulgar.”

“That was not my Y/N…” Dick stuttered, barely noticing that Babs started tracing soft, comforting circles on his shoulder.

“Maybe that was the part you didn’t know before?”

“No!” Dick raised his head abruptly. “no! no, of course not! I know her! She can be bossy and mean and tend to want to have things her own way, but she’s not – aggressive!”

“Hey, hey relax, I’m just saying-“ Barbara raised her hands in the air, in the sign of pure intentions and innocence (yeah, right). “- people change you know.”

“but not like this! Not so – abruptly!”

“Dick-“

“I mean it Babs!”

“Ok, ok, relax. How about we’ll make some tea and watch a movie to get some perspective?”

“Tea? Are you being serious right now?”

“Dick-“

He almost jumped off the couch and started pacing around the room, rubbing his face nervously.

‘I’m not going to be drinking tea while Y/N is somewhere, god knows where!”

“But she’s the one who stormed off.”

“Well then maybe I should have done more to make her stay-“

“Dick, you can’t stop a girl when she’s angry-“

“It’s my Y/n!”

“So what?”

“So – so what?! What do you mean so what? She’s my girlfriend!”

“Have you ever considered she may not want to be your girl anymore?”

“What---?”

“Dick, just listen to me-“ Barbara stood up and walked to him, reaching for his hands and squeezing them reassuringly. “she doesn’t respect you-“

“What are you-?”

“She doesn’t cherish you-“

“This is not-“

“She doesn’t love you.” Barbara cupped his cheek and caressed it softly but if her intention was to make Dick lean into the touch it definitely backfired when he grabbed her wrist in an iron grip, almost tearing her hand from his skin.

“Don’t.” he almost growled.

“Dick-“

“I said don’t. she loves me. And I love her. Her. You hear me loud and clear now. I love Y/N.”

“She’s not good for you!”

“Not good, huh?” Dick scoffed ‘how would you know what’s good for me? You? With your manipulation? With your tricks and puppet master role?”

“I don’t-“ she tried to defend herself but it was too late. Dick Grayson may have not been the sharpest tool in the shed but if anything he was tuned in on any manifestation of injustice, unfairness or cruelty. Mix that trait with the fact that the object of said behavior was his Y/N and add the sprinkle of guilt of not realizing it sooner and you get an explosive match.

“Enough.”

Dick Grayson, the nightwing, the hero was gone.

All left was a protective and possessive boyfriend, even if a little belated.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“But I’m your best-“

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no? We’ve known each other since we were kids! You can’t put her over me!”

“That is exactly what I’m doing.”

“You’re gonna regret this.“

“Maybe. Or maybe not. But right now, I want you out. Out of here and out of our lives.”

“You are going to regret this. Besides, in case you didn’t notice, you already lost so-called your Y/N. She’s gone and she hates you. So if anything, I half-succeeded and you are left with nothing. When you come knocking at my door, you’ll realize I won.”

Barbara grabbed her clothes and walked out the door, shutting them behind herself in the same way Y/N did some time earlier, leaving Dick with a heavy heart and weighing conscience.

Already masterminding a plan to fix everything.

***

“Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Y/n!”

“What!?” Her colleagues finally managed to throw her out of her reverie, by yelling her name repeatedly, making her awfully angry. “what is so important that you have to resort to screaming match?!”

“Dick is waiting outside, staring at our window.”

“Dick is waiting - what?”

“come on, look for yourself.” One of her friends dragged her towards the window so she could see for herself. The second that Dick caught her silhouette he raised hand in a shy form of greeting. And damn, that smile that always made her knees weak.

“Are you crazy?” Y/N wriggled free and jumped to the other side of the room “we had a fight! I don’t want to see him!”

“How were we supposed to know you had a fight! You never share such things!”

“We’re work colleagues not friends!”

“Oh! Great, now she’s mean. Do not pour your relationship frustrations onto us!”

“I’m not- ugh!” she groaned, throwing hands in the air in frustration, falling onto the nearby chair in a sense of defeat.

“Y/N…”

“Leave me alone….”

“We’re not going to do that.”

“I’m gonna start crying.” She warned.

“Oh god, forbid you have some human emotions in you.”

“Stop making me feel better when I’m feeling bad.” Y/N chuckled “That’s mean…”

“Go talk to him.”

“No!”

“Go!”

“No!”

“You love him!” her friend reminded her. “you love him, you love him, you love him, you-“

“Fine! Fine! I do! I love him! Happy now!’

“Extremely.”

Before Y/N could realize what was happening, she was being wrapped in a coat, with a hat on his head and a scarf over the half her of her face and literally pushed outside to have a conversation with that poor guy who was freezing in the cold.

***

A life lesson worth remembering is that a person should make sure the scarf does not limit one’s field of view before stepping outside onto the snowy, slippery ground.

In the heat of the events Y/N failed to do her homework in that area and found herself tripping over the frozen surface, starting to fall down, her entire life flashing through her eyes, already saying goodbyes to her worries, closing eyes in a wait for eternal bliss –

“I got you.”

She did not meet with the creator and definitely not with any of his angels, but the face she saw was pretty close.

Of course she had to end up like a rom-com heroine, engaged in a seemingly funny but awfully cliché, embarrassing and directed scene of being saved from bruised ass.

“Great….” She muttered, but made no move to free herself from his grasp. “just what I needed.”

“You want me to drop you?” Dick chuckled

“By all means, please do. Just make sure I hit my head hard enough to not remember this.”

“How about I’ll help you hit yourself so hard you won’t remember how much of an idiot I’ve been?”

“Mh. Interesting idea, even if that would mean forgetting quite a few years.”

“I’m sorry.” He sighed and she raised an eyebrow.

“Are you admitting you’ve been wrong in something?”

“Wrong? No! Never. I’ve never been wrong in my whole life!”

“Never? I’ll be merciful and give you five seconds to reconsider. Four… three… two…”

“Fine! Fine! I was wrong….” Dick muttered, looking down, his words barely audible and hardly coherent.

“Better. Please continue.”

“I cast her out.” He muttered

“Your myopia? Poor you, I’m sure you feel lonely now-“

“Y/N!” his grip on her waist tightened, blue eyes threw daggers at her.

“What?”

“You’re making it awfully hard to apologies to you!”

“You were expecting me to make it easy?”

“Nah.” He grinned “Not in the slightest. Though I figured it was appropriate to point out how much effort I’m putting into getting you back.”

“This is not a teenage movie, Richard.”

“Of course not, you are way past your teenage years, love – Ouch! You hit me!?”

“You mocked my respectable age, you dumbass!” she wriggled free and started throwing half-formed snowballs at him.

“Oh no, you don’t!” he attacked right back, grabbing onto her, spinning her around, pushing her hat onto her face (blocking the view again!), and beginning to gradually turn her into a giant snowman.

“Stop it!” she laughed struggling against him, wriggling arms and legs in poor attempt to break free before the snow landed under her coat.

“I’m sorry!” he yelled, not letting go.

“I said stop it!”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“You’re yelling in my ear, I’m practically deaf now!”

“I’m sorry.” He turned her so she was facing him, fixing her hat to meet her eyes “I’m sorry. I should have-“

“Idiot.” She cut him off

“Absolutely.”

“Dumbass.”

“The biggest in the world.” He agreed without missing a beat.

Y/N bit her lip, thinking deeply.

“Fool?” she tried again.

“Without a doubt.” He nodded “But are you going to keep throwing synonyms at me?”

Suddenly she got an idea, the mischief flashing in her eyes as she reached for her phone and flashed the camera in her face.

“What are you doing?” he tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.

“Rudolf.” She laughed

“What?”

“No more synonyms. You are so ugly Dick!”

“Ugly? Ok, I get it your mad, but that’s a low blow, even for you and – OH MY GOD!”

The photo she snapped?

With him having red nose, messed up, flat hair  full of snow, crooked scarf and red mark on the cheek?

“Betrayal!” he yelled

“Again – did you expect me to make it easy?”

“Seriously, now you absolutely have to forgive me.” He grabbed both her hands in his.

“I have to?” she smirked

“With that snapshot I suppose we’re even?”

“Dick.”

“Yeah?”

“What happened?”

“I love you.”

“Oh? Do you?” she teased “Since when?”

“No idea. It’s just kind of happened to me. Like a lightning bolt.”

“Bless mother nature for giving us subtle signs. “

“She’s gone. I’m sorry for being blind. You are the most important to me and – “

“and-?”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes you have to.”

“You were right…” she sighed “you were right about Barbara all along…” he bore eyes into the ground.

“Eyes up Mr Grayson.”

“Y/N… you are the most important to me…”

“You’re officially on probation now.”

“Really!?” he lighted up immediately “I am? Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He spun her in the air, upon hearing that she was kind enough to put him on probation.

Things were looking good.

@fullbelieverheart @peachmartini @flooofity @gloomysel @disi2507 @marzzrambles @justliving15

[pirateshelly]

One thing that really fascinates me about interview with the vampire (the show) is this sort of tension between power and powerlessness in all of the characters. Because it doesn't present becoming a vampire as something that just gives you power and magically makes you completely detached from all human concerns and struggles.

And that seems to be something Lestat does very much want to believe, and he's in enough of a position of privilege that he's able to convince himself it's true, and it's a fundamental area where he just cannot understand Louis because Louis CAN'T pretend even if he wants to. (And of course Lestat cannot ACTUALLY separate himself from "human troubles" the way he likes to think he can, he just has an easier time pretending than most). Because as much as becoming a vampire grants these characters supernatural power it doesn't just magically take away the very tangible human ways that they were previously vulnerable or powerless.

Becoming a vampire doesn't negate Louis' struggles with racism; in some ways it amplifies them with how he is alienated from his own family and community; his closest connection becomes Lestat. He loses his economic independence and becomes socially dependent on Lestat in a way he wasn't to anyone as a human because in some ways becoming a vampire made him MORE vulnerable, despite granting him physical strength/speed/etc. The promise of freedom in vampirism Lestat presents to Louis (that I do think he does genuinely mean, but "freedom" means very different things to Louis than it does to Lestat) is never fulfilled.

Likewise Claudia learns the hard way with Bruce and later with the coven that she may be a vampire but the world still looks at her and sees a vulnerable young black girl and that will always put her in danger.

Claudia rescues Madeleine then turns her into a vampire, but rather than protect her from future harm the "crime" of turning her becomes the very thing that gets her killed by yet another angry mob.

And 514 years as a vampire will never be enough for Armand to truly trust or believe in his own power. Because the first 200 or so years of his life he was literally never once allowed any agency at all over his own identity or his own body (child slave sold to a brothel, sold to an abusive master, captured and violently indoctrinated into a vampire cult for centuries). No amount of material strength and power is going to undo the psychological effects of that. (And I know some people like to read his frequently passive demeanor as simply manipulation and a way of catching people off guard (because how could someone so old and powerful possibly feel a genuine sense of fear/vulnerability/etc 🙄) but to me that's an incredibly disingenuous reading of him. But that's a different rant for another time!). Being a vampire does not save him from being horrifically abused, nor does it save him from the lasting emotional effects of that abuse.

And I think there's something interesting to be said about the way that, in order to survive safely, they have to feed on the most vulnerable members of society (people undesirable and therefore least likely to arouse suspicion) in order to go unnoticed. If they want to live they have to prey on those vulnerable in possibly the same ways they themselves once were (and in many ways still are).

There's a frequent argument I dislike that we shouldn't be viewing any of these characters through too human of a lense because they're literal monsters (to be honest it's an argument I see most often made when people simply don't want to talk about the show's complex depiction of racism/misogyny/abuse/etc and used to dismiss those as issues "too human" to be relevant to a story about a bunch of monsters with a supposedly alien sense of morality), but I think the show itself makes a huge argument that for these characters there is no escaping or separating themselves from the very human struggles and vulnerabilities that marked them before they ever became vampires. It's like a sort deconstructed power fantasy.

[moirindeclermont]

5+ things I love about the Mirror Scene

also know as horny edition, reprise, again I decline every responsability if "feelings" arise during the reading of this thread. I'll be tempted of discussing the scene frame by frame, but I shall restrain myself to the most important points maybe

1) Words. This is not just about the speech at the beginning of the scene but also throughout the entire piece. I'm a writer, ofc I love when people use words well. Pleas don't make me say how many times I though about Mr Colin "I love dirty talking" Bridgerton (a couple of people actually knows) because it could become uncomfortable very quick.

2) Consent. Consent. Consent. I'll repeat every time because it's the sexiest thing I've seen. What do you mean it ruins the mood? Your partner is checking in with you and it builds trust connection and intimacy. It's not apart from the act. It's a fundamental part of the act.

3) Boobs. I'm sorry to report that, even as a fellow member of the perfect breasts club, I'm absolutely not immune. Not even one bit. I'm not even sorry I'm not immune. Thank you, Nicola, your service was wildly appreciated. (But seriously, did I buy a more revealing dress because I was a bit more confident of my own because of this bit? Yes! So, jokes aside thank you Nicola for your service)

4) Guidance. Gentle Dom Colin is my favorite Colin and I will never be able to hear the word "lie down" without thinking of him. But also, the tenderness displayed, the softness, the attention to the partner's needs, it's all part of a pattern of Colin being the most attentive partner.

5) "You are so beautiful", I'm not going to lie, I'm still walking 5 feet taller because of that. It healed something in me. It doesn't magically cure all the self issues problems, but it hit me the first time and it hit me again everytime. And if it was healing for you as much as it was for me, let me give you a hug. You are so beautiful!

(I can't believe I can't find the gif, if someone knows where to find it, please tell me, i'll edit the post)

6) "Not there. Not yet." Colin Bridgerton, Master of Edging. I see you Sir. I approve you wanted to wait for round 2 for that. But don't hide you did say that because you would finish in 0.1 second if she would arrive that. Still, even just for the cutest expression on Pen's face, it was worth it.

7) "Is there more?", Pen I want to hug you (respectfully and dressed, of course). His nod. Her blinding smile. Lord (don't) forgive me, I do not care about sinning when it never looked and felt better.

Gif by @polinsated

8) All the moments where you can see the lust and the pleasure in Pen's eyes. I will never shut up about it. They send me always into the stratosphere because it feels real. I don't know they do it, but it just feel real.

9) "Can we do it again?" What can I tell you? It's always the quiet one (I should know, I'm also a quiet one 😏) I'm not sure Colin realize what he did awake but he will become aware soon. I'm sure he doesn't mind.

(it's not my gif, stupid Tumblr, it's from @polinsated )

10) Let's be honest. All the above are real, but what really sell this scene is trust, connection and intimacy. It's not an easy thing to communicate but somehow they do it perfectly. And the nudity is functional to this goal. It adds another layer.

I love this scene but the me I was some years ago might have hated it because it is a mirror indeed for me. The me I am now is grateful that this scene exist. Because it's kind of the goal, to have that trust, intimacy and connection. So maybe it's a sign from the Universe. Maybe it's a sign of things to come. I certainly do hope so.

Maybe one day I might be able to talk about this scene without tearing up, but today is not that day.

[katakaluptastrophy]

What do Captain Deuteros, the Princesses of Ida, the Baron of Tisis, the Lady of Koniortos Court, the Duchess of Rhodes, the Master Templar, and the Reverend Daughter all have in common? They almost certainly own slaves.

Ok, not "slaves". As I'm sure Housers would be the first to tell you, they do not have slaves. Gideon herself explicitly establishes this in chapter one:

I’m indentured, not a slave.

But functionally, what does that mean?

We don't get a definition of what Gideon means by a slave, or how this word is used in House (do the Houses also have slaves? Are slaves something other, uncivilised people have in the benighted darkness beyond the light of Dominicus and the empire?). Gideon is an unfree person who is subject to violence and exploited for the financial gain of her masters, but it means something to her that she is not, in some economic or legal sense, a slave. So what is an indentured servant?

Gideon's status is referred to using several other terms over the course of GTN, primarily by Silas Octakiseron. While Silas is not an unbiased commentator, it's interesting that his objection to Gideon is not just because she's Ninth, but because she has usurped her social position:

“Thrall,” said Silas. “Serf. Servant... Villein,” continued the necromancer of the house of the Eighth, warming to his thesaurus. Colum was staring at Gideon, almost cross-eyed with disbelief. “Foundling. I am not insulting you, I am naming you for what you are. The replacement for Ortus Nigenad, himself a poor representative of a foetid House of betrayers and mystics.”

We don't know the exact connotations of these words in House. But a "serf" historically was a sort of feudal peasant tied to the land of a manor. Unlike a slave, a serf usually couldn't be bought or sold as an individual, but could be transferred wholesale with the land. Generically speaking, serfdom involves a tie to the land, an obligation to generate income/goods for the feudal lord of the land through labour and/or rents, and a lack of freedom of movement. It could be from birth or a voluntary indenture.

The contextual information that we get about Gideon's status backs up this very feudal image:

Gideon is, as Crux repeatedly reminds her, in some way the property of the Ninth. She wears a security cuff, and her attempt to run away is described as theft and misuse of House goods. In a typically House way, it is not just that she owes them her labour - she owes them her body once she dies. (What's interesting is that this part isn't specifically tied to her status as an indentured servant, but it fundamentally colours how it is understood in world.)

"You talk so loudly for chattle, Nav... You chatter so much for a debt. I hate you, and yet you are my wares and inventory."

Crux is Harrow's seneschal. And it would seem that at least on the Ninth, this role is very much the same as its medieval feudal equivalent: the official in charge of the management of the estate's goods and labourers.

Gideon is a legitimate subject of violence in House law: Harrow talks about how it would be "master's sin" if she "employed unwarranted violence" against her. Which means that some degree of violent punishment of indentured servants is legally permissable.

She is meant to be a financially useful asset: regulations exist governing indentured people joining the military, where they can generate revenue for their House. However, Harrow warns Gideon that "the Cohort won’t enlist an unreleased serf" - because the movement of a serf is at the discretion of her Lady, not something over which she has free choice.

The description of how Gideon came to be of the Ninth is particularly interesting in shedding some light on the institution of indenture in the Houses:

The Ninth had historically filled its halls with penitents from other houses, mystics and pilgrims who found the call of this dreary order more attractive than their own birthrights. In the antiquated rules of those supplicants who moved between the eight great households, she was taken as a very small bondswoman, not of the Ninth but beholden to it: What greater debt could be accrued than that of being brought up?

Medieval serfs too had no freedom of movement; they required a license from their lord to spend extended time away from the manor.

It's easy to forget, when the Houses themselves likely range in scale from the size of Los Angeles to Aotearoa New Zealand, that legally they seem to understand themselves to constitute feudal households. Those born in each House are part of - or in some cases it would seem, property of - the House. We see discussion in the Sermon on Necromancers and Cavaliers of the heirs of cavalier lines being traded between Houses for political capital. Necromancers, meanwhile, are apparently such a political or reproductive asset that they are usually not allowed to marry outside their House. Obviously, these are examples of people at the top of House society, whose movement brings with it political power, or financial assets, or reproductive capacity. Where does that leave a more ordinary person who lacks those desirable assets? It would seem that they can be their own asset, granted access to another House on a debtor's bond - it's not clear in the House context whether this is typically an exchange of people already debt bonded to their House, free people entering into such bondage to secure a right of passage to another House, a combination, or something else entirely.

But it speaks to a much more ancient understanding of how people are tied to lands and lords, alongside the Houses' very different attitude to the value of human lives:

“You’re no slave, but you’ll serve the House of the Ninth until the day you die and then thereafter"

One could infer, since we've encountered nobles and serfs, that the Houses have something akin to a three-tier system like many historical European feudal systems, with nobles, freedmen, and serfs.

The medieval European feudal system was primarily a function of the management of land - serfs and freedmen's statuses were a result of their relationship to obligations to the land - requirements of work, or rents to their lord, who ultimately controlled and profited from that land. This is where the tricky difference between serfdom and slavery tends to arise.

But the Houses are not a European medieval feudal kingdom. They are not, presumably, a primarily agrarian economy. So what use might such bondspeople be? What does that society look like, outside of its highest nobles investigating each others' murders and its strangely incestuous demigods?

There must be some agriculture and industry. Given the trying conditions of living in inhospitable space environments, that there might be some class of labourers fundamentally tied to their Houses, perhaps initially stemming from the order or situation of their ancestors' resurrection, isn't impossible to imagine (after all, ruling families and cavalier lines also trace their status from the Resurrection). From the information about the rules governing movement between Houses, perhaps there are also people living in dire conditions on remote moons willing to sell their freedom for a chance at slightly better conditions, or a new start in a different House. Most Houses do not have the necromantic capacity to create skeleton constructs on a scale to manage most of their labour - in The Mysterious Study of Dr Sex, it's clear that the Sixth has a finite supply of skeleton constructs that they would require Ninth input to overhaul. We have to assume most labour on most Houses in human, and some portion of it at least in some way unfree.

But the Houses are a spacefaring society with a large, centralised military and an economically complex empire. It does not function entirely like a medieval kingdom, however much it may sometimes look like one. Much of its imperial structure seems to be on a much more 19th or 20th century model.

And the Cohort is one area where we can see some non-medieval, but awful implications to the Houses' practice of serfdom. Consider the commission that Harrow offers Gideon:

It purchased Gideon Nav’s commission to second lieutenant, not privy to resale, but relinquishing capital if she honourably retired. It would grant her full officer training. The usual huge percentage of prizes and territory would be tithed to her House if they were won, but her inflated Ninth serfdom would be paid for in five years on good conditions, rather than thirty.

Gideon is not being promised as canon fodder - this is a promise of officer training. And yet, Gideon is a serf - and that officer training would be an investment in financial returns from her involvement in the bloody machinery of empire.

How many people in the Cohort are not free? Are serfs released from their usual obligations in the House to which they are debt bonded to instead generate income for their House on the battlefield or die trying? What proportion of the Cohort are functionality enslaved children, sold a dream of glory by smutty comics and released by their Houses because their eventual deaths will be more profitable to their Houses than their labouring lives?

And fundamentally, if the Houses are in some way substantially reproducing aspects of medieval feudalism, there's only one person who can be responsible for that...

[mikavlcs]

Static Patterns

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x fem!reader

Summary: Wednesday’s struggling to say those three special words, so she decides to instead show you how she feels.

Warnings: soft/ooc!wednesday(!!!), reader’s kinda unserious, sorry

Word count: 1.8k

Notes: this was requested by @beauty-in-the-brkdwn​, hope you enjoy<3

Masterlist

Never in her life had Wednesday felt more stupid than she did now.

Mere months ago, she had faced and overcome unthinkable odds, defeating an undead pilgrim and saving the entirety of Nevermore from destruction. A feat she pulled off with moderate ease.

And now here she was being bested by something as trivial as words.

It was humiliating to think about, even conceptually. That she—an aspiring writer—was struggling with words. A communicative tool she had mastered using before the age of five. This was even worse when paired with the fact that what she was struggling to say was so torturously simple.

Three words. Eight letters.

A phrase that millions were able to say in passing and yet the thought of actually saying those words to you was somehow more daunting than the Hyde and Crackstone combined.

It shouldn’t have been, she knew that. Her candor was one of her defining features, a thing of pride even. But when combined with everything they symbolize, those three syllables suddenly weighed a thousand pounds on her tongue.

She tried and failed multiple times and as bitter as defeat tasted, she had no choice but to swallow it down and rethink her strategy.

Thus, a new, different approach was taken. After all, they did say that actions spoke louder than words. One of the most fundamental rules when writing was show don’t tell. So she settled for showing you how she felt rather than vocalizing it.

It started small with something as small and insignificant as breakfast. One morning she decided to procure a bowl of your favorite cereal and another, smaller bowl of assorted fruits.

You would always whine about how they were gone by the time you got there—which was entirely your fault, seeing as you arrived nearly ten minutes after everyone else did—so she figured this was a good place to start.

The excitement on your face as you took your place next to her told her she was correct.

From there it branched out slowly, like roots growing within soil.

She would take your books from you and carry them while she escorted you to your classes—even the ones she didn’t attend with you. It made your commutes much easier since nobody dared step into Wednesday’s way while she marched through the halls.

Stealing snacks for you from the kitchen became a daily occurrence. And with a few well-executed threats, she was able to take them free of charge. They were left in your locker, Wednesday feigning surprise when you found them, but you both knew the truth.

When you mournfully showed her the C+ you got on your Botany test she demanded politely offered to tutor you.

It even got to the point where she was willing to indulge in what she would consider blasphemy—physical touch.

This specific form of affection was something she vehemently avoided, its alleged pleasures something that eluded her. But you abstained for the sake of her comfort, so she would be willing to put forth an effort for the sake of yours.

It wasn’t much, but sometimes at lunch when she was absolutely sure no one was paying attention, she would tentatively cross her pinky with yours. And when you sat across from her at the Weathervane, she lightly rested her hand over yours.

She would admit—never aloud—that it wasn’t terrible.

You noticed the abrupt shift in her behavior, of course. The first few times you let it be, curious glances in her direction your only acknowledgment of the situation.

But eventually, the questions started, and Wednesday being always prepared, had her answers ready on her tongue.

“Your complaints about these being gone every morning are tiresome, so I got them for you since you can’t be bothered to show up on time.”

“Your feeble arms looked like they were struggling more than usual. The pitiful display has gotten rather boring.”

“These grades are not reflective of your limited intellectual abilities, it’s disappointing. I’ll fix that.”

Her snark never had much effect on you, so the excuses always earned an honest, if a bit bewildered chuckle from you (though she swore she could see fear in your eyes after that last one). But you didn’t question her further.

If she were to hazard a guess, she would say that you refused to inquire about her actions because you were afraid she would stop upon confrontation. And she knew you didn’t want that.

It was clear to her that you were enjoying her efforts. You were always a more inherently joyful person than her, but she had never seen as many smiles and blushes from you as she did these past few weeks. It was a pleasant thing to witness, she supposed.

And perhaps, somewhere deep down in the dark recesses of her mind, she was enjoying it as well.

-

You were late, like usual.

The Saturday study sessions she set up were scheduled to start at 12:30, meaning that you would arrive at 12:40. Your chronic tardiness was something that was so deeply ingrained that even she couldn’t correct it. She had long since given up trying.

She instead used the extra time to her advantage.

Opposite of you, she arrived every Saturday at 12:20 on the dot, preferring to be early so she could secure her favorite booth in the back of the café. The time before you arrived was used to plan out the lessons she would cover with you and color-coordinate her notes to make sure they were easy for you to understand.

The usual medium hot chocolate you ordered was placed on your side of the table, steam rising steadily from the top, but a new addition was the croissant she decided to order alongside it on a whim. You would appreciate it, she knew, you were always hungry.

At exactly 12:40, she heard the bell on the door chime and the familiar sound of your footsteps followed. She fought against the urge to straighten up and look back at you, gluing her eyes to the notes she was organizing.

There was movement in her peripherals as you slid into her sightline, the crooked grin on your face immediately identifiable, even out of focus. “Hey.”

“Hello,” she greeted evenly, sparing you only a glance as she pushed the pastry further over in your direction. Naturally, your eyes followed the movement and lit up comically once you spotted the food.

“For me?” you asked rather redundantly, the beginnings of a smile pulling at your lips.

Wednesday gave you a blank stare. “You’re the only other person at this table.”

That stupid, stunning smile only widened. You picked the croissant up and took a bite, never breaking eye contact with her. “Thanks, Wen.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, running her eyes over the expanse of your face. Then, “Now, open your textbook to page 274.”

Your face dropped but you obeyed.

Thirty minutes were spent taking notes and going over terms. A great use of the early afternoon in Wednesday’s opinion, though she knew your feelings would differ vastly.

You were focused on working for all of ten minutes before you started sending her long, blatantly obvious glances from across the table.

At the fifth consecutive look in a row, she decided to confront you. “If you have something to say then say it.”

You didn’t seem surprised to be called out, but you still took a minute to delve into your concerns. “What…is all of this?”

She paused her writing, glanced up briefly. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”

“Yeah, sorry that was vague,” you apologized, lightly shaking your head. “I mean all of these things you’ve been doing for these past few weeks—carrying my books, getting me my favorite foods at school, helping me study, and now buying me things…I love it, really but I don’t want you to do this because you think you need to-“

“I don’t,” she interrupted. “I do nothing out of an abstract sense of obligation, you know this.”

She didn’t have to see you to know that you were smiling. “Yes, I do. I just want to make sure that you know you don’t have to do all of this if you don’t want to.”

You were giving her an out. An unnecessary one, but the thought managed to be both touching and offensive. That you would sacrifice something that you are clearly enjoying for her was…courteous.

But the fact that you could possibly that she—Wednesday Addams—was doing anything for someone else because she “felt as if she had to” was nauseating and it needed to be fixed immediately.

“I do. Want to,” she said, her normally seamless cadence stunted as she tried to phrase her thoughts in a way that wasn’t painfully embarrassing. “I’m attempting to express the depth of my…feelings toward you.”

“Feelings? And what exactly do you feel for me?” Your tone was sincere, but there was a hint of smugness in it. Like you already knew the answer to your question.

“Disdain, at the moment,” she deadpanned as her mind receded elsewhere.

If she were to stop talking now, she knew you would drop it and take the win for what it was, but, strangely, she didn’t want to stop. The repulsive desire to open up pulled at her and she couldn’t help but lament the devastating effects that these cursed feelings continued to have on her.

Wednesday accepted her fate, took a deep breath, and swallowed her pride.

“In all seriousness, I…don’t hate you,” she ground out. “At all. Quite the opposite actually. And I felt it was important to let you know that, even if it was only through small, inane gestures.”

There was a moment of silence. Then another, and another. Unable to resist, Wednesday lifted her eyes to you and found that you looked positively awestruck. Eyes wide, brows raised, and lips parted. Utterly speechless.

She drank in the admittedly rare sight.

Slowly, the astonishment abated, and a wide, unruly grin crept onto your face. She knew right then that you were about to make her regret her confession.

“Awww,” you cooed, and, to her horror, you moved forward to press a warm kiss to her cheek.

Wednesday grimaced and glanced around to make sure that there were no witnesses to your display of affection. 

Thankfully, it seemed that no one had seen or if they had, they made the smart decision to look away before she gauged their eyes out.

She turned back and glared at you with as much murderous intent as she could muster, trying to seem utterly disgusted with your behavior. But she knew the undeniable burning in her cheeks told you everything you needed to know.

Giggling, you sat back, reaching over to thread your fingers together with hers. Your smile tempered, softening around the edges until only tenderness and an emotion that she was becoming all too familiar with remained.

You leaned forward again, and this time, she was too enraptured to bother looking around.

“I love you too, Wednesday.”

[crooked-wasteland]

I'm very much looking forward to your Stolitz/HB is a bad musical essay. I've had my own thoughts on HH being subpar as far as a musical goes but never really felt like I had the knowledge on musicals as a narrative style nor as a music genre to do it much justice; excited to see you tackle the topic in regards to HB! 🫡

I absolutely understand the hesitation. It isn't like I personally have a masters in Musical Theory, but I think we as a generation have had musical theories subliminally inculcated into our psyche from the sheer amount of exposure that we can understand what makes a good musical and recognize when those qualities are simply not there. No one has reservations talking about how bad Wish was as a musical, and what I am finding in my own deep-dive for this essay is that Helluva Boss and Hazbin Hotel suffer the same issues as Wish. The lead in music being Sam Haft who is not a musical theatre composer and frankly doesn't understand how musical theatre functions on a fundamental level.

For a small preview of a major point in my essay that I plan on expanding much more, Helluva and Hazbin completely lack an understanding of musical diegesis. This may be a new term for some. Diegesis is most often referenced in how music interplays within a movie or film.

Most of the time the music is not diegetic to the story. When we have big moments in our media with that swelling emotional music, we don't think that there is an orchestra just off screen playing this music for these characters. We are aware the music is an external component to the story. In this way, the music is most often not diegetic to the narrative.

Of course that isn't always the case. Take for example Guardians of the Galaxy and how the films utilize their soundtrack. Starting the movie off, we hear Come and Get Your Love as we would hear any other soundtrack, only for Peter Quill to remove his headphones and the music can be heard playing faintly over them. That makes the song Diegetic.

Another example is Shrek. All of the pop songs in the films are non-diegetic, but there are diegetic songs in, say, Shrek 2 with the Fairy Godmother singing Holding Out for a Hero.

To pull back to more direct inspiration, Happy Day in Hell is nothing more than an embarrassing parody of Beauty and the Beast's opening number Belle. However, Belle is non-diegetic. The Townspeople are singing their thoughts and feelings, but that is not what literally is happening. And Belle turning at the end isn't supposed to be taken as literally the town coming to a halt just to follow her and talk about how weird she is, but that the town as a collective sees her as an outsider and she gets that sixth sense sort of feeling of people judging her. Because they are, they just don't say anything. That is a key crux for the film.

Every single song in Helluva Boss and Hazbin are diegetic. We know this because Vaggie tells Charlie not to sing and we are told by Angel Dust explicitly that Charlie is, in fact, physically singing. Stolas' song ends with Stella telling Stolas to stop singing. Striker, Verosika, Moxxie, Stolas, Fizzarolli, Glitz & Glam, and Asmodeus all sing as a part of a literal performance.

In fact, Hazbin goes out of its way to shoehorn in-universe reasons to have a song rather than just allowing the world to exist in that heightened reality. Additionally, by having the songs explicitly being legitimate songs in the world, we actually face more issues with the world building because on one hand Vaggie is begging Charlie to not sing and is struggling with the secondhand embarrassment, only for the denizens of Hell to join in? Except the world has established that singing is not something people just do. It is the one time the criticism of "Why is everyone singing" and "How do you all know the words?" Are legitimately valid questions.

This all screams insecure and shows a clear discomfort with the genre of musical theatre as a whole. There is no depth of understanding how music in musicals function, just like Wish.

That isn't even touching on how San Haft's lyricism is identical to Wish's worst numbers with how he just borks the internal structure and meter of his songs.

[janearts]

Loved reading your thoughts for Roisia's companion quest! Do you have any thoughts on how Roisia would resolve the situation with her father while she is the protagonist? Would one of her companions (like Wyll or Karlach, perhaps) notice that her father is unhappy as he is and remark on it, which could help sway her in one or another direction? Or are you just letting all of the possible resolutions live as nebulously-canon at this point? (I'd be so curious to know how she'd feel about the Avatar of Kelemvor asking her to kill Astarion who she romanced, were she put in that situation.)

[The ask refers to these thoughts on Roisia as a companion.]

Thank you!! I'm glad you enjoyed it. I've answered your questions below the read-more.

Do you have any thoughts on how Roisia would resolve the situation with her father while she is the protagonist?

Roisia would be oblivious to the fact that her father is deeply unhappy with the current state of affairs. Roisia is too fixated on the fact that he's here again and she gets to have more time with her father (her gain) than on the fact that his life in the here and now is fundamentally different from how it used to be (his loss).

Unfortunately, Roisia would not resolve the situation with her father because she's not aware there is a situation to be resolved.

Would one of her companions (like Wyll or Karlach, perhaps) notice that her father is unhappy as he is and remark on it, which could help sway her in one or another direction?

I thought that Wyll would gravitate to Roisia's mother since they're both monster hunters or Yasmin was at one point anyway. (Yasmin can show him the trophy room!) I see the same thing happening with Karlach. I thought that Shadowheart or Halsin would be more intuitive when it came to Jairus, but I also considered that Astarion might clue in as well as an "undead creature" himself. I don't know if any of them would remark on it to Roisia, however. If they did, my concern would be that Roisia would persist in the belief that the solution to her father's unhappiness is the true restoration of flesh and bone rather than asking him if he would prefer a merciful death at this point.

Or are you just letting all of the possible resolutions live as nebulously-canon at this point?

100%. As far as I'm concerned, all of the resolutions I outlined are possible, but none of the resolutions are canon. (Or they're nebulously-canon as you've said.) I scripted what I thought could happen if Larian were to say, "Hey, I need you to write a companion quest for Roisia that has a beginning, middle, and an end." But as an artist outside of that hypothetical scenario, I definitely like to live in the middle of the story.

(I'd be so curious to know how she'd feel about the Avatar of Kelemvor asking her to kill Astarion who she romanced, were she put in that situation.)

By my own fictional parameters, I played a game in which I encouraged Roisia to pursue Necromancy, which means that she is deeply, deeply familiar with the spark of humanity that lies within the undead. She has tried to wheedle information out of Withers, reunited Mayrina with her undead husband, freed Thrumbo and his zombie compatriots from their mummy lord, she's talked with ghouls and ghasts, and has freed Astarion from his vampire master.

So even if she hadn't romanced Astarion, she would still deny the Avatar of Kelemvor because the undead aren't just glorified field experiments to her, they're fully-fledged people in their own right, worthy of care and having a voice in their own destiny.

The fact that she romanced Astarion just adds angst to the picture because she would be asked to choose between two [undead] people whom she loves very dearly. She so very badly wants to restore her father to how he was when he was alive and a part of her still wants to be a Cleric of Kelemvor, but she wouldn't be able to bring herself to kill Astarion. (Which he knew. Of course. Naturally. Didn't have a single doubt or a flicker of fear in his mind at all.)

[celtigxr]

The Pink Dread (Master List) - - - - - ch. xiii: Girl's Night

Chapter Summary: The night is young, and so are they. 🍷🍷🍷

Word count: 4530

Sneak Peak: Aegon turned to look at his brother, shit eating grin plastered on his alabaster face, “This is the best day of my life.”

Warnings: Copious amounts of alcohol, public intoxication, a fun time.

T H E   R E D S

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Valeana was quite surprised at how fast she fell into friendship with Wylla Stark and the third Baratheon daughter, Ellyn. It was within their company that she realized a fundamental truth of her life: she had no real female friends. She had her sisters, but sisterhood bonds through blood and marriage was an obligation. Valeana was always on guard with Floris, and Shyla was… Shyla. A cross between a cat in heat and a drunk butterfly. She had little in common with her.

The day of the two house’s arrival was the same day the King and several of their family members left to attend the funeral of the late Princess Visenya, the youngest grandchild and only daughter of Rhaenyra. Val would have gone with her brother, but she was more of a stranger now to the crown princess. She might have known her better as a child, but after a decade, it felt improper to reunite under the dire circumstances. Clement, however, knew them more closely, having sailed back and forth to Dragonstone and Driftmark more times than she cared to remember. 

The days began somberly now that the Keep was garbed in black and bleak clothing. While the sun still blared overhead, there was a dark cloud over King’s Landing; even the smallfolk mourned the loss. Though life at court still went on, and the convergence of the castle’s occupants was required as if it was a job.

It was expected for all eight of the young ladies to mingle. Cassandra, the eldest, was nearly as hard to endure as Floris (Grafton). Always complaining and pinching her face in clear disgust over the most trivial things that bothered her. Maris was quite the talker; she loved the sound of her own voice almost as much as she loved correcting people. Though, Valeana had noticed whenever a male was present, she would go silent and red-faced. Little Floris was delightful though, but incredibly naive. She took to Shyla early on, but seemed to be struggling to keep up with her. When she did talk, it was only ever about Daeron Targaryen. To balance that out of course, Shyla would talk about Aegon, so it was really an endless circle of prince talk between the two. And then there was Ellyn, who was mostly quiet but often made silent looks behind the rim of her cup that clearly communicated her opinions.

At one point, Cassandra scoffed at younger Floris when she swooned over her absent lover boy, claiming it made her look desperate, and how she– Cassandra that is– “would never be so easy for a man” and how Floris should act more “mysterious and unavailable”, like her. Ellyn’s eyes widened and her perfect U shaped smile quickly hid behind her cup while her trembling shoulders exposed the internal battle she had with her own giggles. 

Valeana felt a bubble of laughter from the girl’s expression alone, and tried fruitlessly to swallow it, but it ended up coming out like a suppressed hiccup. 

Then there was Wylla Stark, who embodied mysterious and unavailable. She sat with her legs perfect crossed under her grey and blue skirts, glass goblet in her elegant hand with her long almond shaped nails, and asked:

“How is that going for you, Lady Cassandra?”

Valeana and Ellyn could have died at the way they were holding their breath to prevent themselves from laughing. 

After that moment, the three spent as much time together as possible. Valeana needed the distraction to keep her mind off of Aemond and his rejection of her peace offering. With Helaena and her brother at Dragonstone, and Aegon fucking off somewhere, she didn’t have anyone else to turn to. 

It was the evening sometime after the hour of the bat, and the three girls were deep into their cups. Their faces flushed with laughter, liquor, and the humidity that still lingered in the night air after a long hot day. 

“It is so bloody hot here, I do not know how you southerners stand it,” Wylla pulled at the loose fabric of her bodice to air herself out. It was enough to see the tops of her breasts, which Valeana caught Ellyn openly staring at. “I miss the cool breeze coming from the North.”

“You get used to it,” Ellyn said, moving her fan to cool off Wylla, who arched her neck in gratitude. “In Storm’s End, it’s always humid. We’re so close to Dorne, but with all our rain, it is never a dry heat.”

“I can’t imagine living somewhere where it storms that frequently,” Valeana leaned her head back into the armchair she sat on, closing her eyes in an attempt to stop the spinning of her head. “Claw Isle has its storms, but at most a few times in a moon’s cycle.”

“I do envy your home, Valeana,” Wylla sighed when Ellyn stopped fanning her to relax her arm. “I’ve always wanted to go to the beach.” 

“You’re in the south now– plenty of opportunity to see the beaches,” Ellyn suggested. 

Valeana made a face, “King’s Landing isn’t a place known for it. Unless you want to smell like fish and shit, and find severed feet along the shoreline.”

“Severed feet?” Wylla said appalled, “Why feet?”

“When people die at sea – or dumped in the water – fully clothed, overtime the water causes it to bloat and decompose. However, the shoes keep the feet afloat, so eventually it just–” Val makes a motion with her hands, micking a limb being pulled off. “--pops off and floats around until it gets beached.”

“That’s disgusting!” Ellyn looked both shocked, but morbidly entertained. “How in the world do you know that?”

“Me and– and Prince Aemond,” invoking his name already gave her a headache. “We used to walk along the shores of Blackwater Rush with Ser Criston, and we would find them more often than I’d care to admit. Maester Orwyle explained to us why. Now this knowledge haunts me to this day, so I must pass it onto others.” 

“How considerate of you, Val,” Wylla shakes her head and takes a sip of her wine. “I will treasure it always.” Val cracked open her eye and pointed at her with a heavy arm, “Good! It will be useful information. In the North… where there are no beaches. Just snow… and hairy men… and-and, whatever it is in the North. Whatsitcalled? Cold Walkers? Ice Soldiers?”

“Shhhh,” Wylla chastised her through her laughter, “They’re called White Walkers, and please do not say it so loudly. It will summon my brother and that is the last thing we want.”

“I mean,” Valeana lifted her head and wagged her eyebrows, “It’s what you don’t want.” 

A pillow went flying at her face, causing both her and Ellyn to bark out laughing. 

“What? What?! Is that not why we are all here? To marry? Find a husband, and all that–” Valeana made a raspberry noise with her lips. 

Ellyn snorted, covering her face, “Oh, gods, do not remind me. That is all I’ve been hearing from not just my father, but all my sisters.”

“You would not want to marry Cregan, darling, trust me,” Wylla waves her off. “He will bore you to tears.”

“But he’s nice on the eyes,” Valeana smiled sheepishly, knowing she was baiting her Northern friend.

“Just wait until your brother returns from Dragonstone, Celtigar. I’ll climb him like a tree.”

“What’s stopping you now, Stark? I’ve got a brother right here.”

“Little Arthor,” Wylla mock pouted, “He’ll suffocate too easily between my thighs.”

“Oh, gross,” Val covered her face, “Please do not paint that image in my head.”

Ellyn shook her head, mildly amused, mildly horrified, “I am so glad I do not have brothers.” 

“Yet,” Wylla reminded. She adjusted herself in her seat, tucking her bare feet under herself to get more comfortable. “So, ladies, tell me: what are your goals for this Conclave? Who do you desire to be betrothed with?”

The Baratheon snorted, “Like we have a choice?”

“Let’s suspend belief for a moment, and pretend we do.”

“I haven’t thought of it,” Ellyn confessed, pulling her knees up to her chest, mug delicately cradled between both hands. “To be honest, if I had a choice in the matter, I would not marry at all.”

“Here, here!” Valeana raised her drink. 

Wylla snapped her head in her direction, “Oh, I find that hard to believe. You grew up in court, surely you, of all people, are more knowledgeable of all the noble born bachelors here in the south, and have an idea or two who you’d like to attach yourself to.”

“I lived here as a child. I spent most of my years here tailing the princes like a lost pup… I barely remember anyone that ever visited,”  Val scrunched up her face in thought. “I vaguely recall the Greyjoys visiting one moon… Only because they were hard to forget. Their sons were absolutely batty, especially the eldest, Dalton.” She straightened herself in her seat, now that her memory was catching up with her. Gesturing with her hands, she continued, “I remember, actually, even at seven years old, that little shit would find every opportunity to accidentally bump into, graze, or even so much as grab my arse! I was nine!”

Wylla huffed a shocked laugh, “Hells, what a little monster. I can only imagine what he is like now, a man grown.”

“Did you tell your father this?” Ellyn asked, face equally appalled. “Mine would have lost his mind.”

Val heaved a sigh, laying her head back against the chair once again, her entire body practically melting in the seat. “No.There was some tension at the time, not sure what it was, but I remember my father telling me to not upset Lord Greyjoy’s sons,” Suddenly, lost in her reminiscence, the blonde laughed. “But-but, Aemond, he–he, oh gods…” She snorted loudly to contain her laughter, covering her face as it got beat red. “He, Aegon and the Greyjoys were sparring in the training yard. He kept on dodging Dalton and using the flat end of his training sword to slap him on the rear, like thirty bloody times. He-he–” Her laughing intensified as she used her hand to illustrate the image she was trying to explain, “He was bruised all over, and so severely he could not sit or lay down on his back for two days.” 

While Valean giggled (by herself) Wylla and Ellyn exchanged knowing glances and smirks, then turned back to the drunk flustered crab.

“Well, I suppose that answers my question,” Wylla quipped smugly, nestling into her seat, smile barely being hidden behind the rim of her goblet. 

Val ran a hand over her face in an attempt to calm herself down. She blearily peered at her raven haired friend, a bit confused, “What question?”

“Who you desire to be betrothed with.”

Valeana looked at her incredulously, “Dalton fucking Greyjoy?!”

“No, you idiot!” Ellyn flailed her arms, “Aemond. Prince fucking Aemond.” 

“Ooh, gods,” Val scrunched up her face, digging the butt of her palm into her eyes as the two girls gushed and agreed with themselves. She had forgotten for a moment that she was no longer friends with Aemond, and he, in fact, hated her. “No, no, not Aemond,” she shook her head vehemently. 

“What!” Wylla nearly shouted, dark icy blues wide, “My Lady Valeana, what do you mean not Aemond? The way your face glowed at just talking about him.”

“And it makes perfect sense!” Ellyn added, “The two of you grew up together, you were quite close from what I was told. Of course it would be Aemond. It’s so sickly sweet, it almost makes me want to vomit my dinner.” 

“No, no, no, Aemond– Aemond would never want me,” Val kept on shaking her head. “He hates me. Loathes me, even. Do-do you two even know what he did to me? Why my family left King’s Landing in the first place?”

The two exchanged looks, faces scrunched as they tried to recall. 

“You injured yourself, I believe?” Wylla tilted her head.

“My father told me that Aegon accidentally knocked you down the stairs? I think?” 

“You two are close– It was Aemond,” Val noticed her cup was empty and bent forward towards the squat table to refill it with red. “And it was not an accident. Our fathers were discussing our betrothal, which he disapproved of, apparently. I was under the foolish impression we were the best of friends, and were meant for each other. Stupid, really, in hindsight. 

“He decided that he disliked me so much that he needed to get rid of me, so he pushed me down a flight of stone stairs after calling me a pig.” She surprised herself at how casually she spoke of the event, but it was likely the alcohol that numbed the reality of her emotions. “Broke my leg so severely they had to cut it off a few moons after.”

She lifted her left leg then, her dress falling down above her knee to expose her wooden foot and calf. Then with a gentle wave of her hand, she motioned along the appendage as if presenting a great trophy, “I call her Lady Footlyn Woodsby, first of her name. Her heir is Ser An-toe-knee Woodsby, the E-bone-knee Knight.”

The two other girls had fallen into a shocked silence for a moment, but that was short lived after Valeana’s introduction of her leg. 

Wylla clamped her hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, “Val-Valeana…” She snorted into her palm. “That’s– I’m so sorry.”

Ellyn had both her hands upon her face, brown eyes peeking through the cracks of her fingers, “Oh-ooooh, I should not be laughing. I am sorry, Valeana.” 

Val waved them off, returning her skirts over her leg, “Worry not. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.”

Her heartbreaking admittance, despite being veiled with self-deprecating humour, did not go amiss. Wylla and Ellyn’s expressions went soft as they shared another knowing look between each other. The former reached out and placed her hand on Valeana’s knee, thumb moving in comforting motions. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you, my dearest. Men are horrible creatures, especially the ones closest to you.” 

That simple gesture and those kind words were enough to crumble her all at once. It had sobered Valeana enough to allow her sadness seep through the armour of numbness she had been trying to craft around herself. Her mouth, nose and eyes felt watery all of a sudden, forcing her to swallow and tilt her head back to stop herself from crying. 

Ellyn made a cooing sound as she unfolded herself from her seat and walked over to her friend from behind and enveloped her shoulders in a hug, resting her cheek on top of her head. It was that gesture of comfort that had made the waterfall finally break through. Valeana had not realized how touch starved she was, how hungry she was for comfort over her heartbreak. This was a level of vulnerability she had never allowed to be exposed around her family, not even Clement. Despite her love for him, men were not well equipped to handle emotional women; he would’ve reacted how men usually did, either dismiss it with aggressive advice, or unsheathe his sword and wage a war in her name. Her step mother, despite her natural maternal instinct, was a woman who would cuddle her to her breast and smother her as if she was a child, not unlike a kiss on a bruise or scraped knee. Nothing substantial, nothing deep or empathetic. Just a salve to numb the pain for a few hours.

No, the comfort from a friend– from a fellow female –was different, almost stronger. 

Like her tears, everything rushed out of her; a great purge of words, of pent up sadness, of suppressed emotions. She shared how much she loved Aemond, missed him down to her bones, how he broke her in more ways than physical, and then she shared the story of her return and the catastrophe she had made that could have been avoided, and how in her most earnest attempt to reconcile, she was ultimately left scarred more, and still yearning for him. A stuttered breath left her lungs when she finished, her shoulders caving in as if the weight of her heart finally did her in. Ellyn still cradled her head from behind, but Wylla had moved to squish in beside her and hold her middle and lay her head upon her shoulder. 

“He does not deserve your love, my darling,” Wylla stroked Val’s hair. “No man alive deserves any of our love. Selfish, fickle-hearted beasts, they all are.” 

Valeana sniffled, head laid in Ellyn’s arm, cheeks sticky with tears, and red from humidity, alcohol, and spending the last several minutes pouring her heart out. These three women were effectively strangers not three days ago, and yet now Valeana never felt more close to another human being. Not since him. Not since Aemond. 

“Except for Cregan,” Val muttered in a small voice, light but coarse through the dryness of her throat. She reached out and patted Wylla on her arm, “Him and his manly shoulders and broad chest–”

“Please shut up,” Wylla replied with a small voice and a weak smack to Val’s face. 

“Let him know I’ve got the hips to birth more of his heirs.”

“I will kill you.”

“Ladies,” Ellyn lifted her head up with a heavy sniff to clear out her sinuses. She wiped her nose and peered over to the table in front of them. “We’ve run out of wine.”

All their heads perked up to glower down at their empty bottles and carafes. This would not do– the night was still young, and so were they. The three ladies also sobered too much for their liking, and the only way to heal this disease was to drink more. 

“Where’s that serving boy?”

“We sent him away for the night, remember?”

“We were fools.”

“Indeed.”

There was a beat of silence, until: 

“Wait, wait,” Val sat up, forcing the two girls to unravel their arms. “I know this castle. I know a shortcut to the kitchens… There’s a secret door over there– behind that tapestry.”

“Which tapestry?”

“The one with the orgy.”

“... They’re all having orgies.”

“This-this one! Where she’s sitting on his face and eating a fig out of the other woman’s mouth,” Valeana stood up, wobbling a bit when she did. She hadn’t realized how much she drank and how long she had been sitting until that moment. But, she was convinced that she was too sober, and that wouldn’t do, so she marched over to the tapestry, unevenly and ungracefully. With one swift movement she shoved the tapestry aside to expose a stone wall.

“Valea–”

“Shush!” The silver haired girl eyed it for a moment before moving her hands along the edges of the stones until she could feel the cracks that formed the outline of a door. With a wicked smile she pushed her shoulder into it, throwing her whole body weight into moving it. With a groan the secret entrance wedged open, an amber glow emitting through the gap from the torch inside. 

Ellyn gaped at it, “How did you know that was there?”

Val waved dismissively, “I was a fat child. If there was a quick route to the kitchens, I was aware of it.”  

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

They had reached the kitchens in a fair amount of time, but they did not, in fact, find wine. But they found bottles and bottles of dusty ale, and they weren’t about to complain. The problem they inevitably had was the trek back. Now that their minds were fully in the thick of inebriation, they got lost within the walls of the Keep and ended up in a completely different part of the castle than they were originally. 

“Valeana, where the hells are we?” Wylla hissed as they rounded yet another stone corridor with very few windows. 

The blonde squinted around them. The three were hanging off each other’s shoulders for dear life. Each clutched a large bottle of ale by the neck as if it was a lifeline; as if it was the only thing that was keeping them from floating away. Valeana craned her neck over their arms and took a sloppy swig of her drink, a droplet escaping her lips and dribbling messily down her chin.

“The barracks hall?” She said after a swallow.

“Are you askin’ us?” Ellyn laughed. “Chisisyerhome, and y’dunno where you ARE?”

“I know where I am!” Val shouted, brow furrowed in determination. “And this is not my home.. It’s-it’s– hic – my personal hell. Fuck it’s so hot, why is it so hot?” She cried out, slumping a bit, forcing the girls to bend at her weight. 

They stumbled forward until they heard the tell tale sound of metal armour clanking ever near. A form of silver and white rounded the corner and immediately halted at the sight of the three noble women linked together by their shoulders, sloshing around drinks shamelessly.

The knight stepped forward, concern marring his face, “My ladies. Are you quite alright?”

“Ser Arryk!” Valeana shouted, arms shooting up in the air, narrowly missing Ellyn’s brow. 

The knight bowed his head, “Erryk, my lady.”

“Oh, right, ‘m turribly sorry,” She threw her head back and jutted out her bottom lip in a pout at her own stupidity. “Forgive me.”

The corner of Erryk’s lip twitched upward. It didn’t take him very long to understand that these three girls were skunked out of their gourds. He gave her a nod, containing his amusement, “You are forgiven, Lady Valeana.”

“You see!” She launched herself forward, disentangling herself from her friends and reaching the white cloak’s side. Her bottle of ale fell from her fingers, clattering and rolling away along the flagstones. She then prodded her finger into his plated chest and looked over at Wylla and Ellyn, “Y’see how easy that is? I apol-ap– apolojiz–fuck me– Apo. Lo. Gized– there you go…— hic — N’you forgave me. Because yer a good man, Ar-Erryk. ‘M sorry, yer names are similar too, is very confusing.”

“Good Ser,” Wylla sauntered over, “Mayhaps you aid us troubled maids… Our foolish guide, full of hubris, led us astray, and now we are hopelessly lost.”

“How dare you insult your future Lady of Winterfell!” Val shoutted, pointing an unsteady finger at Wylla with a step towards her, but ultimately ended up wobbling on her bad leg, forcing Erryk to hold her upright.

Erryk was having a hard time keeping a straight face. It wasn’t every day that he stumbled upon drunk noble born daughters; it wasn’t very ladylike to get this drunk this publically, but he wagered that this wouldn’t be an isolated event these upcoming weeks. 

He snaked an arm under Lady Valeana’s shoulder and hoisted her up on her feet, allowing her to lean against him.

“You’re below the Throne Room, my ladies,” Ser Erryk informed, and the three of them exchanged looks. 

“How the hell did we end up here?” Valeana asked, chin turning up to her anchor. “Erryk, we were in the kitchens. The-the north one. I think.”

“No wonder we are lost!” Ellyn threw her head back. “Ugh, father will be furious.”

“Do not worry, ladies, I’ll safely escort you back, and arrange for a wheelhouse to bring Lady Wylla back to her pavilion.” 

“Such a good man. Ser Erryk,” Wylla’s words slurred when she took an uneven step towards him. “May I ask…Why– no –would you ever consider breaking your vows?” 

“Wylla!” Valeana weakly smacked the Northerner, then promptly turned to the knight. “Do not – hic – listen to her, Erryk. Don’t let this–this–temptress tempt you.”

“I am only saying,” Wylla and Ellyn started to follow the knight as he made his way out of the maze of halls beneath the Throne Room. “All the honourable ones end up being a Kingsguard. It’s such a bloody waste to womenkind!” 

Erryk smiled to himself, though decided to ignore the comment, “Up these stairs, ladies.”

“Oh no,” Ellyn grinned, “Valeana’s mortal enemy.”

Wylla barked a loud laugh and the victim in question craned her neck to shoot her a poisonous glare. 

“I’ll send you to the Wall! Ser Erryk, send this Baratheon traitor to the Wall.” 

“Mayhaps tomorrow, my lady. The hour is already late as it is,” was the Knight’s gentle, albeit amused, reply as he helped her up the stairwell and into the cavernous Throne Room, where he immediately paused upon seeing a pair of men with silver hair.

The women’s collective gasps and loud attempts at quieting themselves had naturally gained the attention of the Throne Room’s sole occupants. 

Ser Erryk immediately bowed, “My Princes. Apologies for the disturbance, I was merely–”

“Egg-On-Toast!” Valeana shouted so loudly it echoed like a lion’s roar. Her arms flew to the air above her head, then immediately marched over, completely ignoring the second prince. Her vision was tunneled, and hadn’t realized that Aegon wasn’t alone. Her warm and slightly sweaty hands gripped the eldest’s face, then she started laughing when he started laughing.

“Valeana–” Ellyn tried to reach her, eyes flickering over to the stiff Aemond that stood not six feet away. 

Aegon’s eyebrows reached his hairline, his grin uncontainable. His hands gripped her wrists, but he didn’t remove them from his face.

“Are you drunk, my darling?”

“... Yes,” she giggled sheepishly. “I see why you do it so often now, is’so fun. Egg-y. My Prince of Scrambled Eggs. Eggs and Bacon–” Val sharply gasped, mouth agape at her genius. “We are Eggs and Bacon, Aegon. Tha’s a good bard song– Ellyn, write that down.”

Aegon turned to look at his brother, shit eating grin plastered on his alabaster face, “This is the best day of my life.”

Valeana’s entire body swiveled around, brow furrowed with clear confusion. “Who are you– SHIII–T!” When she turned she was immediately greeted by the imposing, towering form of Aemond Targaryen. Standing there, head tilted, with his judgey one eye, lips in a thin line and looking delicious with his narrow waist she openly stared at. 

Wylla and Ellyn were snickering behind their fists, nearly down to their knees, failing to contain their nervous laughter. 

Val turned her wobbly, heavy head back at Aegon, lowering her voice in a very poor attempt at a whisper, “Where the fuck did he come from?”

“Darling, he was here the entire time.”

She peered at him skeptically, then looked back at Aemond, and then back at Aegon. Her head dipped to his ear, and attempted to whisper conspiratorially, “Fecker comes outta nowhere all the bloody time, pilfering through the darkness like a thief of joy– hic. Is he a man or a forlorn ghost?”

Aegon contained his laughter when he bit down on his lip, and then glanced up at the silent shadow that was his brother.

“I can hear you, Lady Valeana,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice irritably condescending, which instantly bristled her. 

Val peeled herself off of Aegon’s side and approached Aemond, angling her chin in the air to peer at him with as much dignity as she could possibly manage. And on wobbly knees, she curtseyed and said in the most patronizing tone the Throne Room has ever witnessed: 

“Prince Almond.” 

His eye narrowed, alight with challenge and something else.

Notes: This and the next two chapters are my favourite chapters of this series, so I really hope you guys enjoy it too.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[kybelles]

so after a recent conversation with my friends we’ve come to a realization: fandom loves Slave Rights Advocate laurent trope. whether it be an arranged marriage au, a time travel au, an auguste lives au or any kind of setting where slavery is still in motion; it’s always laurent who opens damen’s eyes to the horrors of slavery and insists they can’t be with each other until slavery is abolished, that slavery is a deal breaker on whether they can be together or not. now i certainly don’t want to sound like i’m policing anybody’s creative choices but it’s become such a common trope in the fandom that it is baffling at this point because. here’s the thing. slavery isn’t one of laurent’s battles. at all.

allow me to explain further before i make people angry. it’s clear laurent is against the fundamental premise of slavery and finds it inhumane. but through the series (counting out taofc where he and damen are trying to build an empire together), he doesn’t actively fight or challenge the system or slavery. i don’t even think this is a hot take when you remember that he;

i. didn’t protect the akielon slaves in arles until damen begged him to and sold them to torveld for personal gain (which was the best course of action he could take under the circumstances but as i said, he wasn’t above using them)

ii. referred to damen as his slave constantly in both a technical and romantic sense

iii. got turned on by playing master and slave and master and pet

iv. used isander as a way to get back at damen: was fed by isander in the feast, stroked him, allowed him to kiss his feet and boots etc.

in fact here are plenty of instances where it’s clear laurent enjoyed the type of power he had over damen:

and here’s the only part where i can remember damen and laurent discussing slavery after damen’s identity is revealed and they have the possibility of a future together. as you can see, laurent’s attitude towards it is pretty neutral. he doesn’t approve, but it’s clear he’s not a passionate champion of the anti slavery movement.

let me make it clear that none of this is a criticism towards laurent. it’s important to remember that capri started as a slavekink fic (in pacat’s own words) and though it evolved, by the final draft she still kept some of those elements: like making the first night between lamen a romantic, sacred, precious thing between them; laurent telling damen he’s his slave by feeding him as a slave would, damen calling himself laurent’s slave as a sign of submission/love/romance before their first kiss, laurent saying damen is still his slave before sleeping with him… the narrative still eroticizes slavery to some extent and uses it as a vehicle of romance.

the thing is, laurent finding enjoyment in these practices is not the problem. when the fandom loves to pretend like laurent would be so disgusted by the idea of slavery (even though the text repeatedly shows he’s not) , that he; a perfect civilized blonde veretian angel would come to akielos and educate those barbarians about how horrible slavery is and damen would only open his eyes to the truth through laurent’s guidance, that’s when my issues start. because, like i said, this was never laurent’s battle and it pretty much reads like laurent is some sort of white savior, someone who comes to damen’s country to “fix” the problems of akielos without understanding their history, needs, or the region’s current state of affairs.

another very important thing to underline is that the whole slavery ordeal in the series was damen’s character arc, not laurent’s. he’s the actual slave in the scenario, and as much as laurent doesn’t like slavery, damen didn’t come to the conclusion that it was bad because of laurent’s preachings. it leaves a bad taste in the mouth that damen was the one who actually experienced slavery and faced countless humiliations in vere and yet people still insist on making laurent educate damen about why it’s wrong, even though he himself has never experienced slavery in his life. (one might argue in aus where damen was never sent to vere as a slave he wouldn’t come to the same realizations but that still doesn’t mean laurent would have a passionate agenda regarding slaves. at best i believe he would demand damen to stop sleeping with his slaves as they are monogamous.)

choosing laurent as The One who firmly stands against slavery is bad from a narrative pov too. making this specifically about laurent makes no sense because it's got nothing to do with him. it's not his country! he doesn't care about akielos the way damen does. everything about it thematically relates back to damen; who exists as a metaphor for akielos - any insult or injury done to him is an insult to akielos. he embodies it’s values and it’s people, and by becoming a slave he’s reflecting the current slave state of akielos, and through finding liberation for himself he’s also finding liberation for akielos. it’s a powerful symbolism for how akielos is changed and freed directly BECAUSE of his own personal liberation. laurent has nothing more than an intellectual interest in anti-slavery and he only ever begins to care about akielos because he cares for damen. but damen was raised with it and experienced it and cares very deeply about it. it’s his country! it's his story!

tldr; through the series, it was damen’s journey to experience what it was like to be a slave, to see the true horrors of this practice and decide he doesn’t want to rule his country that way anymore. so taking his agency and giving it laurent, someone who was neutral at best about slavery, feels incredibly insensitive and wrong.

[toastling]

Ever wonder what would've happened if The Owl house aired in 2013?

That's right.

We would have had an OWLSTUCK.

They would've been rendered accordingly and there would've been a short-lived comic spoken of fondly by both fanbases.

Anyway here are some kids and their classpects.

Luz Noceda - Page of Light. Duh. Most obvious one on this list. You *could* make a very strong argument for Page of Hope too, but aside from her name literally BEING Light, I think it fits a bit more. Too bad you can't multi-aspect. Though let's be real, if anybody COULD, it would be Luz Noceda, so who knows, maybe that's her special Snest (in-world Sburb variant) given gift.

Amity Blight - Witch of Breath. Breath is a lot to do with one's self in the sense of self-actualization and understanding. She needed a lil help getting there but I feel Amity fits this quite well!

Willow Park - Mage of Life. In Homestuck, Life as an aspect is most closely tied to healing, but it can also be quite literal, as we do see Life aspected characters resurrect dead friends. I think if any aspect would allow one to wield life in the most literal sense via battle plants, it'd be, well, Life!

Gus Porter - Seer of Mind. This is a class and aspect wombo combo that fits him to a goddamn T. He's far sharper about others thoughts and natures than people think, including himself. Learning to trust in his intuition is his arc. He has a pretty good grasp of others, even if he does tend to try to focus more on the good bits than the bad, even when the latter may be pertinent.

King Clawthorne - Prince of Blood. Literal royalty in name and nature, with the Blood of the Titan running through his veins whether he realizes it or not. A Prince is an active destructive class with incredible offensive capability, one that destroys its aspect or through it, in this case, Blood. As a Titan, that potential is there for King. But we know the little guy wouldn't use it unless he had to. Right?

Hunter - Heir of Time. Of all the characters, no one fits the aspect of Time better than Hunter given his relations and just how many of him have existed throughout the ages. And as for Heir, I mean, could it be any more obvious?

Vee - Sylph of Space. Conceptually, Space means a lot of things in Homestuck, and is seen by the fandom as one of the "fundamental" aspects. A common theory is no game has a potential to win without both a Space and Time player. But one thing Space represents is Form and Boundary. It is the amorphous stage the play of reality is set upon. What better for a shapeshifter? Sylphs are essentially a Healer class.

Masha - Rogue of Doom. A Thief steals for their own benefit, and a Rogue for the benefit of others. Masha Stole Doom from the entirety of her Reality Check Summer Camp crew, *especially* Vee, giving her her very first friend, potential crush, and a new home and lease on life.

The Collector - Lord of Void. He is Everything and Nothing and can create or uncreate both at will. The Lord embodies their aspect to the absolute. They are a Master class, all-powerful and uncontested in their domain. He is a leftover from a previous game of Snest, one played between just two people, the other, of course, being...

Papa Titan - Muse of Life. We've never seen an adult play any variant of Sburb. But to deal with the Collector and his games, I think he may have had no choice. A Muse, too, is a Master Class, but far more passive. The Titan is how all life in the Demon Realm exists. The Titan *is* the Isles. How much more Life-aligned can you be? And as effectively just a corpse at this point, obviously, he's pretty passive.

Emperor Belos - Knight of Rage. A perfect mastery of his aspect to both directly harm and to manipulate, a truly terrifying foe. Again, adults aren't normally players, but, you better believe he's the reason this whole damn apocalypse happened in the first place.

Boom wrote that up in like 20 minutes, welcome to my special hell.

If by chance somebody actually *likes* this and wants more for some godforsaken reason, I'll give the kids a strife specibus too.

[canichangemyblogname]

If any writer is out here seriously arguing that Characters in a TV show shouldn’t have growth because of the nature of the medium, fucking run. Run from their projects. They will be bland, tired, uninspiring, and boring.

TV characters don’t grow or change *in the same way* they would in a movie or novel. That’s the key phrasing here: in the same way. When a movie or novel ends, many of the central problems and conflicts specific to that book or movie have been resolved. A TV show is built on a series of ongoing conflicts, often with one overall larger situation pushing the plot forward or tying the narrative together. Think of ATLA. Every week, the characters landed on a new island and had someone new in need of their help, but the overall larger conflict, the war, always loomed on the horizon. The episodic plots created growth while the overall serial plot created great change, and each character still maintained their “sense of self.” People have mistakenly begun to argue characters maintaining this “sense of self” and an ongoing source of story means they do not grow or eventually change. That is incorrect.

Aang matured and learned to control his powers, but he is still kind, loyal, and sticks to his conviction that he will not kill to end the war. Katara became a master water bender who can hold her own and protect her own, but she remained passionate and strong. Sokka found a sense of purpose and self-identity, but he remained intelligent and witty. Do you see what I’m getting at here?

Walter White changes in the sense he becomes more morally corrupt as the series continues, but what doesn’t change is the fact he’s cooking meth. The overarching conflict-driving situation doesn’t change for the characters until the very end, even if episodic conflict-driving situation ends or the character is dynamic. ATLA ended when the war ended. The Sopranos ended with an abrupt cut to black meant to be interpreted as Tony’s death (confirmed by the creator). Mad Men ends with Don Draper— a character plagued by emotional suffering and who was characterized as unable to change for the better— meditating on a hilltop at a retreat before the show cuts to the real-life 1971 Coca-Cola “Hilltop” commercial.

A TV show isn’t one long story, but a series of shorter stories that tie together. Episodes have their own beginning, middle, and end. The show itself doesn’t necessarily have that, especially given the modern TV landscape where shows get canceled after one or two seasons all the time. There’s no planned end because the end could be in a couple seasons or this next season. The writers have to figure out an end for the show only when they’re faced with its end. Until that moment, though, each episode is its own story, and each episode’s end is supposed to leave the story with possibility for more stories to develop or come, but the overall plot-driving conflict does not resolve until the end.

The issue with 911? There are a couple characters with what seems like no overall plot-driving conflict fundamental to them. Buck’s story doesn’t revolve around evading the authorities and doesn’t end with him fittingly dying among the meth that corrupted him. Hen’s story doesn’t end when she fully realizes her powers and defeats the warlord threatening to burn the world to the ground. Of course, yes, because that’s not the genre they’re in, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. They seem to no longer have an overarching source of story. Not like Eddie. Not like Bobby.

Or, at least, production is not utilizing these character’s source of story.

Bobby’s past struggle with addiction is an ongoing source of story for him. Eddie’s past loss of the love of his life is an ongoing source of story for him. The reason Athena became a cop in the first place; her motivations, is an ongoing source of story for her. The abuse Maddie suffered in the past from Doug is an ongoing source of story for her. None of these traumas are things that will change about these characters. If Maddie stops picking up phones to help people at their most vulnerable; in their greatest time of need, and Athena hangs up her badge, and Bobby retires and comes to peace with the lives he’s lost and saved, and Eddie forgets Shannon, these character’s stories end. Boddy, Athena, Maddie, and Eddie’s stories are shaped by ghosts in their past. When those ghosts finally rest, these characters will see resolution.

But Buck and Hen do not have the same ongoing source of story. And I know the writers have realized this because Minear himself characterized Buck as being on some sort of character “hamster wheel.” There’s nothing driving his story forward.

And fans have noted the same of Hen, joking about “Hen and Karen lose their kids, part VI… 😒.” Karen, actually, has more of an ongoing source of story than Hen, with Karen’s ghost being that she does not share DNA with her any of her kids, making her claim to motherhood vulnerable. We see this cemented by the IVF storyline and how devastated she was that her body could not give her a kid recognized by the state as her’s and always hers. Hen’s ghost was Eva Mathis, who also became a source for Karen’s ghosts (“Everyone I ever loved belonged to you first”). But Eva hasn’t been seen since season 5’s “Ghost Stories” when she fucked off out of their lives and told both Hen and Karen that she’s leaving California and won’t be back. And 911 completely dropped the Nathaniel (Denny’s dad) plot line, so this ongoing source of story was essentially resolved. But the show recognizes the situation it created and continues to recreate this ongoing source of conflict with new antagonists trying to take Hen and Karen’s family from them, instead of using those past ghosts.

But what the writers seem to have neglected in their resolution of Hen’s past ghost (Eva) is that Hen’s ghost wasn’t ever legal powerlessness over her kids because she didn’t physically birth them and never could get pregnant like she’s long wanted, as it has been Karen’s. Hen’s ghost is the life she had before Karen (see: Hen begins, as the begins episodes do a good job of revealing what each of these characters ongoing source of story will be). Her ghosts are Eva and Daniel and pharmaceuticals and watching someone she loved succumb to addiction and repeatedly blow up their lives. Her ghost is also a different form of addiction: an addiction to chaos or danger or excitement, previously in the form of Eva. (And I think that’s part of what made Hen and Bobby’s relationship feel different from Bobby’s relationship with other members of the 118. Bobby struggled with addiction and Hen knew what it was like to lose people to it.) While Karen’s ghost is the fear of losing her kids (she became a stay at home mother and everything), Hen’s *could successfully have been* the reason she became a firefighter in the first place: a desire to save lives, especially after seeing people she knew almost lost or totally lost to emergency and illness. She goes from working for the industry that started our addiction epidemic to saving lives impacted by it, and the ghost that drove her to do that would have been the past love she lost to addiction. Her ongoing source of story would have mirrored Bobby’s in a way (potentially setting up nicely a poetic end where he passes the torch to her, also bringing her full circle from a probie intentionally left out to the woman with the run of the house), in that she is driven to save lives because of those she’s lost or almost lost. And it is easily a part of all her arcs, like when her mother gets sick or when Bobby relapses or when her kids or wife get injured.

Luckily, I don’t think they’ve screwed the pooch by writing Eva off. Eva could return. Hen’s past as a pharmaceutical rep could come back to haunt her. This narrative of “this is why I became a first responder” *has* permeated Hen’s entire story, it’s only recently that it seems like her story is repeating itself. I think resolving this issue would 1.) require the show to see Hen as more than “the show’s lesbian with a family,” and 2.) a simple jolt of creativity. Production can let someone new come up with an idea or hire other staff or whatever to bring in some fresh perspective. I really think this is solvable and they have the resources to take Hen’s story in a refreshing direction.

Which I want to compare to another character in the show, Buck.

Buck is also stuck in a cycle. Buck’s ongoing source of story has always been about creating “emotionally weighty” relationships due to an emotional neglect he suffered as a child. It’s why he slept around. It’s why he often feels a sense of abandonment and derived purpose from his work. It’s put him at odds with his sister, Maddie, at times. His ongoing source of conflict; his ghost, is his parents (and Daniel) and how this created an emotional wound Buck wants to fill. We see that he had this open wound early in season one, mostly around a desire for emotional intimacy and feeling a lack of a sense of place or significance. He tells Bobby that his job as a firefighter is all he got, he suggests to Maddie that she cast him off for Doug, he tells his sister he’ll make something of himself one day but doesn’t know what yet, he and Taylor talk about meaningful relationships (he’s surrounded by them), he confronts his parents past emotional neglect (and forgives them), he also takes on his subconscious about “mattering” more in a made-up world, and toward the end of season six, he concludes that he is enough; he has all he needs in the real world and then comes to peace with the fact he doesn’t have to perform for others (something which he’s been doing his whole life to get the attention and approval of his parents). And the issue with this is that, well, Buck finding a sense of purpose outside his utility and finding innate value in who he is (this idea he is enough as is) in season six kinda sorta wrapped up his ongoing source of story. They even tried partnering him up with a nice girl (which is unfortunately revealing of the fact they think Buck’s sense of significance and his struggles with loneliness are tied to his romantic struggles as opposed to emotional abandonment as a child by his caregivers).

The writers or the creator unfortunately seem to want to argue that Buck’s ongoing source of story is his lack of a romantic relationship, rather than finding purpose with his life and struggling to build or maintain a community of emotionally weighty relationships around him as life brings people together and draws them apart. We saw this illustrated well in his arc with Red, the retired firefighter. Buck is worried about dying alone, but not really because he doesn’t have a significant other at the time. He’s afraid of this because of the response his coworkers/friends gave when he asked if they ever keep in touch with former coworkers. Part of Red’s story may have been that he let the love of his life go, but the other part was that he never kept in contact with his old friends.

However, it seems the show’s creator wants to argue that Buck’s story ends when he finally finds “the one,” romantically. But it’s not. Buck’s arc ends when he finds a sense of purpose or innate value outside of his work (it would be really blah, boring, if that “purpose” he finds is a romantic partner, btw) or settles with the fact that he has (and always will have) an “emotionally weighty” support system because he fights to maintain those relationships despite distance, time, circumstance or a change of jobs. Buck’s ongoing source of story has always primarily revolved around his platonic relationships. The point of Red’s story was that Buck is not Red, Maddie even says that Buck will never be alone because he has her. And while it could be argued that part of Buck’s resolution will be finding people who fight to stay in his life, always return, and show him that he matters to them, I think it would be shortsighted to suggest this refers (or would exclusively refer) to his romantic life. Buck will settle into himself because of the platonic and familial love he has fostered and fought for.

This means, I think it’s possible to stop giving him a revolving door of romantic partners (either commit to one or none, imho) without resolving his story when his story is about creating emotional support systems and deep connections with others despite the way life pushes and pulls people apart. Arguing his story resolves when he finds “the one” would be like arguing Chim’s story ended when he and Maddie first got together. Life pushed and pulled them apart several times, and they kept choosing each other. Chim has fought to maintain the family he’s created after the family he lost and also never got. Maddie has fought to maintain the happiness and safety she thought she’d never get. The show could give Buck a steady partner or a reoccurring romantic partner and still write narratives about the difficulties of maintaining platonic and familial relationships as an adult, including any potential expansion of that familial relationship through a romantic partnership.

In my personal opinion, if any of Buck’s ongoing source of story is related to romance, it’s his belief that his life and existing relationships will only be complete when he finds “the one.” As Taylor said, he’s surrounded by meaningful relationships (yet he doesn’t seem to find this enough—likely due to this idea he has to find romance). It could be argued that when he realizes this, and in the process realizes that he doesn’t need a romantic partnership to “complete” the picture, then his ongoing source of story will find resolution. This approach would necessitate a constant cycle of different relationships until Buck ends the series single and surrounded by—like—his nieces and nephews and friends. However, I do not think that this would satisfactorily resolve Buck’s picture (mostly because of the rather boring patterns it creates for Buck’s character and the way I think it would often lead to Buck re-hashing the same things over and over). I also don’t think the writers are setting out (or ever will set out) to tackle amatonormativity in narratives about family, belonging, and “ultimate” happiness.

Unfortunately, I do think that Buck’s narrative will continue to be stuck in a cycle of unsatisfying and incomplete or short-cut relationships until the show end-ends anyway. I think this because I think the writers and creator genuinely see this cycle as what drives Buck’s story (as opposed to just one potential aspect to include in an ongoing source of story about finding purpose outside utility and people pleasing, and surrounding himself with people who love him and who he loves in return), with the resolution to his ongoing source of story being Buck ultimately finding “the one,” and settling down with them. However, because romance has never been the primary focus of his ongoing source of story, this exclusive focus on break-ups and then moving onto the next until “the one.” will always feel unsatisfactory.

What will “save” Buck’s story isn’t a new jolt of creativity, but the creator and writers actively challenging and changing their amatonormative views of relationships. And I think that’s far less likely to happen than someone going, “What if Hen has a call about an overdose and it brings back some uncomfortable memories and new challenges for her and Karen?”

[theashesofthefirststar]

This weeks adventuring party fully framed Trackers phone call as “words Kristen needed to hear” Which I find pretty hard to stomach seeing that, if you changed a few key words, this is the same exact lecture that most people with adhd have gotten at some point in their life. You’re so talented, but you don’t want to work for it. If only you put in the effort, you expect things to be easy/handed to you and on and on it goes. I fully admit that I may be projecting, and that my interpretation of Kristen may not align with Ally and Brennans vision, but Kristien’s struggles with executive dysfunction are so clear in everything she does that they can hardly be labeled as subtext at this point.

When I was younger, back before I understood my adhd for what it is, I was known amongst my friends as being clumsy, chaotic, and constantly making small mistakes with big cascading consequences. This behavior was so infamous that anytime a friend did something similar, the rest of the group would call them out for “pulling a Xander.” At the time it was funny and mostly harmless, but as I got older and those consequences caught up with me, as I tried desperately to change, I realized I didn’t know how. I remember sobbing in frustration after I missed the deadline of another assignment, because I couldn’t understand why I was making the same mistakes over and over again. It felt like there was something fundamentally wrong with me.

Now at nearly 30, I understand what was wrong with me. I have a neurodevelopmental condition, that’s associated with life-enduring cognitive dysfunction, and it is a fundamental part of me. It will always be an immense challenge for me to exist in a regimented world, let alone thrive in one. When Tracker said Kristen thinks she deserves for it to be easy on some level, my immediate thought was ‘yeah of course she does’. Because executive dysfunction makes everything hard, even the things you love, and what’s more relatable than wishing that just this once, life will be fair. That just this once, your mind will stop working against you.

As someone who’s gotten much better at living with adhd and who also currently on track to get a masters degree in clinical social work, Kristen should be framed as someone who needs support instead of someone who needs to simply stop being so chaotic and start putting in the hard work. It would empower her to work with her executive dysfunction instead of working against it. It would allow her to find sustainable coping mechanisms that utilize her skills and goals.