#anyone- whether an author or the men themselves- talked about trauma

[freshydip]

hey. hey. can we talk about crozier's trauma before he even went north with the terror

he and ross' hands were visibly shaking during a dinner months after their last night in the antarctic. how long did it take for that to go away? did it go away at all? did he still shake from his last trip with the terror as he boarded her for another? do you think he felt anxiety or even fear stepping back onto her deck to head north? do you think that even as he thanked her for keeping him alive all those dark cold years he feared her, because she held some of the most terrifying moments of his entire life, and to rejoin her was to confront all of them once more?

do you think he ever stopped being haunted by terror?

[22degreehalo]

[Okay so this started as a reblogged addition to this previous post of mine but then it got long enough to stand alone sooooo]

Okay actually to narrow this down a bit, there's something incredibly fascinating about the way that despite Ashley being the driving force behind most of the story, it's almost always Andrew who actually commits the physical act of hurting someone.

Because, yes, despite what I said above, that particular aspect of their dynamic is deeply gendered: 'bad women' are usually the ones who manipulate and connive rather than get their hands dirty directly (with the unintended side effect that we tend to not take it seriously when women DO take physical action, because it just doesn't feel as 'real' or 'bad' as when men do it), while physical aggression is limited to men.

But there's so much more to it. There's the way Andrew feels a need to protect Ashley, which takes from the way he was parentified by his mother into having to take care of her as an authority and guardian rather than just another kid in his own right. The fact that Ashley really did need someone to protect her, because... she was kind of badly lacking in social skills and emotional regulation, to the point of exhibiting sadistic tendencies even from a young age. (Or, I suppose I should say, sadistic tendencies that she never grew out of, due to lacking the normal emotional development that sees young kids develop that kind of conscience?) All of which made her, realistically, pretty darn unpopular!!!

But also... that is a manipulation tactic. It's one of the classic signs of a cult: pressure/coerce a member to engage in some kind of morally reprehensible action, and once that's happened, it becomes far far harder for them to get out. Partially because they've now badly severed any other outside support systems; Renee knew what happened with Nina, and even if she had more hope for Andrew than she ever did Ashley even after that, it clearly framed how she saw those two and their relationship after that point. And, y'know, there's the fact that Andrew is seriously worried that they'll be thrown in jail, which means that he can't tell anyone else what happened, or even let them realise 'how bad' Ashley is, or they might start remembering that missing girl Ashley always used to hang out with...

But also partially because it complicates any internal sense of being a victim of another person's abuse. How can you act like you're some sweet little innocent baby, pushed around by the big old scary abuser, when you yourself have blood on your hands? (Part of why I find it a bit... unsettling? How many people in the TCOAAL fandom sincerely spread that his relenting to Ashley's manipulation makes him 'just as bad'.) It creates an internal sense of guilt and 'need' to be punished, or to be controlled by somebody who can make the 'right decisions'. And it furthers a sense that there's 'no going back' - that there's no point in even trying to escape this relationship, because it's gone too far, and the victim has already given up any hope of having or deserving a life outside of it.

And that's related to something I've had bouncing around in my mind for a lonnnnng time, but still even now don't have the brainspace to fully unpack it. People talk a lot about the inherent trauma of being a woman living under the patriarchy, but I think we don't discuss enough the inherent moral damage of being a man under the same circumstances.

Men are raised to see themselves as aggressive; hostile; killers; predators. They're taught that any sex they get from women is at her expense, a deal that can only be made good by their being Successful Enough to 'earn' it. That success, of course, is zero-sum; men must prove themselves over other men competitively to 'win', whether by earning more money, being more dominant, or (in attemptively progressive spaces) by being 'nicer' or 'better feminists' than other men. Men are expected to sacrifice; to war, to defending the women in their life, to working themselves to the bone under capitalism where women are 'supposed' to rely on men, instead. And that 'protecting' inherently implies violence against other men: men are expected by default to be able to throw themselves into the fray and get beat up and beat up somebody else in turn, and if they can't, they're viewed as lesser; pathetic and selfish. Men aren't given any support system to NOT be capable of inflicting violence. No matter how pacifist or anxious or disabled they are, they are in and of themselves viewed as 'acceptable targets' of violence, due to a perceived inherent ability to enact violence themselves.

Of course Andrew is the one to pull the trigger most of the time. Of course he takes it on as rote, as just his expected part in their messed-up relationship. Of course Ashley gladly lets him, even when she's the one who really wants to see the victim hurting. Of course Ashley encourages him into it, making him part of her decisions, binding him to her in blood over and over again, and of course she then throws it in his face as him 'choosing her', because what can he plausibly say to argue against that? And, then, of course his 'decay' involves turning his violence against both Ashley and himself, because he's too far gone to turn back now and become the monster Ashley was trying to turn him into.

AGAIN, I don't mean this as anti-Ashley; I think this is a super insightful display of both gender and abuser dynamics, and as I've said above, there are a whole heck of a lot of reasons why Ashley is the way she is. Also, fucked up and unjustifiably bad female characters are good sometimes!!

Just. Ashley does, canonically, encourage Andrew to engage in acts that his conscience rails against - actions that fill him with guilt and emotional pain - and then uses all of that to tie him to her ever stronger so he'll never leave. It says a lot that she gets so nervous when Andrew stops acting so guilty in the Burial route; because if she can't throw that moral damage back at him, how is she supposed to make sure he doesn't leave? If he's happy and well-adjusted and believes he deserves a decent life, why would he ever willingly stay with her?! (So she thinks.)(Not that she's entirely wrong, but.) She doesn't trust healthy relationship dynamics; she trusts guilt and trauma bonding.

(And it also means something hella big that Andrew seemingly doesn't get quite so many of those guilt-ridden nightmares as he pretends. Is he trying to pretend to himself he hasn't already slipped so far? Does he crave Ashley's loving reassurance just as much as she wants him to need it? It's like... speaking of intricate rituals, holy hell if this isn't fucking one of them: getting messed up in the head over committing cannibalism and murder, but then continuing to pretend that it's messing you up long after you're sorta getting over it, because that's the safest and easiest way to make your sister happy and nice to you.)

[malcolmschmitz]

The people who think @drchucktingle is Doing A Bit and are Big Mad about it ... don't really understand how author platforms work. Part of being A Person Who Makes Things On The Internet is deciding what parts of yourself to show your audience; what to conceal and what to reveal.

Concrete example: I spent an Alarming amount of time while making this post debating on whether I should keep my habit of Capitalizing Random Letters. (What can I say, I read too much Winnie the Pooh as a very small child.) I decided to keep the capitalization, because I think it helps me be more easily understood-- but it also gets certain people to think you're cringe and make fun of you. I think it's worth it, but another writer might not.

And every Internet Maker Person has to deal with a series of tradeoffs like this. Do you talk about your political opinions? What about those political opinions, the ones that would definitely tick off part of your audience or get you doxxed by the Horrible Old Men of the internet? Do you talk about your childhood? What about the parts you don't want to talk about, or the parts that someone could weaponize against you if they wanted?

Do you just post links to your work and run? If so, are you willing to forgo the kind of intimate connection with your audience that Posting can help you build up? Do you meme and try to build a community? Are you willing to do the kind of work you need to do to welcome new readers/followers into that community, and if not, are you willing to let your work become completely inscrutable to anyone but your audience?

Dr. Tingle has publically spoken about why he* chooses to talk the way he does online, to wear the mask, and so on-- she's consciously choosing to play up aspects of himself that don't play nicely with society's consensus on Acceptable Behaviour. It lets her express those sides of himself, and brings in the audience she wants to bring in-- weird buckaroos who believe Love Is Real. It's an authentic expression of who he is. It is also, on some level, a curated performance. We're not seeing the full buckaroo behind the mask.

But the reason I made this post, and the reason I've been wanting to make it for a while, is that I don't think most readers know:

Every writer wears a mask.

Yes, even the Queer Vulnerability Folks who talk a lot about their trauma-- they've taken parts of themselves that most people hide and turned them into their mask. Even the folks who seem completely mundane and anodyne, or the folks who give chatty updates about their lives-- they're not wearing a very thick mask; it's a COVID mask and not a Halloween mask.

But they're wearing a mask, and as a reader? You don't actually have the right to see behind it. Because writers kinda have to keep a separation between who they are when they're performing for you, and who they are when they're alone, or they go a bit mad. Most writers will do you the courtesy of giving you what you expect-- they give you a persona that is very closely based on who they are in their workaday lives, that matches what you'd expect them to be from their writing, and that is passably 'normal' enough that you can fool yourself into thinking that the persona is the person.

I think people get big mad at Dr. Tingle because he makes the mask very obvious and literal. She doesn't let you sit confident that you Know Dr. Chuck Tingle (TM); he's making it very very clear that this is a persona he is choosing to use to interact with her audience. 'These are the parts of me that I want you to see, they're the parts of me that are the most important and the least palatable to society, they're the big loud queer autistic parts that ride off into the sunset, and that's what you get to see. No more, no less.'

So people get big mad and go "oh, this has to be a group of people Doing A Bit, Cynically", because that's the only way they can conceptualize a Writer Mask. But... no. Everyone does this. Even the people you don't think do this, do this. And the sooner you can accept that, the sooner you can take people's work on its merits instead of trying to judge it based on your idea of the person who created it.

*(I am alternating pronouns for Dr. Tingle because he's expressed that 'he' and 'she' are both her preferred pronouns; if he wants, I can edit the post to use one or the other.)

[mutable-star-child]

Astro notes from my personal birth chart ♊️ 🌞 ♋️ 🌝 Gemini asc ♊️

🌻 Having personal planets spread out in 5 different signs can make for a bit of an identity crisis hahah I have sooo many different interests and people find me to be one confusing ass person , it’s taken me years to find this as a blessing in disguise as I can relate to these 5 signs and with a wide variety of people quite easily.

🌻My Mars in Pisces ♓️ in the 11th house does in fact make me stick up for the underdog , i am not attracted to feet at all , and when I am in a sexual relationship I prefer to be friends with my lover. The detachedness from the 11th house with the watery energy in my Mars is a fucking contridiction . I find myself needing emotional intimacy with a partner but then when I’m in the act I can be in another world , I usually get pulled back with kissing 😽

🌻my Venus in Aries ♈️ in the 12th house is another paradox. I’m definitely more toned down than other Venus in Aries placements. I love the chase , but then one day you may get a shy side of me . It’s this hot and cold kind of energy which probably confuses the shit out of people , but at the end of the day I go by how I feel . Once in a committed relationship I’m IN IT , I have zero desire for anyone else . I think of this placement and energy as in this lifetime I’m to learn SELF LOVE ❤️ Aries Venus are astrologically sometimes perceived as selfish and the 12th house Venus needs to learn to give themselves the love they’re constantly over giving to others .

🌻 My mercury in Taurus ♉️ in the 12th house is my chart ruler and the ruler of my sun . For a Gemini I find myself to be quite reserved and I give credit to this baby , I know when to keep my mouth shut . Upon meeting new people or starting a new job , I sit back , and I watch , and I feel things out. It takes me a little bit to read the energies of the people around me to really open up and be my goofy self. I like to read things slowly and methodically, it takes time but once it’s learned , it’s in there for good. I get compliments on my voice allll the time and man do I love expensive journals and pens hahah nothing but the best.

🌻 Gemini ♊️ sun , conjunct the ascendant from the 12th house . When I was younger , I was extremely shy and didn’t know why people would look at me or stare at me and it made me feel self conscious as fuck . Ta da ! I feel this placement makes me confusing because well ... Gemini are the twins 👯‍♀️👯‍♀️and it’s conjunct my Gemini ascendant. I feel like a Gemini , then I also feel like a Leo rising and have a lot of Leo rising traits , but my sun feels like a Pisces some days too and I have the traits of a 12th house sun , buttt on other days I feel like a first house sun and carry a lot of 1st house sun traits 🤷🏻‍♀️

🌻 My biological father is a Pisces sun (12th house) and my mother is a 1st house sun , I therefore carry both of their energies in this 1 placement .

🌻 my step dad is a Pisces Venus and my mother is a 1st house Venus , I’m a Aries Venus in the 12th house I carry both of their energies in this placement as well.

🌻Gemini sun with a cancer moon makes for one very emotional Gemini lol , it’s funny tho because when I was younger I didn’t know people thought that I was cold and detached , but deep down my ass felt everything . It took me awhile to learn to work with these two energies.

🌻Gemini rising with an Aquarius mid heaven , people think I’m cool and aloof if they don’t know me , but once they talk to me they’re always so surprised at how “bubbly” I am .

🌻 Cancer moon conjunct Jupiter in Cancer . When I’m happy it expands out to everyone and everything ... but just how everything in this life is dualistic , if my moon square Mars ( Pisces / repressed anger) gets triggered ... watch the fuck out . When I was younger I wouldn’t even know I was mad until one day I would just explode and that’s how it felt , like an explosion of angry emotions that wouldn’t stop until everything was out . I’ve been working my ass off with working with my emotions. Just because you have certain placements or energies or aspects doesn’t mean you can’t learn to deal with them in a healthy manner.

🌻I’ve noticed that I have a lot of air moon friends , I find that I learn from them and question how they deal with their emotions , I find them fascinating that they can detach and analyze them or mind map them . I teach them how to feel the emotion and they teach me how to not get so damn lost in my emotions .

🌻 Moon in the 2nd house ; classic eats to emotionally feel better , another thing I’ve been working on . Instead of going for chocolate let’s dig around and see why we feel like this and not try to bandaid it .

🌻Jupiter conjunct Chiron , I’m half Caucasian and half aboriginal . I didn’t get to grow up with my aboriginal side of the family and on my Caucasian side I’m the only one who’s of a different ethnicity . I felt between worlds in a way growing up , I never knew where I fit in and never felt like I could fit in anywhere . It was this walking in the middle feeling .

🌻Pluto in Scorpio conjunct Black Moon Lilith in the 6th house . I remember being a kid and like some parents hating me .. for no reason . I also remember adults sexualizing me before I even knew what it was or was having sex . This aspect opposite my mercury in Taurus in the 12th house makes me extremely into psychology and esoteric studies . I find dating to be difficult at times because I can read douche bags like an open book . Hahah Lilith and Pluto in the 6th Opposite my mercury I find myself in a lot of sexual innuendos 🙄 . People sexualize me at everyday boring things , work , running errands , the *gym . When I was young and didn’t know how to deal with my emotional state this combo was deadly , depression, anxiety , suicidal thoughts . The Plutonian energies were so intense .

🌻 Uranus retrograde in the 8th house . Ummm yeah I know I’m weird , but have no fucking clue why lol 😂. This placement makes you painfully aware of being differen, on a plus it also makes you your own therapist. I went from drug party girl running away from her traumas to power engineer , owning her own house and doesn’t smoke , drink , or do drugs . Another psychology lovers placement and astrology lover 🥰. Also weird shit happens around me . Lights go on or off , things move . Alarm systems at work don’t go off when I enter the building. I also have Neptune retrograde on my 8/9th house cusp when have seen spirits and heard them . I would be lying if I said I didn’t love weird shit .

🌻Uranus in the 8th , I have been around death since I was about 8 years old having attended my first funeral service . I have had traumatic experiences with the passing of people close to me and I have known so many people who have passed away . I’m 30 and have had about 10 people I’ve known pass away . It’s something that I’ve always known . It’s a hard part about life but each time I go through a deep soul transformation where I question life and death and transcend something .

🌻Uranus in the 8th .. did someone say bdsm ?

🌻Neptune in the 8th , blurring of boundaries when i was younger. Like I legit didn’t even know what fucking boundaries were . Again something I’ve worked on and I’m happy to say , my boundaries are firm as fuckk .

🌻mercury (12th) trine Neptune and Uranus(8th) . Umm yes I do receive messages from spirit . It comes so naturally to me that I forget others don’t share this gift or have to work hard . I can go into a deep meditation easily and hypnotherapy . I also have vivid dreams and lucid dream . I am working on my dreams and astral projection.

🌻Saturn retrograde , yup bio daddy was not around and I am now reparenting myself as an adult 😁.

🌻Saturn in the 9th conjunct the Mc , I take this placement as the other reason why people think I’m cold before knowing me haha . I’ve wanted to travel for soo long , wanting to back pack and just go and be free but have not managed to yet , I always feel like I have something to do here or something comes up , I’ve just let go now and realize I’ll travel when the time is right and Saturn permits it hahah.

🌻 Saturn in the 9th , when I was younger religion made me feel uncomfortable af , I remember going to church and wondering why god was a man and why there wasn’t a girl god , and I also couldn’t understand why he was white ... it made no sense to me . Then where was my native god ? Why wouldn’t he just make everyone the same then ? Jupiter conjunct Chiron in the 3rd 😁 as I got older and traumatic death experiences happened , I then became a full blown atheist and pushed away the spirits I had seen from my mind and went on to party 🤘🏼👍🏼 ... until I had a transcendental spiritual awakening in 2017 . Which now I believe in consciousness and energy. Ahhh life

🌻 Aquarius north node conjunct asteroid Lilith conjunct the MC , people have scapegoated my ass since I had became a teenager haha. I had a very big issue with authority figures when I was younger whether it was with teachers , my parents , bosses, cops , you name it . I would rebel just to rebel . I’ve toned my shit down and have accepted that I’m quirky and different and a bit of a loner , I love it that way to be honest . I find that older men loveee me or hate me . Or both . Hahah I’m a very independent woman and do NOT like to rely on men for anything in my relationships. This placement makes me fucking determined to achieve my goals . It’s also the big fuck you placement to anyone that’s ever wronged me or told me I couldn’t do something . It gives me fuel and a will that I’m going to die trying before I ever fail . People laughed at me when I told them i was wanting to become a power engineer and well when I thought I was going to fail I just brought up their snickers comments and here I am today a power engineer 😈😉

🌻Lilith conjunct the MC , ahhh yes , I’m known for my looks and physique but jackpot to the rare ones that compliment my brains 🧠 🤓

🌻Lilith conjunct the MC, women feel threatened by just looking at me , which means I work really hard to bring a calming warm energy , I’m not fake but I do compliment women and pull them up and support them when I can . I have zero desire for drama or to take other women’s men .

🌻asteroid Lilith trine ascendant and sun , yeah I always wondered why people thought I was hitting on them when I wasn’t even interested lol but add a friendly bubbly Gemini ascendant with this aspect and you give off sexy vibes with out even noticing it . Fucking annoying to be honest hahah

🌻 IC in Leo , sun conjunct ascendant ... people say I wear my heart on my sleeve and what you see is what you get hahah

🌻IC in Leo , I shine when I’m with my family I feel the most comfortable around them and I love when they compliment me lol more than like anyone else .

🌻 If you were wondering why my chart seemed off I have 4 signs intercepted : Taurus / scorpio , Virgo / Pisces . My mercury , Mars , Pluto are all intercepted and my 12/6th houses are MASSIVE lol and my 11/5th are as well . Itty bitty 2/8th , 3/9th houses .

Let me know if you have any of these placements and can resonate 🥰

[masterwords]

The Story of a Lifetime

Notes: Written from a prompt by @unionjackpillow about Rossi feeling too old for Aaron and being pleasantly surprised to find it isn't the case. I sat on it forever trying to figure out how to do it justice and I'm not sure whether I did or not, but I did something. It's kind of chaotic in places, and the timeline is a little wibbly wobbly so my apologies. (Title comes from the song "Don't Worry" by Goo Goo Dolls.) This one goes out to all of my Hossi shippers who are sad that I keep writing Mortch/Hotchgan. I still love you! <3

Warnings: Nothing really? There is some allusion to childhood trauma/abuse, some alcohol, that's about it. This one is pretty tame.

Words: ~5k

You can read it on AO3 if you like, too!

As cigar lounges often went, the one Dave and Max found themselves seated in was dark and smoky. Hushed conversations, powerful men, almost like a secret society. They reclined in mahogany leather wing back chairs, a small round table between them displaying their scotch and a sampling of cigars they'd decided tickled their fancy. Behind them was the humidor, stocked from floor to ceiling with any cigar you could possibly want, even some that Dave used to have a guy who handled. Those days has passed. It was more convenient now, and legal of course, but he missed the intrigue, the way it felt to have a guy. Some changes were easy to adapt to, like moving from painstakingly handwriting a manuscript to using a computer, while others made Dave wonder at whether or not he was becoming a relic himself.

“You must be proud,” Max mused, reclined in his chair and Dave nodded, sipping his scotch. It had been too long since he'd had an opportunity to sit with his old friend, well over a decade if anyone was counting. They'd scheduled their meet up when news of Gideon's passing hit Ryan's radar and rescheduled it a number of times due to demands on Dave's time with the BAU. Both of them being published authors meant they occasionally crossed paths on the book tour circuits but rarely on personal time. This was, in both of their opinions, a rare treat.

“He's one hell of an agent,” Dave replied, and it was Max's turn to nod. What Max knew or didn't know about his relationship with Aaron was, at present, inconsequential. They were discussing the announcement that Aaron would be receiving the FBI Medal of Valor later that week at a gala, a medal he had argued against many times because he simply didn't think he should get special recognition for doing his job. The idea that not everyone was willing to put their own personal well-being in jeopardy for the sake of saving lives was entirely lost on Aaron, a fact that endeared him to those who knew him best and frustrated nearly everyone else.

“Does it ever feel strange? He was so young when you recruited him, and now look at him. Hell, look at all of us. You and I are old and gray, Gideon has passed on, time has certainly slipped between our fingers...”

Dave thought it a funny thing to say. Aaron was still young, at least he was young enough. He was training for a marathon with Morgan, even with the injuries he'd sustained just a couple months prior he'd managed not to miss out on his runs, only adapted them to accommodate his current abilities. He took Jack out every weekend and ran soccer drills with him until he could barely stand and he played one hell of a game of golf. No, Aaron wasn't old, but Dave had the crushing feeling that somehow he'd blinked and gotten old, much too old to be with a man like Aaron. The golf he could keep up with, but the rest he sat in the cheering section and even then he was ready for a nap just watching.

“How long has it been now, you two I mean?” Max asked, and Dave bristled a little. He wasn't sure why, maybe just the way Max had been talking about youth had gotten under his skin. It was apparent that Max had been informed of his relationship with Aaron, a fact that wasn't surprising, people loved to gossip, but not Max. The man had no tolerance for the stuff. He was barely interested in his own personal life of which there was very little to speak, exactly the way he preferred it.

“Two years,” Dave replied, swirling the liquid in his glass. He smiled in spite of himself. “Nearly as long as any of my marriages. So far so good.” Max smiled and raised his glass, a silent cheers as he veered off to the left again.

“And I understand you got a kid out of the deal?”

“Jack. He's great. Been through too much for someone so young, but then, he's been through a lot even for someone my age...” he let his voice trail off, and Max averted his eyes, not daring to touch the subject of Aaron and his loss without careful consideration of his words. Some time had passed but the wound never seemed to heal, not really and even Max knew to tread lightly.

“Is that what this Medal of Valor is about?” Max had been biting his tongue, waiting to ask. Dave just shrugged. He didn't like the question, didn't like the tone, as if Aaron didn't deserve it tenfold but he supposed it was just Max's way. His bedside manner left a lot to be desired, it was likely he meant no harm by it.

“Not exactly, at least the brass won't cop to it if it is. He's gotten himself out of it more than once, asked them to give it to someone more deserving but I suppose it was only a matter of time. We had a case in Texas a couple of months ago, there was a bomb and he was injured saving two hostages and three agents inside the building. It was the stupidest damn thing I've ever seen anyone do but I've gotta give him credit, he got it done and not even the unsub died. We spent an extra week in Texas at the hospital and he's got another month of physical therapy for his arm, at least, but we're making do and he's being rewarded for exceptional bravery in the line of duty.”

“Making up for the botched job he and Gideon did with Adrian Bale, huh? Well, good for him,” Max said, shifting in his seat. Dave overlooked the cruelty in Max's words in favor of keeping the peace. “Good for him.”

Jack was buzzing around the apartment with Aaron's cuff links cupped tight in his hand, cape flying behind him as he ran. He was almost ten and still enjoyed dressing up and playing, something Aaron took great pride in. That his son retained his youthful innocence as long as possible was of the utmost importance to him after everything he'd put the boy through. He didn't do it quite as often anymore, but when he did, Aaron couldn't help but feel the infectious happiness of a boy lost in his own world. “I got your cuplings back from Two Face, daddy!” he announced, leaping into the bathroom and revealing the prize in his sweaty palm. Aaron smiled and picked the treasures out of his son's hand, thanking him for his service.

“What would I have done without you, Batman?” he asked, pinning the cuff links in place. It was harder than it should have been, fingers slipping out of place repeatedly as he struggled to maintain pressure. He was still gaining dexterity back in his hand and the brace he had to wear didn't help matters, it pinched his wrist and pushed it painfully into a position that felt unnatural all while being assured it was helping. Still, he managed. Jack regarded the cuff links closely, eyeing the intricate markings, just barely making out a swirling letter H in the mix. “These belonged to my grandfather, your great grandfather. His father was a metal smith who made jewelry. They've been passed down, from my grandfather to my father, then to me and someday if you think you'd like it, I'll give them to you.”

“Tomorrow?!” Jack asked, grinning. Aaron smiled and shook his head. With as fast as time seemed to move these days, it might as well be tomorrow. Some days he was sure he'd wake to find Jack had gone away to college over night.

“Maybe not tomorrow, but when you're older. My father gave them to me when I was accepted to law school, along with my first real suit. I wore them when I married your mom, they're very special.” he said softly, a sweet smile gently easing the intensity of his feelings. He was cautious, never spoke ill of his father, focused on the things the man did that were worthy of admiration, kept the rest to himself.

“Does uncle Sean have cuplings too?”

Aaron regarded the question seriously, cherishing the mispronunciation. Normally he would correct the boy but he gave him a pass here, it was too sweet, his mispronounced words were few and far between anymore and by the time he had occasion to say the word again it would have naturally corrected itself, he was certain. “No, I doubt it. I don't even think uncle Sean owns a suit, but you know what he got? He got our grandfather's pocket knife. He made it himself.”

“Can I have that too?” Jack asked, and Aaron chuckled.

“I suppose you can, if uncle Sean gives it to you.”

“Oh, he will!” And Aaron thought Jack was probably right with confidence like that. From the other room they heard the door open, Jessica's warm greeting, and before Aaron knew it, Jack was dashing out of the bathroom and down the hall toward Dave in the doorway, looking just like Bruce Wayne in his tuxedo.

“Papa!” Jack called, swooping into the living room. “Do you have cuplings like daddy?”

Dave raised his eyebrow and pursed his lips, quickly working to decode the question. “Cuff links?” he asked, holding out his sleeves to show Jack his. “Like these?” Dave's were shiny, Jack noted, and looked a lot newer than his father's. He wondered why but didn't want to ask, maybe it was one of those grown up things that asking about would upset someone, he was quickly learning a lot about those sorts of things as he wandered through life. Jack touched one of Dave's cuff links, smiling.

“They're pretty,” he said before flying down the hall, back to his father in the bathroom before he missed whatever the next step in getting ready for a big fancy party was. He'd already been present for the excitement of shaving, and his father's difficult time taming his unruly bed head even with a fresh haircut, brushing his teeth, the whole nine yards. Next up, he was pretty sure, had to be the tie and he couldn't have been more excited.

Aaron listened to Dave speaking to Jessica as he looked in the mirror, adjusting his collar, fiddling with his cuff links nervously. He hated this. He thought about hosting parties in their home for politicians and holidays, fundraising events for people Aaron knew had dubious moral codes, caddying at the country club and listening to his father and their friends. These functions brought back memories he would rather let lie.

He was eight when his father brought him along to the golf course for the first time. He'd begged before that, desperately seeking something they could bond over, something he could do to make his father love him. The other boys his age carried their father's clubs, knew what each one specialized in, got fancy Italian sodas with lots of cream and umbrellas at the restaurant when they were all done. Aaron didn't mind if he didn't get the umbrellas, he was seeking the proud smile when he helped his father select his driver or his nine iron, knew the differences. He had spent hours memorizing each club, it's strengths and weaknesses, the nicknames. If his father was impressed by any of this, he never let on. Still, on the days they golfed, things were good.

“Your son is so well-behaved,” one of his friends had told him as they stood on the putting green. “He never steps out of line. You're going to need to let me in on your secrets...”

“You've got to start them young,” he would reply, winking at Aaron who just stood back with a blank stare. Start them young was code, he figured, from one old man to another. Start them young meant to strip them of their innocence, their youthful curiosity that got them into trouble, beat the enthusiasm right out of them. Start them young was code that Aaron wished he didn't understand. He handed his father his putter and stepped back, willing the ball into the hole with every fiber of his being. The better his father did, the better the trip home would be.

“How is he?” Dave asked, taking a seat on the couch beside Jessica. He'd been nervous driving over, wondering what sort of mood Aaron would be in, what he would find. Aaron hated FBI functions, avoided them as often as he could, and the fact that this particular function involved him receiving an honor and having to both hear speeches made about him as well as one he had to make, Dave thought it might just send him over the edge. They'd purposely kept it a secret that Derek had been asked to make the presentation, and he would be bringing Penelope with him. They thought it better left a surprise though Dave was feeling some regret now. Jessica just smiled and shrugged.

“Oh, he's good,” she remarked, sipping her coffee. “Jack told me he would make sure daddy was okay. That's why he's dressed as Batman.” Dave held his mug of coffee, steaming and fresh, wondering how Aaron was really doing. He had been complaining all week about this function that would zap his entire weekend, to which Dave rolled his eyes and called him dramatic. He knew what Aaron meant, he knew the man would be utterly spent by the time the night was over, drained of life for his Sunday that would inevitably involve a early morning run with Morgan followed by a tee time with lunch that they'd rescheduled the last three weekends in a row for work. Dave didn't even like golf but Aaron loved it and they would bring Jack along, let the boy caddy if he wanted to and sometimes even steer the golf cart. Mostly Jack liked to run around in the grass or lie down and poke at the bugs, and he loved the fancy dessert cart that came to their table while they ate. After lunch, soccer drills at the park with Jack's team would take up the rest of the afternoon and by the time bed time rolled around Aaron would be dead on his feet, ready to start his work week ready for a vacation. Dave had reminded him, as he rattled off the to do list for the weekend, that none of the things he had to do were unpleasant – it was all fun, with people he loved, and of course Aaron agreed but that didn't change the simple fact that it was exhausting.

Aaron breezed through the apartment moments later, desperately searching for the mug of coffee he'd set down an hour ago. “Dave,” he said, breezing by without stopping. “I'm running behind, I apologize. Make yourself at home, I should just be a few more minutes and then we can go grab the drink you promised me. Jessica, have you seen my co - “ he began, but she lifted the mug from the coffee table and handed it to him with a smirk. He accepted gratefully and swept back toward his bedroom, bow tie hanging loose around his neck.

“He seems flustered,” Dave mumbled and Jessica shrugged.

“He's fine, really. This reminds me of when we were teenagers. Dave...” Jessica said with a sudden air of wistfulness he found enchanting. “You should have seen some of the parties his parents would throw in their home or at the country club. He asked me to come with him once, when Haley was out of town with the choir. It was his family's annual Christmas party, there were actual famous people there. Maybe not really really famous, but politicians and TV personalities, people with fancy accents and dresses that cost more than my parents' car. I'd never even set foot inside of the country club, I couldn't believe he grew up like that.”

“Well,” Dave said in a hushed tone. “Smoke and mirrors, as they say.” She nodded somberly. Supposed she shouldn't be romanticizing the parties the way she did, but they had been the most extravagant and incredible things she'd ever experienced. Aaron would invite she and Haley, and they would dress up and eat the hor d'oeuvres and Aaron would name all of the really important people and she would watch his parents parade him around meeting everyone, networking, getting letters of recommendation for his college applications, and then they would leave, go find the nanny with Sean and take him outside and Aaron would run around in the grass in his dress clothes tossing Sean through the air, tackling him to the ground.

“I suppose they had everyone fooled, huh?” she asked, biting her lip. Dave nodded and sipped his coffee.

“People like that usually do.”

“They threw a party for him when the acceptance letters started rolling in, this big extravagant graduation party and celebration and they expected him to announce which school he'd chosen. Of course he didn't want to do any of it, classic Aaron. It was the talk of the town, and just before the party he got strep throat. He could barely talk, he was so sick and his mother refused to reschedule the party because family was flying in and the country club was booked out for months, so his father got one of the doctors in town to prescribe all sorts of things, this insane cocktail of medications – steroids and pain killers and Haley was so upset, she told him not to take any of it, to stay home and in bed but you know Aaron. He'd made the commitment already, so he took the whole mess of medications, it really messed him up. He chose George Washington University because they offered him a full ride which just pissed his father off because he'd wanted his son to go to Georgetown, said the money didn't matter, it was where the whole family went, it was a big deal. Didn't go over well. Not a great party.” She let her voice trail off for a moment and sighed.

“Talking about anyone I know?” Aaron asked, standing behind them as they gossiped on the couch. They hadn't realized he'd entered the room, apologized but he just smiled and shrugged it off. Dave thought he looked younger then, his eyes had a light he hadn't seen in years and he became acutely aware of his own age in contrast. That decade of life between them, usually inconsequential, suddenly felt insurmountable, like he was lying in a coffin.

Jessica watched Aaron in the kitchen, washing his hands and preparing a snack for Jack in his tuxedo and she thought about all of the invitations she'd stacked up for him to sort through, fundraising parties for political candidates and holidays and country clubs, and she knew they all ended up in the trash. His father would have attended as many as he could, eager to make his name known, and here Aaron was tossing them aside in favor of Friday pizza nights, Saturday morning cartoons and Sunday runs in the park. Strauss had told him many times he needed to make more of an effort to attend them, he was going to sabotage his own upward trajectory if he didn't get himself out there – he'd come into the FBI so strong, made a name for himself, gotten himself on everyone's radar and then settled himself in too deep when he joined the BAU. He liked the BAU, though, it had become home, he'd found a family, and he had no more real desire to rise higher. The work he did made him feel something, it was worthwhile and he already attended too many meetings as it were. There was an occasional acceptance, one he knew he couldn't brush off, maybe one that would be beneficial to him or his team in the long run if he just showed up and made the rounds, but he wouldn't prioritize his own name or ambitions anymore. That was a younger man's game, he'd lost too much to ambition. What he still had kept him honest, kept him home and if he had to let his tuxedo sit unused in his closet to work through hours of soccer drills or pitch the same fastball over and over again instead of attending some fancy party he was happy to do it.

Dave lost himself in thought while Jack ate and Aaron put the finishing touches on the speech he'd prepared. He glanced in the mirror, looked at at the graying hair at his temples, the crows feet, glad his goatee covered the depth of his smile lines. He looked old. He was old. Dave thought about the way Max spoke, as if they already had one foot in the grave, thought of Gideon waiting in the great beyond for him and he sighed miserably.

In his tuxedo, Aaron stood before the mirror, a final look before the night began. He raised his hands, a soft grimace passing over his features as he lifted his injured arm to adjust his bow tie and for just a split second he saw his father staring back at him. It was the briefest moment, the way his brow knitted and his mouth set in a grim pained line, stopping his heart as if he'd seen a ghost and then he glanced down at Jack beaming by his side and he softened, smiled. The smile broke the spell, his father became nothing but a memory and he reached down, patting Jack on the head.

“Your arm hurts?” Jack asked, watching with curiosity as Aaron grabbed his sling and slipped it over his head. He nodded, pushing his arm inside, feeling an instant relief from the tension in his shoulder.

“Yeah, buddy,” he whispered, adjusting the length of the straps and settling his sore arm in place. There was an ache from his shoulder to his fingertips, one that woke him early in the morning and didn't let up all day, a new pain, a constant companion he was getting used to. He was assured repeatedly that it would just take some time, healing takes time, but he was never an optimist. “I'm okay though.”

“I'm sorry we don't have time for a drink,” Aaron murmured, sliding into Dave's backseat. He felt ridiculous, pompous for arriving in such a stylish vehicle with a driver behind the wheel, nevertheless Dave had insisted there was no other way. Dave just shrugged and kept to himself on his side of the seat, wondering whether Aaron's running late had been somehow purposeful. He was feeling very morose all of a sudden, considering whether Aaron actually wanted him to be there, he'd been quiet and avoiding all contact for the majority of the afternoon. He took a deep breath, ready to ask Aaron if he'd rather attend the ceremony on his own when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

“ROSSI!” came Emily's voice, a full glass of wine in her hand on the small phone screen. “Are you guys coming?!” He saw JJ and Will lean in, and Spencer popped up between them grinning. Their faces filled the screen and brought a smile to his lips. They were in his home, probably hunting through all of his cabinets and drawers while he wasn't there to stop them. The thought didn't bother him as much as it might others, he hoped they found something that gave them pause. It would make for a fun story.

“We're running late, sorry Emily,” Dave said softly and he watched as Aaron's face fell, he hadn't realized the drink they were supposed to get was with their friends. “Don't go too wild and maybe we'll see you lot afterward huh?”

“Take pictures! A lot of pictures!” JJ called into the phone, as if she had to yell. Aaron smiled. He felt blindsided at seeing Emily's face, he hadn't realized she would be there, that they would have flown her all the way from London for the occasion. He should have known, but these sorts of things, shows of love from his team, never ceased to amaze him.

“I'm sure the bureau has that taken care of,” he said softly. “I apologize for taking so long to get ready. I didn't realize,” he started and Emily made a snorting noise and laughed. JJ burst out in laughter at the sound Emily made, Spencer giggling behind them. Dave wondered whether Aaron was suspicious at Derek and Penelope's absence, but if he was he said nothing.

“It was a surprise you donkey, of course you didn't realize. Geeze...lighten up! You're getting a freaking medal tonight!”

“Slow down,” Aaron replied, rolling his eyes. He was glad they were happy for him, that they thought he somehow deserved this medal, but he felt like he was just going through the motions. His team deserved it as much as he did, if not more, and the only reason he had acquiesced to accepting the medal was simply that he thought of it as a team effort. It didn't belong to him, it belonged to them. As they arrived at the museum, Dave excused them from the call and stepped into the crisp night air, extending his hand to help Aaron out of the vehicle.

The ceremony began, twenty people in all being honored and Aaron found himself right in the middle. He and Dave sat at their table, sipping their martinis and smiling and clapping for their colleagues, each of whom they knew deserved the honors bestowed. When the ushers came through to pull Aaron from his table, take him to the edge of the stage for his presentation, he gave Dave a soft, nervous smile and followed. He watched intently as Derek was called to the stage, as Penelope slid up beside Aaron and the look of surprise and horror spread over his features when he realized what was happening. That he was a seasoned profiler and hadn't put it together already made Dave feel momentarily proud of himself and their team. They weren't known for keeping secrets. Dave just smiled and pulled out his phone, started taking discreet photos and sending them to the team's group chat.

Derek's speech was heartfelt, it was funny and lively and sweet and brought more than one tear to Dave's eye as he recorded it. “When I was asked to present this medal, I gotta say...I got a little choked up. Y'know? I've been working with this jerk for too damn long I guess. I started thinking about how many offers I've gotten all over the country to run FBI Field Offices, tons...it's tons guys, you all want me. But you know, one big reason I've said no? This guy. Right here. I love the BAU, and I'm proud to call him my Unit Chief, I can't imagine going anywhere else. More importantly, I'm proud to call him my friend.”

When Aaron felt Penelope's hand on his shoulder, against his better judgment he glanced over at her and saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. The the grin on her face lit up the entire room. He'd been biting his lip, holding the flood of emotion back until he saw her, until he felt her hand, and suddenly his eyes burned with tears of their own and he stepped out onto the stage. Derek took his hand, shook it and smiled, and they nodded at each other with tears in their eyes before Derek handed him the medal and pulled him into a tight hug.

“I love you, man,” Derek whispered and Aaron just nodded. He couldn't have spoken then if he tried. “You better not blow off the after party, you hear me?”

Aaron nodded again, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he croaked, and Derek grinned and sauntered off the stage into the waiting arms of his date. Aaron sucked in a deep breath and stared out at the crowd of people, the wind having been completely knocked out of him. He apologized, said he'd had a great speech all prepared and ready, made a joke about being a lawyer and talking, but became somber when he spoke about how much it meant to him to hear Derek's words. He slid back into his groove after another moment, commanded the room with a speech about his team, the fact that he wouldn't be standing there now if it weren't for them repeatedly saving his life. By the end of the speech, he had everyone in tears and he got some small satisfaction knowing he wasn't the only one who couldn't seem to make the tears stop.

“You've been quiet tonight,” Aaron said softly, leaning toward Dave as someone snapped a photo of them beside the vehicle on their way to their little BAU after party at Dave's house. Dave just smiled and shrugged. “What is it Dave? I'm supposed to be the quiet one, not you.”

“It's nothing, Aaron,” Dave said with a soft smile. Aaron reached out and grabbed Dave's hand, pulling him to the side, just before the driver opened their door. With a careful glance around, taking stock of just who it was they were in eye shot of, he leaned in and surprised Dave with a kiss. Not just a peck on the cheek, a real kiss, the kind that sucked the air from his lungs and made his knees feel weak. When he stepped back, Aaron's eyes were wide, soft and sweetly pleading with him to smile, to be happy.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he whispered. “I couldn't have done any of this without you.” Dave felt a weight lift off of his shoulders. As they slid into the backseat of his vehicle, he finally stopped thinking about how old he was, whether Aaron cared about the age difference, knew he was being a silly old man. The kiss had wiped the slate clean and left him with only one thing on his mind – well, two: obtaining another martini and how to get more of those kisses.

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone- Chapter 14

Warnings: possible body dysmorphia, mentions of past trauma and abuse

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @tragiclyhip​

Author’s Note: I have a serious case of extremely low self esteem (thanks anon hate!) and I can’t promise when the next chapter will be out. I’m hoping within the next few days. Fingers crossed!  So I’d post the one I was holding ‘hostage’. 

“I’m not too sure about this, Des,” Esme grumbles from behind a change room door in Bloomingdales.

It’s the last stop of the afternoon before a well deserved lunch; highly praised Thai food at a restaurant near Rockefeller that Desi had to book weeks in advance. It’s been years since she’d been THAT engrossed in a shopping trip; her feet aching and her cheeks hurting from laughing so much and dozens of bags in her possession. For twelve years she’s been caught up in her role as a mother; putting her own needs and wants on the back burner in favour of always making sure the kids never went without. Even with a ridiculous amount of money in the bank, she’d never concentrated on herself; perfectly content with her quiet and unassuming life in Australia, living rather simply and not needing much more than shorts, t-shirts, a small selection of bathing suits and a handful of jeans. It feels strange to be out in something other than her normal and preferred attire; used to choosing comfort over actual style and doing little more than throwing her hair up into a ponytail or messy bun. It had been nice to experience all of that again and had found herself most missing those younger days. When she’d pass the time with hours of window shopping and mindless browsing; daydreaming about all of the designer clothes and shoes and handbags she’d one day purchase if she ever won the lottery. But back then, it had been just that: daydreaming. And she can’t help but feel slightly guilty for splurging and buying things just for the sake of having them; outfits she may likely never wear and will hang in the closet with their original price tags still attached.

It’s hard to break free of that line of thinking; easily remembering the hard times when there’d been hardly any food in the cupboards and there’d been real worry about whether the utilities would be shut off or not. When Millie was still growing inside of her and she’d been trying to adjust to her new life in a new country; living with a man she barely knew but she already was already falling madly and crazily in love with. Materialistic things have never truly mattered; never heartbroken when she couldn’t afford brand new clothes or when their little apartment was filled with mismatched second hand furniture. Despite the financial concerns, they’d been truly happy. Engrossed in a ‘honeymoon stage’ of unbridled passion and lust; finding themselves thoroughly exploring and enjoying one another’s bodies while getting to know each other. It hadn’t been the most conventional of lifestyles; two broken people finding solace and healing in one another in Dhaka, an unplanned pregnancy, and quick and hasty cohabitation. And there’d been hard times; little quirks and hangs up the other had that annoyed them, heated arguments over stupid things, lingering trauma and plenty of nightmares thanks to their harrowing experience in Bangladesh. But somehow they’d made it work; a temperamental and moody Australian and a feisty and over emotional American. Falling in love despite their often enormous differences and making something so beautiful and lasting out of almost nothing.

“I don't know if this dress is my thing,” she frets, and smooths her hands down the side of the ridiculously expensive dress. It’s far more than she’d ever imagined paying for a single piece of clothing; immediately checking the price tag and having a small coronary when Desi had shoved the garment in her direction. Money is of no concern; in a thousand lifetimes the personal bank account will never run dry, nor will there never be a steady flow of impressive income coming in. But it just isn’t who she is; a woman with her wardrobe filled with designer apparel, far more comfortable in sweats from Target and one of her husband’s ratty t-shirts. “I’m just not too sure about it.”

“What is there NOT to be sure about?” Her friend’s voice filters in from the waiting area. “It’s Herve Leger. One of his best pieces yet. And it’s fabulous and it will look even more fabulous on you.”

“It’s too short,” she laments, and tries in vain to pull the hem down closer to her knees. “I don’t have the legs for this.”

“You don’t need legs for days to slay in that dress. And Big E, I’ve seen you in shorts. I know you’ve got killer stems. You can definitely pull this off. You’re worrying over nothing.”

“But it’s too tight. Way too tight.”

Desi sighs in exasperation. “It’s supposed to be tight. It’s a bandage dress.”

“It shows my rolls.”

“Excuse you? WHAT roles? Like you have rolls. Bitch, please.”

“I’ve had seven kids. Believe me, I have rolls. I’m twenty pounds heavier than when I first met Tyler. Twenty-two, actually.”

“And does he give a shit? No. I bet he likes the curves. I don’t see him complaining. Or looking at other women. He only has eyes for you.”

“Most biased man on earth,” she mutters, and studies her form from all sides. Easily remembering what her body had looked like almost thirteen years ago; thin and toned and extremely fit. A far cry from the ‘softness’ she possesses now; dips and valleys and curves where none had ever existed before.

“Isn’t his opinion the only one that really matters? Doesn’t he find you a straight up hottie?”

“That is not the point. He could be just trying to spare my feelings, you know.”

Desi gives a derisive snort. “Isn’t he still tripping over himself trying to get into her pants every available chance he gets? Quit your bitching. You’ve got a beautiful man that worships at the temple of YOU. Now get out here and let me see you.”

“Rolls, Desi. I have rolls.”

“Bullshit. And even if you did, that dress is like a corset. All the different bands built in? They hold everything. And I doubt you have anything to hold in the first place. Don’t make me break down the door and drag you out here. I am not above creating a scene. You should know this by now.”

“Don’t you dare go full queen diva on me.”

“Oh, I will. I will kick that door in and drag your tiny ass on out here for the world to see. Desmond Brownell does not play games. He’s on a mission. And his mission is to see you in that Herve Leger. Don’t make me pull a mommy move. Don’t make me count to three.”

“I tend to go with five, but…”

“Five then. Don’t make me go that direction. Because it will not end well for you. Or me. There’ll be tears. And not on my part. And most likely security guards tossing us both out on our asses. So we do this either the easy way or the hard way. And believe me, you don’t want the hard way.”

Sighing heavily, she smooths down the back and sides of the dress and once more tries to pull the bottom closer to her knees. To no avail. It is so far out of her comfort zone; a woman that insists on always covering her bathing suit with a t-shirt and refuses to remove it. “I am going to sneak into your house at night and kill you in your sleep,” she declares, as she undoes the hook latch on the door and swings it open. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. Keep your eyes closed. Until I tell you to open them.”

“I can’t believe YOU don’t realize that you’re a bonafide MILF. Even if it’s not for you, how bad could it be?”

“Ever seen a sausage when you try and stuff too much into the casing?”

“Have you ever talked to a shrink? You do not look the way you think you look. What DO you see when you look in the damn mirror?”

“I see gray hair, wrinkles, and stretch marks. I see frumpy and plain and boring and just…” sighing, she steps into the middle of the waiting area and frowns at her reflection being cast in several different mirrors. “...old. I see old.”

“I think you’ve done lost your damn mind. Shred brains cell with every baby you had. Because you sure as hell don’t look old. Not even close. Can I look yet?”

“Do you want to be traumatized?”

“Do you WANT me to beat your ass? Tell on you? I’ll tell your hubby. Don’t underestimate me. Then both of us will get on your ass and then what?”

“He’s hardly a good judge. He’d tell me I look good in a garbage bag. He is proof that love IS blind.”

“He is proof that there’s good men out there. Good loyal, faithful men. That love every inch of their woman. Inside and out. You know how lucky you are? To have someone like that? Do you see anyone strong enough to drag him off? I’m sure he’s had plenty of opportunities.”

“If the thirsty housewives back home and the new neighbour had their way, he’d be getting all kinds of ass. All kinds of variety.”

“What new neighbour?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over lunch. But yeah, he’s got a harem of women that would love for him to be tapping it.”

“But he loves tapping YOUR ass. And only your ass. Does he have a brother? Have I ever asked that? A gay brother by chance? Or a gay friend? Bi friend? Help me out here.”

“No brothers. No siblings at all. No gay friends. Not that I know of. But you know who WOULD have a gay friend? My sister in law.”

“I thought he didn’t have siblings?”

“Not Tyler. My sister’s wife. Shaena. She’d for sure have gay friends. And hot ones. You’ve met her.”

“Both her and your sister are fine as hell. I wouldn’t mind getting in the middle of THAT. Hook a brother up. Make it happen. I’ll be at your little Aussie Christmas. Score me a date for then. In the meantime, can I open my eyes now? Don’t leave a brother hanging.”

“As long as you promise you won’t laugh.”

“I am calling you a psychiatrist. You need help.”

“Fine,” she turns her back towards her friends, hands perched upon her hips. “ Look. But no smart ass comments and no laughing. My confidence can’t take it.”

“Your confidence needs a serious makeover. Now let me see.”

She watches through the mirror as his eyes flutter opening; slowly widening as far as they possibly can, followed by a dramatic collapse back into his seat and a hand placed over his heart.

“Fuck…” she grimaces. “...that bad?”

“That bad? That GOOD. Desmond Brownell approves. You look…” he gives two chef’s kisses. “...delicious. I’d bang you. And I have high standards.”

“I’ve seen some of your dates. Your standards are questionable at best.”

“You wound me, Big E. Mortally wound me. That…” he nods in her direction. “...was made for you. Your body is tighter and hotter than you obviously realize. Curves like a back road. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

“You don’t think it’s too much? Or should I say, too little? I am forty-one.”

“Who gives a shit? You look amazing.”

“I’ve had seven kids.”

“Especially amazing for someone that’s popped out that many crotch goblins. Sold. The dress is sold. This isn’t up for debate.”

“I can’t buy something like this. It’s just...not me.”

“It damn well is YOU. I’ll buy it for you. A little extra Christmas gift.”

“A thousand dollar dress is hardly a little Christmas gift. And it’s a little pricey, don’t you think? For fabric?”

“Honey, you really need to get out of Target and up your shopping game. I know how much money you all have, I know you can afford it. I know you could probably afford this whole store. And then some.”

“It isn’t about money. It’s about me. And being out of my comfort zone. I don’t dress like this. I live on the beach. In Australia. We wear shorts and tanks and never wear shoes. Where the hell would I wear this?”

“Date night.”

“Like we have places I could wear this to. I mean, I guess we could go to Cairns. I’ve seen women in some pretty expensive clothes there. I could always talk him into a weekend away. It wouldn’t be hard. And we are going to Santorini in April.”

“That’d be perfect for Santorini. Hell, just wear it in the house. In the bedroom. Just to spice things up a bit. I’m sure he doesn’t see you dressed up very often.”

“Try like never,” Esme laughs. “Okay, maybe that’s a lie. I DO wear makeup when we go out. And cute little sundresses.”

“What about when you got married?”

“I wore something off the clearance rack at a bridal store in Sydney. Cost a hundred bucks. It was nothing fancy.”

“But you wore a little tiara and veil and all that, right?”

“It wasn’t that kind of wedding. I was five months pregnant with Millie. It was a little wedding chapel. We had six guests. It wasn’t fancy.”

“E, you’ve been robbed. You need that bride moment. What about the first time?”

“Las Vegas. Even more casual. Zero out of five stars. Would not recommend.”

“Oh no, honey. No. That’s wrong. So wrong. You deserve so much better. You deserve a big day. You deserve to be a bride. A REAL bride. Poofy white dress, little bling in your hair, fancy little shoes…”

“Seven kids and I’m going to wear white? I think not.”

“I’m having a serious talk with that man of yours. Vow renewals are a thing you know.”

“He’s brought it up. A couple of times. Which is weird, because I never thought he’d ever think of something like that. This is Tyler we’re talking about. This is a man that can kill people with his bare hands. Who has his own brand of romance. Which I love, by the way. But it’s very odd he’d bring up something like that. Getting married again.”

“Maybe he wants to see you all done up. Looking like a bride.”

“Trust me, Des. Tyler doesn’t care about that stuff. That isn’t him.”

“Maybe he’s come to care about that stuff. Maybe he’s getting a softer side to him. Or, his soft side is getting even more soft.”

“Don’t ever tell him that. He’d kill YOU with his bare hands. Do you really think I should get this dress?”

“I think you’d be stupid not to. And you, are NOT a stupid woman. Treat yourself. You deserve it.”

“You know what? I do. I DO deserve it. And I think he’ll really like it. Maybe I’ll even give him a little sneak peek later. You know, to judge his reaction to it.”

“Oh I think I know what his reaction is going to be. Don’t wear any underwear. Just let him yank the dress up and have his way with you.”

“Maybe you know him better than I realize,” Esme laughs. “Fine. I’ll buy it. But if he hates it, I am totally throwing you under the bus.”

“Alright...alright…” Desi holds his hands up in surrender. “...I’ll take one for the team. Now get your little ass in there and get changed. This big man needs to eat.”

*****

“So this neighbour you mentioned,” Desi says, as he nods his appreciation at the hostess who seats them at their table, then gallantly pulls Esme’s chair out and waits for her to sit. “What’s that about?”

She rolls her eyes. “Natalie. She just moved in a few doors down. Her and her little girl.”

“Are you talking about the blond that has the goddamn gall to wear real fur?” Desi slides into the seat across from her. “The one that needs a chisel to take off her makeup at the end of the night?”

“That’s her. The one who looks like Sephora threw up on her face. Too bad you can’t apply makeup on the inside to make something more attractive. Because she is a real peach.”

“Bottle of your best house red,” Desi requests, and then flips open the leather bound menu placed in front of him. “How’d you meet her?”

“Well, it turns out she doesn’t just have the gall to wear real fur. She also has the gall to go after married men. And in this case, MY man.”

“Uh oh. Something tells me this didn’t end well.”

“I’m very protective of what’s mine. Maybe some people would call it possessive.”

“I definitely would call it that. Not that I blame you. I’d be the same way. Hell, I’d probably never let him leave the damn house.”

“I know what a good thing I have. I know how hot my husband is. I’ve seen him naked. Many times. What’s underneath? Even better than what’s on top. And what’s on top? That’s really damn good, know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean. And I’m just saying, I wouldn’t protest if you sent me nudes of him. Our little secret.”

“My husband IS hot. And he’s beautiful and he’s amazing and he’s this walking study in masculinity. But he’s just that. MY husband. I don’t share. With anyone.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve spent three years begging you just to let me cop a feel.”

“So I don’t appreciate some thirsty female from five doors down, honing in my territory. No one is pissing in my front yard. No one. And it’s not just that I’m possessive and there’s no way in hell I’m sharing great dick, but Tyler isn’t like that. He doesn’t do shit like that. He is a lot of things, but a cheater is not one of them. That is one thing I’ve never had to worry about. He is loyal. Fiercely loyal. And he’s had his chances. If he wanted to stray, he would have. Easily.”

“Never struck me as the type who would. He’s way too in love with you. Way too faithful. I see the way he looks at you. Stars and hearts in his eyes. He definitely thinks rainbows and butterflies fly out your ass. So this Natalie…”

“They met at the park. He took Tanner there; after their morning out. And this Natalie was there. Tyler made small talk. And small talk is even exaggerating. Tyler doesn’t do small talk. Any talk, for that matter.”

Desi nods in agreement. “Took me damn near a whole weekend just to get him to say two words. That voice though? Woody. Instant.”

“Well I guess Natalie took his small talk for something else entirely. Which I don’t get, because Tyler is civil, at best. He’s just not a people person. He tries. But you know what he’s like. How he comes across. He’s very rough around the edges and doesn’t take shit and doesn’t care for formalities. He’s a man of very few words. Whatever words he said, she read way too much into. She showed up at the house. Looking for him.”

Desi looks up from his menu, a scowl forming on his face. “She did not.”

“Oh, she very much did. And get this. She made him cookies.”

“What kind of cookies?”

Esme stares at him pointedly.

“I like details. I’m detail oriented. I can’t help it.”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

“The most traitorous cookie out of them all. For shame. I’m disappointed. If you want a man to climb in your bed, you don’t lead with oatmeal raisin. Please tell me your man don’t like that shit.”

“Rest assured, he hates them and your opinion and lust for him can stay intact. But you can believe that? She came calling on my husband. She brought him cookies. And I’m pretty sure if he’d been home, she would have offered him HER cookie.”

“Probably just as nasty as the ones she makes. Probably got cobwebs and dust bunnies and all that shit. Maybe even a barbed wire fence blocking the entrance. So what happened?”

“Well, she got the cold shoulder and snarkiness from Millie first.”

“That’s my girl.”

“And then I talked to her and she was bitchy and off hand and she’s lucky I didn’t throat punch her. She had all kinds of snarky things to say. About my name, about my appearance, about having so many kids. I let her know that I wasn’t having any of her shit. That I was onto her. I told her I didn’t know what kind of married men she was used to, but my husband isn’t one of them. That he wasn’t...and never would be...interested.”

“And?”

“And she left. We fed the cookies to the dogs. Or tried to. Even they didn’t like them. Man’s best friend, indeed.”

A waitress brings the wine; cheerfully introducing herself before taking their orders. Desi waits until she leaves before uncorking the bottle and filling both glasses. Offering a toast to a warm and safe Christmas holiday and the perks and perils of love and friendships. And they’re in the middle of sharing stories of his last trip to Australia -his encounters with the both the ‘friendly neighbourhood Aussies’ and the wildlife that so freely roams and enjoys their stretch of land- when her cell phone loudly vibrates within the confines of her purse. Had Tyler not been out with all of the children and it not been a common thing to often run into some kind of issues with handling so many bodies, she would have just ignored it. And she wishes she had; frowning at the number splashed across the screen and then dropping the phone back into her bag.

“Your mom again?”

Nodding, she takes a swallow of wine. “Third time already today. Only four or five more to go. Maybe she’ll even make it an even dozen before sundown.”

“Can she not read the signs? It’s quite obvious you don’t want to speak to her. What’s her issue?”

“It’s probably easier to ask ‘what isn’t her issue?’. There’s many. So very, very, VERY many.”

“I already know about what she was like you when were growing up. I’m surprised you turned out as normal and sane as you are. It’s more than that?”

“So much more, Des. Where do you want me to start?”

“Start with the biggest one. Or most recent.”

“She hates Tyler. With the passion of a thousand fiery suns. The seventh layer of hell? I don’t think that even burns as hot as her hate for him.”

“Why? He’s a good guy. Treats you right, loves his kids. Will fight like hell to protect what’s us. Die for it, even. What’s to hate?”

“So you know how Tyler and I met. The whole ‘pretend husband and wife’ thing.”

“Yeah, to find Ovi and save him. What about it?”

“Well you also know what happened. During those five days in Dhaka. Between Tyler and I. Believe me when I say that I’m not normally like that. Spend nearly a week banging a guy I barely know. Unprotected, at that. And at the risk of too much information, Tyler was only the third guy I’d ever been with. Sexually speaking. So what happened between us? Totally uncharacteristic for me. It was unconventional. How we met. But, it worked out. We wanted more. We wanted to get to know each other. See if we could make something out of nothing. And we did. We made a life. A beautiful life. And seven little human beings.”

“And she’s got a problem with that because…?”

“After what happened on the bridge, I decided to stay. At the hospital he was flown to in Mumbai. It was touch and go and he didn’t have anyone else and if he wasn’t going to make it, I didn’t want him to be alone. He deserved better than that. And a week later they brought him out of the medically induced coma and he was breathing on his own and he woke up and he was so happy to see me. You should have seen how he smiled at me, Des. He has a beautiful smile. But that? That smile he gave when he realized I was real and I was actually sitting there? By his bed? I had never seen anything like that and I’ve never seen anything like it since. He was happy and relieved and he wanted me there. He even said he was scared to close his eyes at night because he was afraid I wouldn’t be there when he woke up.”

“He was already head over heels for ya. Guess that was his way of telling you.”

“When the hospital said they were shipping him to another back in Australia, he asked if I would go with him. By then I was already invested. I mean, it was three weeks later and I’d already spent time helping him feed himself and getting him on his feet and to the bathroom and taking him to in-patient physio and all of that. I was already in love with him. Of course I was going to Australia. It was never in doubt.”

“And let me guess, it ruffled your mother’s feathers.”

Nodding, Esme takes a long sip of wine. “She wasn’t in control. Of me. And she couldn’t stand it. Neither she or my brothers no longer had in any say in how I was going to live my life. The Esme they knew? She died on that bridge. Or maybe she was left behind. I had a chance. To make a new life for myself. And I took it. I went to Australia and I decided that was where I wanted to be. I wanted to be with HIM. So I took what money we had and I got us an apartment and he put me in charge of handling everything; medical decisions, financial stuff. And then, I found out I was having Millie. Which, to be honest, wasn’t a huge surprise because what do you expect when you spend five days having totally unprotected sex? And I told Tyler and I gave him a choice. If he didn’t want me or the baby, I’d walk away and I’d go home and I’d never contact him again. I told him I didn’t expect anything from him. And I didn’t want him feeling obligated to me or the baby.”

“That must have went over well.”

“Well, needless to say, he wanted the baby. And me. So I stuck around. I was by his side through his whole hospital stay and through all the therapy and his stint in rehab and then we settled down in our new life. And we got married and had Millie. My family? They couldn’t stand it. They couldn’t accept it. They couldn’t accept HIM.”

“All because you decided to make a new life for yourself?”

“That was it. Tyler became public enemy number one. My mom convinced everyone that he stole me away. That he was manipulative and abusive and that I was scared to leave him.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Right? Tyler is so far from manipulative or abusive. He lived that life. He was on the receiving end of that. And he’s tried his hardest not to walk in his father’s footsteps. And believe me, he’s nothing like his old man. Not in the slightest. But no matter how much or how hard I argue, she doesn’t listen to me. She sees him as this horrible person. That took her baby girl away. And when he had the nerve to stick up for me? Against her and my brothers? That made things worse! You think they would have been happy. I found this amazing man who’s totally in love with me; who sees past all my bullshit and my ugly parts. That should have been enough for them. A guy that’s made me the centre of his universe. Who makes me happy and who I love more than I ever thought I COULD love someone. Who helped me make seven incredible little human beings. Why isn’t any of that enough?”

“I don’t know,” Desi says. “I wish I did. I wish I had the answers. ALL the answers.”

“Yet they practically idolize Mark. It makes no sense. They knew what he was like. They knew he was abusive. And they enabled him. They gaslighted me just as much as he did. And I would have left a thousand times over had they not constantly pressured me into giving him another chance. Had they not convinced me that everything was my fault. My mom stayed friends with him. Right up until he died. What kind of sick person does that? Stays friends with their own kid’s abuser?”

“You hit the nail on the head. A sick one.”

“Constantly kissing his ass and making him out to be some kind of white knight yet having all this shit to say about Tyler. They hate him because he refuses to be like them. Because he stands up to them. Because for once, someone loves me enough to have my back. That’s it. That’s why they hate him. And the things they’ve said? Especially since finding out he’s a mercenary? Constantly wishing death on him? Saying him dying would be the best thing to happen to me and the kids? Who says things like that? I almost lost Addie because of her. I came back from Ireland because I found out I was pregnant and my mom got on her bullshit and I almost lost my baby. Tyler came all the way back just to make sure I was okay. He wouldn’t have done it if he’s even a fraction as evil as they claim he is.”

“You realize it that isn’t really about him, right? That it’s all them. Because they don’t have that control. Over you.”

“I thought it would be all over and done with when we kicked my brother to the curb. I thought once he and Tyler had it out and Tyler kicked the shit out of him, that would be it. That we’d never hear from any of them again. You know how peaceful it’s been? Five years of no phone calls, no text messages, no emails. Five years of pure bliss. And now this…” she nods down at the purse sitting in her lap. “...her on my ass every day, multiple times a day. Isn’t it enough that I acknowledge that the kids received their Christmas gifts? That I showed appreciation and I said they’d send thank you cards? You think that would be enough. Our lives have been so good. Quiet and happy and peaceful. And it’s like she knows that. It’s like she knows how good things are and just has to screw it all up.”

“Normally I say just ignore them. Just wash toxic people out of your life and keep them out of your life. But if she’s as determined as she is, it’s only going to get worse. She won’t stop trying to get a hold of you. And as hard as it’ll be to talk to her, that might be the only way to get her to stop. Let her know. Say ‘thanks, but no thanks’.”

“I can not allow her back into my life. OUR lives. I can’t allow any of them back in. I will NOT have my kids surrounded by that ugliness. I will not have people around them that talk shit about their father. Because you know what? I know he’s not perfect. I know he has his issues. He’s the first one to admit it. But he is an amazing dad and he is totally devoted to those kids and they love him beyond all comprehension. And I won’t allow people to talk about him like that. I won’t allow them to break my kids’ hearts…” her voice cracks with emotion, and she takes a swallow of wine to clear away the lump sitting square in her throat. “....I won’t let anyone talk about Tyler like that. He’s not a perfect man, but he’s a good man. And he loves me and he loves his kids. He saved me, Des. In every way a person can be saved. And I won’t let anyone disrespect him like that.”

“Tell them that. Tell them EXACTLY that.”

“I have. I have said it until I was practically blue in the face. They don’t care. They say I’m ‘defending my abuser’. In what alternate universe is he considered an abuser? He has never...ever...raised a hand to me. He’s always said he’d kill himself before he ever let things get that out of control. That he’d never be able to live with himself if he even thought about hurting me like that. And maybe in a way, I DO understand some of the way they think. He’s lived a hard life. A violent life. First the military, then as a mercenary. Yes, he’s killed people. With his bare hands. But he’s never done it because he wanted to. Or because he enjoyed it. He did it because he HAD to. Because it was either him or them. He is not a monster. Regardless of what they think. Or even he thinks sometimes.”

“You’ve never been scared of him?”

“Never. And you know what? If he WANTED to, he could do some serious damage to me. He could kill me. No question about it. But that thought has never, ever crossed my mind. I’ve never been afraid of him. Not even at his worst. When he went back to drinking all the time and abusing the pain meds and we fought constantly. And yeah, there were times he DID lose it. Where he put a fist through the wall or grabbed me trying to stop me from walking away or trying to calm me down and talk some sense into me. But I’ve never been scared of him. Because even at his worst, I knew he loved me. I knew none of his issues were about me. That was him and his brain and not knowing how to cope. And they just don’t get it. They think he’s somehow frightened me into sticking around. That he’s been forcing me to have children. Because it somehow keeps me around.”

“Sounds more like they have the issues. Not you guys.” Desi reaches for the bottle of wine, refilling both their glasses.

“We’re not perfect. And Lord knows we have had some really shitty times. Where we didn’t think we were going to make it. But you know what? We did. We fixed our shit and we made things work. We both busted our asses to change. And he still busts his ass every day to make up for all the bad. We work at it, Des. Every day we work at it. Because we love each other and we both know what it's like to be from a broken home. And we won’t do that to our kids. We won’t let them grow up like that. So we work at it. And it hasn’t been easy. But there’s been more great times than bad times.”

“You two are strong. What you got is strong. No one can deny that. I’ve seen it. With my own two eyes.”

“I will not let my family ruin us. They tried. And in Colorado, they almost succeeded. But we got away. We moved back home. Our REAL home. And we never looked back. I won’t let them destroy things for us. Not when we’ve worked so hard to get where we are.”

“You’re going to have to deal with her, Esme. She isn’t going to go away. Not from what I’ve seen.”

“And I will. I WILL talk to her. After Christmas. I just want to get through the holiday. I just want things to be happy and peaceful. Especially for the kids. I don’t want anyone ruining Christmas for them. Once it’s over and things calm down, I WILL talk to her. But right now? I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

“It’s all going to be alright,” Desi assures her, and reaches across the table to give her hand a comforting squeeze. “Everything’s going to work out.”

“Tyler isn’t perfect. He’s the first one to admit that. In the same way I’m not. But you know what? We’re perfect for each other. And in the end, that’s all that matters.”

*****

When she arrives home she finds the three littlest fast asleep; tightly snuggled together on the area rug in front of the Christmas tree and covered by the knitted throw usually draped over the back of the sofa. Saju and Mac nap close by; curled up together in front of the front of the fireplace and merely blinking their eyes in a form of acknowledging her presence. She can hear Millie and Alannah upstairs; giggling and chattering, their feet stomping overhead as they play a dance game on the XBox. The three oldest boys are out in the backyard; laughter drifting inside as they hide behind ‘fortress’ walls and lob snowballs at one another. It's rare to see the three of them enjoying time together. Tanner normally not comfortable with the more raucous play and choosing quiet time; up in his room reading a book or writing stories or building intricate lego scenes in front of the fireplace.

She stands in the sunroom and watches them; smiling at how jovial and lighthearted they are. Their faces bright and happy; no cares in the world aside from the balls of snow and ice being tossed in their direction. Despite everything they’d been through, they’re spirits so brilliant and bubbly, continuing to love the world and everyone in it. Tanner and TJ (along with Millie) are able to remember the more difficult times in Colorado and being whisked to Mumbai under false pretenses; told they were going on a family vacation only to be sent back to Australia without either parent and then told their father very well might never come home. They still talk about it from time to time; how scary it had been to be away from both mom AND dad and how worried they’d been when they thought their daddy may never make it back to them. They’re able to vividly recall visiting him in the hospital; the scars and bruises on his face that had been in various stages of healing, the sling keeping his badly wounded and surgically repaired shoulder in place, the ‘cage’ that had encased his right thigh, the tremendous amount of weight and muscle he had lost. It HAD been traumatic; more than two months without their father under the same roof and seeing him so wounded and vulnerable.

They’d needed their own therapy; the trauma manifesting itself through moments of rage and aggression and troubles sleeping at night. A child psychologist recommended to them by Doctor Klein had done them all a world of good; disguising therapy with music and play and helping them express their emotions and their fears. And within six months they were back to their old selves; grades climbing and their social skills improving, the rage and aggression diminishing. It still haunts them from time to time; a fear that returns whenever daddy has to leave home for work. But for the most part they’ve healed exceptionally well; full of energy and light and humour and possessing enormous amounts of compassion and empathy.

She finds Tyler in the main floor office; a central area of the main floor that had been the previous owner’s sewing and craft room. It’s close enough to keep an ear out for the kids; able to hear them both inside and out. And a security system enables him to keep an eye on any area of the house; live images cast back to the flat screen television mounted on the wall above the desk. Five years years ago she would have called him paranoid for insisting on such measures. Overprotective, even. But that was until someone had gotten close enough to Addie to steal a stuffed animal right out of her crib. Had the culprit wanted her, she would have been long gone in the middle of the night. And they most likely never would have seen her again. The terror of that night is still very real; the thought of someone reaching across her tiny body to take something so simple in the course of sending a very clear message.

After that, Esme had vowed to never call him paranoid or overprotective again. Evil had gotten too close. WAY too close. And she now understands his fierce and rabid determination to do whatever it takes to keep his family safe.

She watches him from the doorway; intently working at the computer. Admiring the glasses perched upon his face and the lines of his profile; the strong, stubbled jaw and the curve of his lips and the bump in the bridge of his nose. The scars that had long ago become part of him. Marring the left side of his forehead and by his left eye; old wounds that he’d possessed when they’d first met. A handful of others have been added since then. The edge of a metal shovel cutting wide and deep; the scar travelling from the very corner of his right eye and up his forehead and snaking up into his hairline. And the ones left behind from Nathan. The one above his eyebrow thin and faint, the one below his eye much wider and jagged and stretching all the way to his temple. That one had been the worst; deep enough for the knife blade to hit bone and cause irreparable damage to nerves and muscle. And while most would see them as blemishes and flaws, she sees it as adding to his beauty; souvenirs of not only a hard and dangerous life, but of survival.

“Hey,” she greets as she wanders into the room. “What’cha doing, handsome?”

“Just some shit that came up. I would have ignored it, but…”

She stands at the back of his chair. Fingers and thumbs rubbing at tense shoulder muscles before wrapping both arms around his neck; leaning over him and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, followed by his temple. “Everything alright?”

“Koen ran into some issues. On the job he took. Not going as smooth as we’d hoped it would. Just had to send him some extra cash. And put him in contact with someone who could get him some extra gear.”

“He’s alright though? He’s not in any trouble?”

“He’s fine. Nothing he can’t handle. I know I said I wouldn’t bother with work stuff until we go back home, but…”

“Sometimes it can’t be helped. It’s the nature of the beast. It isn't the most predictable of careers. I’m glad to see you survived your day out with the spawn. Is your sanity still intact?”

“What was left of it. I don’t know how much I had to begin with.”

“I also noticed all seven AND Alannah made it back. Success.”

“They were good. No trouble. They all behaved themselves. Shockingly.”

“Your feral offspring all behaving at once? Hell must have frozen over.”

He gives a small chuckle, then turns his face into her and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. A frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he pulls back to look at her.

“What’s that look for?”

“Why do you still have your hat on? It’s fucking boiling in here.”

“It’s part of my surprise. I have something to show you.”

“Yeah?” A slow grin begins to spread across his face. “I’ve already seen you naked. Many times. Not that it’s not awesome each time it happens. I’m not complaining.”

“As much as I’d love to just drop my clothes right here and rock your world, it’s something else. I did something. While I was out.”

“New ink?”

“Nope.”

“You got something pierced, didn’t you. Something naughty. Something very naughty.”

“You wish. Those days are long behind me. But it is a surprise. And I want you to promise you won’t freak out. When you see it.”

“How bad is it? Usually when you tell me not to freak out, it’s pretty fucking bad.”

“It’s not bad. It’s just...surprising. You ready?”

“Is it a good thing I’m already sitting down?”

“It’s probably for the best. Turn your chair towards me and close your eyes.”

“Esme…”

“Tyler…”

“What the hell have you done?”

“Just do it. Humour me. Please.”

“Fine.” Turning his back towards the computer, he closes his eyes. “This isn’t where you tell me you want to try pegging is it? Because I thought I’ve already made it perfectly clear that there is no fucking chance of that happening. EVER.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s nothing sexual. Get your mind out the gutter, sheesh.”

“I’m sorry, have we met? It permanently lives in the gutter.”

“Never mind viagra. Maybe they can give you something to calm your dick down.”

“You’d miss it. Don’t deny it. It would hurt you just as much as it would hurt me. Are we going to do this surprise sometime today or…?”

Removing the knit beanie from her head, she tosses it out the desk and then runs her fingers through her hair. She feels naked and exposed; the dark tresses that had once reached the middle of her back now shorn and styled into a side parted, sleek bob that skims her earlobes. “Promise you won’t freak out.”

“I promise I won’t lose my shit.”

“Okay...open them...but remember, no freaking out.”

“I don’t know what the big deal is. If it’s nothing dirty or kinky or piercing of some kind…” His eyes flutter open, then slowly widen as the reality of what’s before him sets in.

“You hate it don’t you.”

“I don’t hate it. I just...wow...that’s...NOT what I was expecting.”

“You do, don’t you. Hate it. I knew you would. You always hate when I do something with my hair. Like when I decided to get bangs.”

“In all fairness, I didn’t hate them. I just wasn’t a fan.”

“But you HATE this? This haircut. You hate it being so short, don’t you.”

“Actually…” he slides the chair closer to her and lays his hands on her hips. “...I love it.”

“Yeah?” A smile replaces the nervous frown. “Really?”

“Really. I wouldn’t lie to you, Me. That’s not who I am. Not anymore, anyway.”

“You sure you like it? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

“I think you look beautiful. It suits you. You got this cute, tiny little face. Your hair shows it off. I really do love it. You look amazing.”

Placing her hands on the sides of his face, she leans down to kiss him. “It was time for a change. Something different. Something I didn’t have to spend hours on when we go out. You’re sure? One hundred percent? You really do love it?”

“I do. You look beautiful.” Laying a palm on the back of her head, he pulls her down into a kiss. And she laughs into his mouth when his free hand latches onto her hip and she loses her balance and topples into him. “You’re beautiful, Me. Always.”

“I really was worried you wouldn’t like it,” she says, as she settles herself sideways on his thighs. “So you’ve made my day. My year, actually.”

“It suits you. You look amazing, baby. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Speaking of making my year, I’m about to make yours.”

“We’re talking about butt stuff, aren’t we.”

“No!” she laughs, and playfully tousles his hair. “I mean, maybe later. When the kids are out.”

“Where are they going? You banishing them to the backyard?”

“Desi offered to take them.”

“All of them?”

“Every last one. Even Alannah. He’s going to take them out for dinner and to Central Park. To see Santa and the reindeer. Maybe do some skating. And then, he’s going to take them to his place. They’re going to have a camp out. In the living room.”

“So we get the house to ourselves? All night?”

“All night,” she confirms. “And well into the morning. You know what that means?”

“Butt stuff.”

She sighs in exasperation. “I means you don’t have to wait until New Years Eve for wild and crazy AND noisy sex with your wife.”

“We might have to tone down the noise. The kids will be right next door. They could still hear us.”

“That’s a fair point. So noisy is out. But wild and crazy are definitely in.”

Tyler grins. “I can do wild and crazy.”

“Oh, I know you can. You’re a master at it. A master at anything sexual, now that I think about it. Man, did I ever luck out. Landing you.”

“I don’t know, I think I’m the lucky one. Girl like you putting up with my shit? You’re one in a million, babe. No doubt about it.”

“I love you,” she says, pressing a kiss to his ear and then nuzzling his temple with the tip of her nose. “More than you could ever know. And thank you. For being you. And for loving me the way you do.”

Smiling, he turns his face into hers and places his lips to her brow; a hand coming up to comb through her hair, palm settling on the nape of her neck. “You’ve made it pretty damn easy.”

[inkblotsandeggshells]

Sorcerers and Sorceresses

Hello again!

After talking with my friend about it, I decided I still had some more to say about sex addiction. Clearly, we’re being pushed to this way of being by our modern culture, but I also notice this coming from the holistic New Age community. The most obvious example, in this regard, would be holistic sex coach Kim Anami, who I talked about in my last post. In contrast to the standard, faster kind of sex that gets referenced in movies and music, Kim Anami wants to teach people to use slower, orgasmic sex as a means to harness energy, which can be utilized to help improve your life. However, Anami claims that this level of personal control through sex cannot be achieved until you become addicted to it. While I can see the appeal for this kind of education, I remained pretty indifferent until I looked deeper into what happens when we fall prey to addictions.

When I was younger, I had thought that things like alcohol and recreational drugs were the things that led to addictions, and as long as you stayed away from those things, you were in the clear. However, we often overlook things like electronics and artificial foods like candy, which can be just as addictive as the more typical harmful substances. In regards to sex, I think it sounds like an attractive thing to be addicted to because it doesn’t necessarily harm your body or cause your teeth to decay. Even so, by becoming addicted to any substance, including orgasmic sex, it can chip away at our identities little by little until we become, as Michael Knowles says, enslaved. We become dependent on it to cope with life and it ends up controlling how we respond to our human experience. Furthermore, an addiction of any kind leaves us vulnerable to be controlled by outside forces.

This is something I became more aware of last year, during a time when I learned how easily people can be used by unseen beings when they relinquish control of themselves. One content creator who gave me a new perspective on this is a young woman named Galatea Van Outersterp, who created the YouTube channel called the Authentic Observer. Even though she creates content about storytelling and fictional works, I think she offers a refreshing perspective on what it looks like when something or someone strives to control the collective. In this way, she also raises the question of how much power we have to resist. She does this through her videos, the primary examples being her two-part video series about the story archetypes of the Sorcerer and the Sorceress. She describes these archetypes as two sides of the same coin. They both aim for absolute power and control, but they work to achieve those goals through different realms of humanity. The sorcerer is the yang aspect of this archetype that focuses on the external realm: the physical plane, the conscious and will. The sorceress is the yin aspect that focuses on the internal realm: the emotional plane, and the subconscious.

We’ll start with the sorcerer archetype. In her opinion, Galatea states that if a character has most, if not all, of these traits, then they can be defined as an evil sorcerer. These traits are as follows: They can see all, or they have eyes everywhere. They manipulate the events of the protagonist and the people around him/her to get the hero to certain places or people. They are extremely arrogant and have massive egos (which can also be their downfall). As a result of this arrogance, they often have a title, because they’re a recognized authority; they also have many followers. They have often given up something essential to humanity to gain their power, whether it’s their soul or just their morality. They often have a non-human physical form, or some kind of deformity to show their loss of humanity. Most importantly, they only desire for power and control, “power above all.”

In regards to Kim Anami teaching students to utilize BDSM in the “Well-F*cked Woman” course, she would frequently use the book “50 Shades of Grey” as a reference for this method and its alleged importance. In some of her stories, she also talks about how some of the men she has been most drawn to in the past are “smarter versions of Christian Grey.” According to Galatea, the way the sorcerer archetype is used in modern day stories is by portraying those archetypal traits through characters like abusive partners. In other words, characters like Christian Grey are definitions of this very archetype.

For example, Galatea lists off the traits of the sorcerer that Mr. Grey exhibits in the books. She observed that “he has a beyond normal ability to know what Anastasia is doing all the time because he stalks her and hacks into her phone. He manipulates not only her, but he’s also a powerful enough to manipulate events and the people around her to get her where he wants her. He’s arrogant in the extreme and believes he��s superior and has the absolute right to exert dominance over the people around him. This is particularly the case for Anastasia, as he wants her to sign his contract against her will. He’s a figure of authority and has many followers (his employees). He has also given up something essential to his humanity to gain his power: the ability to be a good person, respect others, and have healthy relationships. Finally, above everything else, all he wants is total power and control, both of his own world and of Anastasia.”

In contrast, the sorceress archetype primarily rules the internal domain. While this archetype shares similar traits with the sorcerer, Galatea describes the sorceress as primarily wanting to be adored. They use emotions and temptations rather than blatant orders and force. They are also represented by “complete and unbalanced chaos, hysteria, unpredictability and insanity.” They understand people’s deepest desires and control them by dangling these things in front of their faces. This point also gets highlighted in Galatea’s video, where she would describe sorceresses “to generally work more through an understanding of people, through intuition, really understanding people’s deepest desires.”

So the big question is how does the holistic sex practice of Kim Anami relate to the topic of being vulnerable to someone else’s control? How does this topic of orgasmic sex addictions, or addictions of any kind, relate to the archetypes of sorcerers and sorceresses? The purpose of the sorcerer and the sorceress is to show that “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Whether addictions play a role in our lives or not, when we lose the ability to think for ourselves and take control of our response to life, we become susceptible to being controlled by beings such as these. If being “well-f*cked” means becoming attracted to men like this, or even, God forbid, marrying someone like this, than I would rather not reach such a standard at all.

During my conversations about the “Well-F*cked Woman” course with Lee Yun, I often wondered if Kim Anami herself was a sorceress in some ways. In my opinion, it seems that Kim does exhibit a few of the traits: she has hundreds, if not thousands of followers (her clients and coaches-in-training), and you could argue that she gave up part of her humanity through the use of neural therapy injections to change how her body responds to trauma. She sometimes demonstrates arrogant behavior in how she disrespects her partner’s boundaries and openly insults people who are unlike her or think differently from her. In my opinion, she also works within the emotional plane through her marketing strategies to get people to take her courses, buy her tools and practice her methods. Her philosophy in becoming “well-f*cked” feels very confusing, with some conflicting teachings, which you could argue is a reflection of the sorceress’ inclination for chaos. In my previous blog, I explained how this is further demonstrated in her marketing tactics, especially during 2020 when people felt lonelier and desperate for contact during lockdown. In her podcasts, Kim states that the point of her courses isn’t necessarily to use sexual energy to get whatever you want. However, this statement feels very contradictory when you observe how she teaches and how she speaks of her relationships with her partners.

In a different way than the sorcerer archetype, Galatea observes that the sorceress is almost the scarier of the two. Galatea explains that “the truest kind of freedom is freedom over your heart and mind. No one can truly own you if you at least have that, if you’re at least free in your own heart, mind, body and soul. The sorceress wants to take that freedom away. If you aren’t sovereign over yourself, then you don’t have freedom at all, because the sorceress is a jealous mistress, and you can be damn sure she will not allow any room in your heart or mind for anyone but her.”

To conclude, I want to share some quotes from the book “The 21 Lessons of Merlyn” by Douglas Monroe. Since the system of Celtic magic seems to be what I’m naturally inclined to, this is one of first the books Lee Yun recommended for my studies as a witch. Even though the teachings in the book sound outdated for our time, some passages intrigued me in regards to how the Druidic community viewed sex. Specifically, Monroe explains, through his characters, how using sex for gaining power isn’t admired at all among the druids. He states that “the world is full of those who pretend to use sexual union as an instrument of spiritual gain under the guises of ‘soul-love, true fulfillment, destiny’, and many other romanticized notions. But such could never be the case outside of their own minds, as this purely animal behavior belongs to another world altogether, a world that minds such as these cannot pretend to change by wishing it were so.” He goes on to add that “against truth, these people will continue to say that lust elevates them into the world of Magic along with their pleasure; that sex generates a force which may be turned to loftier things. They will continue to confuse the spiritual with the physical, for the sake of convenience.”

By encouraging us to become addicted to orgasmic sex, it seems very likely that the kind of freedom and “healing” Kim Anami offers comes with a serious price. Do I think she herself is a sorceress? I don’t know. She may be one, but I don’t know. Because they work in the subconscious and in the unseen realms, sorceresses can be much more difficult to spot than their male counterparts. However, in my opinion, if she won’t step in to control the collective through addictions��even holistic, orgasmic sex addictions—then someone will. So I encourage you to not give up that inner freedom so easily, because that’s where our real power lies.

[strawberry-skies-xx]

forget the bottle

C H A P T E R    O N E

summary: Jaskier has always felt things on a deeper level than most, and more often, and he has gone through life this way. He has coping mechanisms, of course - drinking, talking, singing, etc. He can't be overwhelmed by his emotions all the time, after all.

After the mountain, Jaskier's coping mechanism is drinking. Turns out, there's something in it, and Nilfgaard knows exactly how to break the songbird.

words: 17097

tags: geralt / jaskier, yennefer, PTSD, post-s1e6, s1e6 fix-it, a fix-it of sorts, pyschological trauma, psychological torture, magical fuckery, mind manipulation, aftermath of psychological torture, emotional/psychological abuse, torture, nilfgaard, captured by nilfgaard, fringilla, fluff and angst, protective yennefer, yennefer ships it, idiots in love, love confessions, happy ending, solitary confinement

author’s note: alright, so here is the zillionth captured-by-nilfgaard fic in this fandom. and, yes, whenever i mention valdo marx + jaskier hate-fucking, i am passive-aggressively yelling at the fandom for not having more of it. it has massive potential, but i don't write smut. (aka, please link me to any amazing top/dom valdo and bottom/sub jaskier hate-fucking, i love it)

scheduled tuesday and thursday posting.

main masterlist | story on ao3 | next chapter >>

-0-0-0-

Jaskier felt too much.

He’d always felt too much. He spent his younger years raging at his parents, raging at the world, though he didn’t know what he was raging at, only that he wanted to get away, be free.

And when he was old enough, he went to Oxenfurt and learned - learned academics, learned the arts, and he flashed through emotions quicker than he did love. The world was new, the world was bright and big and bold and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to carve himself a place in it.

And he did. He went to an inn in Posada and met a white-haired Witcher, and he learned some more. Learned of the darker emotions - not just anger, but revenge, and not just sadness, but despair, oppression. The world was new, still, the world wasn’t quite bright anymore but it was big and bold and Jaskier still wanted to carve himself a place in it, by way of one grumpy, golden-eyed, white-haired Witcher.

So Jaskier went through the world, and he felt. He felt pain lance through him, sharp as any blade - pain of heartbreak, pain of rejection, pain of actual physical wounds. He felt happiness, like warm honey falling gently over him - contentment when he sat by the fire with Geralt and sang into the shadows, joy when he roused an entire tavern into singing and stamping with him and he danced between them all, singing his heart out to the world.

He also felt love, in a more permanent sense than he’d ever felt it. Love was…. a peculiar sensation for him. He fell into love hard, and fast, and deep - both literally and metaphorically; Jaskier did enjoy the finer things in life, and he wasn’t above flirting and taking everyone he met to bed, sometimes at the same time. He adored people, like soft warmth rising in him. Lust was sharp and primal, carnal in its intensity, and Jaskier sharpened it into something intricate, turned it into pretty words and meaningful looks and determined intent.

And he loved, loved with his whole being, loved with his entire heart. Jaskier gave a piece of his heart to everyone he met, and sometimes he took it back after a fleeting infatuation, sometimes it stayed with them and he yearned. Valdo Marx was one of those people - he had loved him as he did anyone, had ended up hating him, but Valdo was not a fleeting love. Jaskier still loved him, even if it was only for their sharp back-and-forths and the truly mind-blowing hate sex they had occasionally - Valdo knew him better than anyone, except for Geralt.

Geralt was different. For Jaskier, love shot through him like a lightning bolt - or, Cupid’s arrow. Sometimes it went out the other end and left, sometimes it stuck and bled and scarred. With Geralt, it had shot through him like any other person, except it had stuck, it hadn’t bled, and it hadn’t scarred. Jaskier loved Geralt, and he was never so selfless that he never wanted more of him despite having what he already did, but if he was truly forced to choose, Jaskier would have been perfectly content with the life he led with the Witcher, would have suffered through the pain of pining after him if he got to stay.

Jaskier hadn’t chosen, though. Geralt had chosen for him, and he had decided that he didn’t need him, didn’t want him, and Jaskier had granted him his oh so desired blessing, and left.

Heartbreak felt like needles, stabbing him, over and over and over, in multiple places, and when he thought it was done, he’d see something and he’d be pricked again, it would draw blood.

Jaskier had grown very good at coping with his feelings - he couldn’t go through life being overwhelmed by all of his emotions. He did this in all manners of ways - writing songs and singing them, putting on the optimistic act to simultaneously let out emotions while hiding others, and talking, constantly. One of his better - or, well, quite unhealthy but very effective - coping mechanisms was drinking, which was what he was currently using on the heartbreak needling at him.

He stared into the tankard of ale, which tasted more like piss than actual ale, and sighed. Even the damn ale reminded him of Geralt.

Maybe the Cupid’s arrow for Geralt had started bleeding. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it would scar.

He groaned and dumped coins on the table, ignoring the flirtatious looks some women were giving him. He would have accepted it at any other time, would have lost himself in pleasure, but he felt slightly dizzy and he wanted nothing more than to find someplace to sleep, without practically selling his body for it. He didn’t have enough coin for a room, so he’d have to sleep out in the woods. Which, dammit, was just like he used to do with Geralt. Minus the Witchery protection now, of course.

Jaskier’s head was thoroughly spinning by the time he got out of the inn, and he knew something was wrong. He was drugged, he knew what it felt like to be drugged, having been enough times that Geralt actually berated him for having to rescue him. He ran through in his head what drug it could be, landed distantly on the salty taste of the ale, and cursed under his breath. Or, maybe it was a curse. Jaskier’s head was too fuzzy to figure out whether it came out as an actual word or as incoherent noises.

He saw shadows out of the corner of his eye - black, large, vaguely terrifying considering the way he stumbled and couldn’t think straight. He was caught by two strong arms, Geralt flashing quickly through his mind before a voice that was decidedly not Geralt whispered in his ear, smooth and cruel.

“Hey, little songbird,” not-Geralt said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier replied. Or didn’t. He didn’t know, his head was spinning and he felt a headache pounding and his limbs were growing slow and heavy, and the darkness dragged him down all too easily.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier woke up cold, and shivering, and very, very confused. He was laying on his side on a stone floor, feeling like he had been dunked in ice water - which, maybe he had, because his hair was dripping wet still and plastered to his face. His hands were behind his back, and at an experimental tug, they were tied together too. He wore nothing but his pants, and his bare shoulder pressed against the cold stone.

Jaskier cursed, both from his situation which had rapidly come back to him, and the very annoying strands of wet hair that had decided to plant themselves directly in his eye, and managed to roll himself onto his back with some effort. He lifted his head as much as he could and shook his hair out of his face, trying very hard to ignore the feeling of it plastered to his cheeks, his neck, just all over the place. He took the brief time to berate whoever had kidnapped him on hair care - honestly, did no one know how to dry hair? He liked to keep his hair soft and this was decidedly not the way to do it.

Of course, none of this was what he believed. He was ignoring the fear crawling up in him, feeling like spiders and making his skin itch, feeling like ice trickling down his spine and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. If he focused on anything other than the fear, then he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. It couldn’t do anything.

Jaskier rolled himself back on his side in order not to crush his hands beneath him, and after a long, heated moment spent mentally berating whoever had kidnapped him, again, on the best positions for singing, he actually started singing. The lecture went on, still - every time his voice cracked very much not artfully, or every time he couldn’t pull in enough breath, he took a second to come up with some particularly creative insult in his head about calling him songbird and then prohibiting his ability to sing.

He ignored the feeling of spiders crawling over him and the feeling of ice trickling down his spine.

It was an undetermined amount of time, measured only by the fact that Jaskier got through eight songs verbally before he started shivering uncontrollably, and six songs mentally before the door opened and a woman in blue robes and two men in black Nilfgaardian armor strode in.

He gave a dry laugh, ignoring the spiders crawling and the ice trickling. “Nice of you to stop by,” he said. “You know, it’s a bit contradictory when you call me songbird and then put me in a position like this, which is very much not conducive to singing, let me tell you.”

The woman in blue robes smiled and walked forward. She reached behind him and tugged harshly on the ropes tying his arms, pulling him into a kneeling position, before yanking him up to stand. Jaskier met her dark eyes, sensed the crackling undercurrent of magic around her, and supposed that this was Nilfgaard’s mage. Or one of them, at least.

She held his gaze for a long moment, searching, before letting go. “Untie him,” she said, turning around and standing several paces back as the Nilfgaardian soldiers descended on him.

Jaskier stood still, finding his heart suddenly pounding and adrenaline racing through him. This was his chance - he could try to escape now.

The ropes dropped from his arms and he lashed out, landing a right hook in one of the soldier’s jaws and aiming for another in the other soldier, when the entire room popped and Jaskier found himself slammed into by a wave of magic. His back hit the stone wall hard, knocking the breath out of him, and he gasped, arching. The sorceress walked forward, cruel emptiness in her eyes, watching him like he was a bug pinned to a board. Which, he supposed he was.

He was always a bug pinned to a board, poked and prodded and seen as amusing by Geralt and Yennefer and now this damned mage. Gods, Jaskier hated being human.

“Don’t struggle,” she said, voice oddly serene. “It’ll only be worse for you.”

Jaskier scoffed, rolled his eyes and studiously ignored the fear threatening to overtake him. Sometimes feeling too much was a blessing, sometimes it was a curse. Right now, it was a curse.

“Why? So I can become your puppet and you can do whatever you’d like to me? I’d be flattered you think of me that way, if this wasn’t a kidnapping,” he retorted sharply. The mage laughed, amused, and Jaskier tugged against his invisible bonds. Something in him wanted to cry at the fact that they didn’t even deem it necessary to tie him up, he was so weak and human.

The mage didn’t respond - not to his question, anyway. Instead, she raised two fingers to trace along his jaw. “It’s better to get this over with now,” she said.

Jaskier paled, felt the fear rising in him. “Get what over with? I’d rather you don’t-“

Her fingers landed on his forehead and his sentence ended with a scream. He arched against the invisible bonds, feeling the searing heat crawl into his mind, flood it with lava, with blood and pain and misery. She dissected his memories, sharply cleaving through every defense he had, and he felt the magic ripping through his body harshly, tearing through his mind.

Jaskier slid into the wooden seat, bread shifting uncomfortably in his waistband - but that wasn’t important. What was important was the lack of a review, the golden eyes staring flatly at him and the two long, sharp, menacing swords sitting beside the man.

“Come on, you must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

“No,” he gasped. “Don’t- please don’t-“

He screamed again as she ripped through another of his memories, feeling tears start in his eyes and the feeling of fear inch up his spine, waiting for the opportunity to get past his defenses and overtake him.

“How’s my singing, Geralt?” Jaskier asked loudly, because oh he wanted to have this conversation. He was quite heartbroken from the Countess de Stael’s rude break off of their relationship, and he thought spending a good long while defending his singing with a loud, unrestrained sarcasm he hadn’t been able to use since he entered the Countess’s court would make him feel better. There was something freeing about being with Geralt, not having to tiptoe around the darker and dirtier things in life.

Jaskier gasped through the pain, shaking against the wall, mouth now opening wordlessly as he arched and the mage tore into memory after memory, pulling everything he ever felt, thought, said, did, into full view, forcing white hair and golden eyes into the forefront of his mind. She learned he felt too much, she learned he loved too much, she learned of the frankly embarrassing number of times he hate-fucked Valdo Marx.

And she learned he loved Geralt with a love more permanent than anything he’d ever felt before.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The agony ended with that line echoing in his head and he fell limp against the magic holding him to the wall, gasping for breath and still feeling the echoes of the searing pain ripping through his head.

The mage was entirely unconcerned, standing and waiting with a blank look on her face until Jaskier caught his breath and sent her a glare. He growled - which, of course made him think of Geralt. Damn the fucking Witcher who stole his heart. “Are you done? Learned anything useful?” he snarled, truly not giving a fuck about whether he angered her and made it worse.

She traced her fingers along his jaw again, sliding them beneath his chin and raising his head, lowering herself down to look him in the eyes. “Oh, songbird. We learned so much. I'm going to enjoy breaking you.”

Jaskier felt the fear rise up in him, felt his breaths start to come shorter and tears fill his eyes, and forcefully shoved it down. He couldn’t let his emotions overwhelm him.

“Why do you want me?” he asked, uselessly. He knew why they wanted him - and he knew he couldn’t give them the answers they wanted. Geralt had discarded him.

The mage released his chin and stood up, not responding. Jaskier watched as she stepped back, flicked her fingers, and suddenly Jaskier fell hard to the floor. He gasped when the cold shocked through him, and the mage walked to the door with the soldiers. She turned back at him when he raised his head to look at her.

“The Witcher has something we want,” she replied, and turned and left. The door slammed loudly behind her and the soldiers.

Jaskier was left alone in the darkness, and the sudden drain of adrenaline from the mage ripping through his mind left him exhausted. He resisted the urge to cry; he kept up the dying hope that Geralt would save him, or he would escape, because they were the only things keeping back the flood of fear, and he knew if the fear and emotions overtook him then he would break.

For now, he curled up on the cold floor and let his eyes close, succumbing to the deep exhaustion and letting sleep take him.

-0-0-0-

The mage introduced herself as Fringilla, and the next time she came in there were the same two soldiers with her. Jaskier had searched his cell when he woke up feeling marginally better, though still freezing cold, and found nothing - it was pitch dark, so he couldn’t see, but he had felt every inch with his hands and there was absolutely nothing that would help him escape. He could barely find the door in the darkness.

The bright light blinded him and he covered his eyes as Fringilla and the soldiers walked in. He glared at them, backed away when the soldiers came up to him. They reached out and Jaskier laughed harshly, ducking out from under their arms. “Nope, no, I am not letting you touch me.”

Fringilla sighed impatiently as Jaskier kept dodging the soldiers, who did nothing more than walk steadily after him in the small space. He hated this, hated that he was trapped and couldn’t do anything other than run three feet from the soldiers and make himself look weak by prolonging it. They still hadn’t deemed him a threat enough to tie him up, for fuck’s sake.

Jaskier would have enjoyed taking apart that delusion, if he wasn’t freezing cold, half-naked, outnumbered, and with no weapon to speak of. He uselessly avoided the soldiers for several more minutes, until even he was growing bored of the game, and the only thing that Fringilla needed to do was raise her hand before Jaskier was stopping, freezing like a deer in headlights, fear flashing through him. The soldiers took that opportunity and slammed him against the wall, hands pinning his arms and legs in place.

Jaskier wondered if the display of sheer power against him was intentional, deeming him too weak for chains or ropes, but Fringilla smiled in such a way that it was instantly confirmed and Jaskier bit back his noise of annoyance. It was truly insulting, and hit something deeper in Jaskier that was still fighting, that kept up hope. He figured that was the point - if they could restrain him so easily now, what was the point of fighting? It would only be worse.

“Love,” Fringilla said, and Jaskier felt his stomach drop and his body go cold. If Nilfgaard wanted to break him, they certainly knew how to do it.

“It’s a peculiar thing, isn’t it? So volatile. It’s the only thing us mages can’t predict,” Fringilla continued, voice low.

Jaskier glared at her. “Shame. Thought you mages were all-powerful,” he snarked. Fringilla only looked amused.

“However,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “we can use it to our advantage.” And, yeah, that’s definitely not good for Jaskier, who squirmed just at the thought of what they could do to him regarding Geralt - because that was the only person he truly loved, really.

She raised her fingers, intent in her dark eyes, and Jaskier barely had time to protest, fear shooting through him, before cool magic washed over him like ice water, and he sank into darkness.

He saw the light first - saw the mountains in the distance, felt the clothes covering his back. Heard Geralt and Yennefer arguing below, saw Borch sitting on the ledge - and oh, fuck, this was the dragon hunt, he realized with a jolt of panic.

“Like fuck you didn’t,” came Geralt’s irritated voice, and Jaskier’s heart hurt just hearing it. He stood up, or, well, he tried to. There was a magical force pulling him down, forcing him to stay in the body of the Jaskier in his memories, the one who sat on the rock, and walked over, and then walked away. He wanted to cry, again, because he knew how this turned out and he could already feel the heartbreak needling at his skin, the pain of rejection lancing through him. He remembered how his dreams shattered like glass, and he cut himself on the sharp edges of them as he walked away.

He stood up, walked over once Yennefer left. Spoke without wanting to, felt the insistent magic tugging at him. “Whew,” he said. “What a day. I imagine you’re probably-“

“Dammit, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted sharply, whirling around to face him, and Jaskier felt the needles of heartbreak start pricking him, stabbing and drawing blood. He was stuck in his memory’s body, though, so he was forced to listen, feeling the tug of Fringilla’s magic on his voice, on his body.

Geralt’s eyes were hard, burning with anger as he continued. “Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?”

“Well, that’s not fair,” Jaskier replied, voice soft. It was just as painful the second time as it was the first, and back in the dark, cold cell, Jaskier was resisting the urge to cry. He didn’t want to relive this, it was too much for him to handle.

“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it! ” Geralt’s voice was harsh, everything about him was harsher and sharper and Jaskier was cutting himself on it, he was practically bleeding out with the force of the heartbreak ripping through him. He sang so many songs about Geralt, about him not being a monster, and Jaskier fought against the negative things said about Geralt with everything he had, but some dark, selfish part of himself whispered that maybe Geralt really was the monster everyone thought he was. He was certainly acting the part right now, hurting Jaskier in the most efficient, effective way possible. Jaskier was wrong when he said Geralt didn’t know how to use the blade of his words as effectively as steel and silver.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Sharp pain lanced through him and Jaskier woke up gasping, laying on the cold floor. The cell was dark; Fringilla and the soldiers were long gone. Jaskier was alone.

Jaskier shoved down the tears, shoved down the fear and heartbreak and emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Crying was not one of his coping mechanisms. Drinking was, talking was, singing was. Not crying, never crying. Jaskier would not show weakness.

Well, he couldn’t drink. He had two options. Singing or talking. There weren’t many songs to sing that weren’t about Geralt - and he had just been painfully reminded of how he felt about him, thank you very much. So he curled up in a weak defense against the cold, and in a quiet, cracking, whisper of a voice, started to talk.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier had fallen asleep in the middle of some sentence about geography, some passage he had memorized from a textbook when he was at Oxenfurt. He didn’t remember it now; didn’t need to. All he remembered now was the surge of fear as the cell door opened and Fringilla and two soldiers walked in. Jaskier looked up, too exhausted to think about physically fighting as they dragged him up from his position on the floor.

He did fight verbally, though, if only because talking to someone to fight off his emotions was better than talking to himself. “In the old stories, the knights swept the princesses off of their feet,” he said. The soldiers started pulling him towards the door - he had a vague hope of escaping, though he felt like shit because he was being starved and really had to piss. “Does that make me the princess?”

Fringilla gave her signature, idly amused smile, the one that reminded Jaskier just how much he was a bug pinned to a board and surrounded by immortals who didn’t care for him. “You’re a bard, and nothing more. The place we’re taking you is not from the old stories.”

Jaskier frowned. “Shame. Oh, speaking of being a bard, why do you even keep me here? You already rifled through my mind, you saw Geralt abandon me. You know I don’t know where he is, or what he has that you want.”

Fringilla didn’t look bothered. “You’re still useful. You know the Witcher better than anyone else, you can tell us where he would go next. His patterns of behavior, the way he thinks. The best way we can ambush him. Or, if not, you’re good for bait.”

Jaskier laughed, and the sound was harsh and mocking. “He won’t come for me,” he said bitterly. “You’re delusional if, after looking at that memory, you think he would come back for me. He doesn’t care whether I live or die.”

Fringilla smiled. “You’re right. He doesn’t care about you, and he won’t come back. Whether you help us find the Witcher or not, bard, you’re still ours.”

It came so easily, so certainly, that Jaskier deflated in the soldier’s arms, staring at Fringilla with a sort of blank horror. She had looked through his memories, had seen everything he’d seen, and she was able to say with such smooth certainty that Geralt wouldn’t come back for him, and he was Nilfgaard’s now. It hit the same part of him that it had when they had so easily restrained him, the deeper part of him that glowed gold with hope even as the rest of him withered and broke.

They stopped in front of a simple wooden door that Fringilla opened to reveal a room with a tub, toilet, and sink. Jaskier turned to the sorceress. “You’re giving me time to clean myself up?” he asked incredulously. “Doesn’t that go against, you know… everything about torture?”

Fringilla smiled again, but there was something darker in it. Jaskier resisted the urge to shiver at the dark promise hidden in her tone and smile. “You’re going to need it, bard. You won’t come back here for a long time.”

Jaskier felt the dread rise in him, like being touched by ice, and the fear. He nodded, staying quiet, and went into the room, flinching when the door slammed and locked behind him.

An hour later, the door was opened and the two soldiers came to get him, just as he finished using the bathroom. Jaskier sighed. “I’m guessing you won’t pamper me as much anymore?”

Fringilla smiled in the same dark way when the soldiers pulled Jaskier through the hallways. “No.”

They got closer, and Jaskier thought he was immune, he thought he was still strong, but he thought of the pure darkness of the cell and the cold air and the sheer loneliness, and started struggling when he saw the metal door at the end of the hallway. The fear was threatening to overtake him, his breaths came shorter and his voice rose an octave.

“Are you really sure you want to put me in there?” he asked, while pulling against the soldiers, who forcefully manhandled him down the hallway. His heart was picking up, and dammit he shouldn’t be this affected after two fucking days, but here he was. Nilfgaard had better torture tactics than they were given credit for - Jaskier had a bitter feeling that the reliving the hardest, most painful ten minutes of his life factored into the reason why he was so scared. “I’m sure there’s another option, something much less… well, dark and cold.”

“Will you answer our questions?” Fringilla asked.

“No,” Jaskier replied automatically. He wouldn’t give up that easily, no matter how terrifying the cell was.

Fringilla opened the door and the soldiers threw him in. He landed hard on the stone, still in only a pair of pants because that was all the clothes he was given in the bathroom, and he barely had time to watch the sliver of light be sliced away by the door slamming before he was left in pitch darkness, the cold air already seeping into him.

Jaskier sat up and leaned against the wall. He sighed, very firmly refusing the urge to cry, and stared into the darkness. He couldn’t even see the edges of the room, for fuck’s sake.

He let out a breath that definitely wasn’t at all shaky, tilted his head back against the wall, and started to sing - about everything and anything, because he couldn’t give a fuck about whether the songs were about Geralt if it meant he was distracted from the pain of knowing this was all he would see for gods knows how long. After all, it was just another emotion to add to the pile, wasn’t it? Nilfgaard wouldn’t care if he broke down - fuck, they wanted him to break down. Some dark part of him wondered if it would be easier to break down, stop fighting; it was only exhausting him anyway.

“When a humble bard, graced a ride along…”

[starberry-cupcake]

It’s the end of Aro Week and I decided to throw caution to the wind and talk about something that can potentially be a polarizing topic. I’m putting it on read-more not only because of length but also because in 2020 this blog turns 10 years of age and I’ve learned to leave a window open for retreat when it comes to Opinions, so I don’t know how long I’ll dare to have this up. 

This is going to be about the aroace experience, fandom, ships, representation, fanservice, amatonormativity, allosexual normativity and transformative fanwork. 

So, basically, a minefield, so tread with care. 

Since the dawn of fandom time, there has been an aspect of it that is known (nowadays) as transformative. There are studies, dissertations and essays about this, and most if not all agree on the fact that the portion of fandom that is transformative tends to belong to the less represented portion of it in the media they consume. 

It’s mostly people whose identities are rarely represented those who tend to transform, making a space in their favorite pieces of media for themselves and others. That has, in tow, created a scene in which authors and content creators are born within fandom and get exposed to these types of content and reproduce them as well.

The cornerstone of transformative fandom, to the point of being one of the main organizational elements in fandom-driven platforms, are ships. And when someone mentions the word “ship”, it most often comes with the added non-said descriptive of “romantic” and “sexual” attached to it. 

Now, like I said, a lot of those who are involved in transformative fandom tend to go for less represented types of identities, and heteronormativity tends to be questioned often. Sometimes, it is legitimately for representation purposes, sometimes it’s for objectifying reasons. 

On the other hand, in the media-creating sphere, there is a thing known as “baiting”. This word is used when pieces of media hint towards non het relationships that end up not coming to fruition. 

This issue has reached paragons of shamelessness with creators using fandom for their own purposes, like making a series win an award, getting renewed or gathering numbers in cons, to then turn against the same portion of fandom by banning transformative fandom from cons, meet and greets and having actors and crew members publicly shame fanfiction or fanart. It became serious shit. 

This, in tow, brought another problem. Baiting (and what used to be considered “queer-coding”) started becoming an immediate red flag for people, a warning to whether getting engaged or not with a piece of media. 

In the mostly legitimate pitchfork and torches march against baiting, canonically aroace characters were caught in the fire, and queerplatonic relationships suffered the price of not fitting in the amatonormative and allosexual normative space fandom created. 

It’s a standard for fandom that one of the most necessary reasons for transformative work, for fanfiction mostly, is to make characters confess the love they never did confess on screen/page and, most often than not, fuck each other senseless as a sort of “necessary guarantee of their bond”. Consummation, if you will. 

Statistically speaking, explicit fics tend to be much more popular than non explicit ones and romantic relationships are what move the main search engines of fanfic platforms. 

Headcanon-wise, anyone can do what they want. If a character is interpreted one way or another, that’s not for anyone to police. 

With aroace characters, though, it’s a bit tricky, because it’s incredibly rare the amount of times a character is explicitly in the spectrum, and any evidence you can gather, which isn’t outright hearing it, is a lack of something. 

A lack that fandom interprets in another way. 

You can have a character be sexually attracted and romantically attracted to another and have that be enough for an audience to understand their orientation, to an extent, but an aroace character seems to have to explicitly state it because the lack of romance or sex in their narratives will be interpreted by fandom as “incomplete”. 

It’s more frequent for fandom to interpret a character who is not in a romantic or sexual relationship as “lacking” it and “fix” it in fic than for it to be headcanoned as aroace. 

An adjacent issue happens with this and the old notion of “queer-coding”. Audiences tend to sometimes interpret that lack as the incapacity for a media creator to explicitly state that the character is homosexual. 

The unintended consequence of years of coding, baiting and censorship of non het relationships in media was the invisibilization of relationships canonically in the aroace spectrum. 

For example, the first reaction to Elsa from Frozen not having a romantic relationship in the movie was that she was an amatonormative and allosexual lesbian rather than somewhere in the aroace spectrum. Not that there aren’t a myriad of overlaying possibilities between the two things, but you get my point. 

The lacking, the incompleteness that fandom most often sees in characters is filled in, most often than not, with gay romantic and sexual relationships, as a result of the years of queer-coding in media. You know, the good ol’ “if she doesn’t have a boyfriend, she must be a lesbian” stance. Fandom is, sometimes, like a family dinner with a 60+ year old uncle. 

This is a problem because it creates, within fandom, instances of tug of war between two under-represented factions who both deserve the due representation and which sometimes, very often, overlay in the same people, who fall in both spectrums. It creates arguments and fights for one or other character between the two, as if they were mutually exclusive at all times.  

I recently came across different levels of discourse and comments on two pieces of media for this reason, in two different sides. 

One concerned Mackenzi Lee’s A Lady’s Guide To Petticoats & Piracy, in which the lead is aroace and there is a girl who is romantically attracted to her and there is a hint of a potential qp relationship. After reading it I found in some review spaces opinions that considered the author hadn’t “gone all the way” with it, as if it was “cop out” for a potential lesbian romance, taking into account that the first volume of the series was centered on an mlm relationship, which gave people certain expectations.

The opposite happened in the webcomic Go Get A Roomie, in which a female lead character who seemed to be aroace for years ended up in a romantic and sexual relationship with the protagonist and there isn’t so far much of a descriptive of where her identity lied to begin with, but with some meaningful conversations that seemed to imply the spectrum after having suffered trauma. And this can be perceived as a sort of “deception” and to the problematic notion of aroace-ness as a “treatable phase”. 

Both stories are valid. Both roads towards self-discovery are valid. There isn’t an immediate denial of the spectrum for one or other possibility and both narratives are experiences that happen to people, even maybe the same people at different times in their lives. 

But the two happen to include female relationships and boy are those underrepresented. Like I said, it isn’t that both things can’t overlay in a myriad of places, Lillian could be a demisexual demiromantic, for all I know, Sim could be homoromantic and asexual, we don’t know the specifics. 

It’s likely and valid to have a gut reaction when you think you’re being represented and then you’re not entirely. And that’s understandable. But it’s a pity that we have tugs of war for scraps of representation. 

So, on the one hand, with headcanons, we tend to get fandom fights, most often than not between underrepresented identities, because we’re fighting for the little there is, when in reality we should be uplifting each other...but anyway, moving on. 

That’s all in the realm of interpretation, up until the moment the author makes the characters explicitly make choices and take action. That’s someone having a headcanon because of things the piece of media was doing and then having it proven right or wrong, or never having it proved at all. 

The other thing, where it gets nasty, is when fandom “fixes” canonically aroace characters. This is also incredibly frequent, most often than not with mlm ships, or what fandom considers mlm ships. 

One of the nastiest last year was the Good Omens debacle. 

Neil stated that Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t “homosexual men” because they weren’t “men” and they weren’t sexual beings (the whole “making an effort” thing that explicit fic writers like to latch onto). Neil also said they love each other, however that wants to be interpreted, opening it up enough for it to be platonic or romantic or anything you want. 

Fic writers have written more GO fics in the last year than ever probably, because of the show, and they’ve experimented with a lot of places of the spectrum. I’m not here to judge anyone because a GO fic was my favorite ace explicit fic I’ve read, so interpretations can be fascinating, I’m all here for them.  

The problem arose when people (mostly cis het women) on social media (mostly twitter) started calling Neil a homophobe for not making them pretty much fuck on screen or explicitly state that they were fucking offscreen in canon. 

That’s where we need to draw a line and reevaluate our life choices. 

I can’t count the amount of posts, tweets and reactions I saw rejecting the possibility of Aziraphale and Crowley not being a) cis men and b) allosexual. The two things created a gutted reaction, to the point that you have to consider the nature and intended result of those comments and, in that case, who’s being an intolerant asshole. 

There was a point in time in which fake woke rep discourse became the excuse for people to demand fanservice from creators, especially in the cis het women + mlm media overlay, and this is a problem. We need to separate the discourses, we need to figure out why we’re here and what we’re demanding. 

Another similar example I saw recently, yet less overwhelming, was with Banana Fish and the queerplatonic relationship between Ash and Eiji in canon. 

I came into BF later than most, but when I read the epilogue manga I found one of the earliest descriptions of a qp relationship I’ve seen, and there were a lot of interesting comments made by the author and other people interviewing her about why sex was never a part of their dynamic and how the bond they had was more of soulmates than romantic lovers and why it was meaningful all the same. 

Still, even if the author doesn’t, Banana Fish is considered among the key “BL” animated series of the last few years, alongside stuff like Doukyuusei, Yuri On Ice, Given, etc. And fandom likes to “fix” that “lack of” situation often, apparently. 

This case isn’t as feral as GO but it is, however, deceptive. Coming into BF I never would have guessed their relationship was to be qp because fandom let me believe it wasn’t. 

And, in this case, the author explicitly stated that this was her intention, this was the story she wanted to tell, it wasn’t her adjusting to censorship or having to code her characters, it was, at heart, what we now can consider a qp relationship. 

And, in all of these cases, in which there are aroace characters or relationships involved, or at least somewhere in the aro spectrum or the ace spectrum or both, there’s one main issue behind it: the lack of belief that relationships that aren’t romantic and sexual can be crucial. 

That they can be storytelling worthy.  

In media-creating and in fanwork-creating, it seems to be the norm to have an endgame romance, or at least for romance to be a key part of your content. It’s the expected box to tick for a fulfilling story, it seems, and the lack of it is the “problem” fandom likes to “fix” the most. 

This is also mirrored in the platforms we use. There is a lack of possibility to tag qp relationships as something separated in ao3: the / is for romantic/sexual relationships and the & is for all-encompassing platonic relationships (described by the guidelines as family, teammates, friends, etc.). In order to write a qp relationship you have to tag it & as per guidelines but you have to add another descriptor because you’re not writing family or teammates, and in the case of fandom-polarizing ships, it can be a problem. 

And all of this influences us as creators, to the point that it’s easier to write something we’ve never experienced, like romantic attraction, than it is to write without it, because we’ve heard the romantic stories all the time, we’ve grown up reading them, and we’ve learned that no kudos will come to your fic if you don’t have them in there, because it’s that / what’s gonna move the search engines towards your stuff. 

Maybe, hopefully, with time and more media around us, we’ll learn different ways of exploring transformative fanwork. Maybe while knowing ourselves and others, we’ll start believing that a lack of romantic relationships doesn’t necessarily mean someone was “too much of a coward to not make these two explicitly x or y”. 

Maybe we’ll learn to coexist because, after all, some of these things coexist within our own spectrums sometimes, and it’d be nice to see the capacity for us to not fight for the scraps of rep that media throws at us but be able to understand each other and ourselves enough to create the media that we need. 

[anexplanationofunfortunateevents]

Spooky Stories at Camp Quarantine: The Tale of the Swift Boat

Campfire story (n): a ritual where we all sit under the vast darkness of a midnight sky and tell ourselves a story about the big, scary monster that isn’t lurking just out of sight. You know. Probably.

2004 was a dark and stormy year.

The world pulsed with the still-raw trauma of the September 11 attacks. It was an anxious year of denial and bargaining, a desperate search for the loophole after Sirius Black fell through the veil. The twentieth century was dying and the third millennium was struggling to be born. It was the time of the Swift Boat.

The Usurper Bush the Lesser was in a tough place. If you were paying attention, you could see the signs that his stolen presidency was going to end in disaster and disgrace. And it was an election year, so people were about to start paying attention. So he took a lesson from his dear old Dad: he would unleash the hired help to unload a relentless fusillade of lies against his opponent.

Lying was an important part of the strategy because he was up against a strong challenger. John Kerry of Massachusetts was one of the most liberal Democrats in the Senate; he was also a tall, fit, well-educated, impeccably diplomatic, Irish Catholic patrician who didn’t challenge anyone’s idea of what a president looked like. He talked like Barack Obama and looked like Mitt Romney. He was allowed to get pneumonia without anyone losing their goddamn minds, that’s how white and manly he was.

Most critically, though, he seemed to have almost unique standing to campaign against the Bush administration’s spectacular failure in Iraq. At the time, Republicans had – cynically, but effectively – made themselves synonymous with The Troops. Anyone who questioned their lies or challenged their reckless foreign policy was axiomatically discredited as “hating the troops.” Kerry, however, was A Troop, with a track record of telling the hard truth about an unjustified war. He had earned five medals in Vietnam and then used that moral authority to call for an end to the bloodshed. His service gave him a way to connect to a massive group of voters for whom the war had been a generational trauma – and it was a strong contrast to Bush, who had used his wealth and family connections to dodge the draft.

Enter the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth. This was a group of Vietnam veterans who, in mid-2004, collectively realized that Kerry had lied about his heroism, hoodwinked the military into giving him an award, not once but five times, and successfully covered up his perfidy for thirty-odd years, despite having been scrutinized by Massachusetts voters and press in half a dozen statewide elections. This fantastical tale was largely spun by Jerome Corsi, now known for spreading birtherism (the racist conspiracy theory that former President Obama was not an American citizen), narrowly escaping prosecution by special prosecutor Robert Mueller, and, most recently, hawking Trump’s favorite quack coronavirus cure. They were, naturally, bankrolled by obscenely wealthy Bush supporters.

Maybe these Swift boat veterans were purposefully lying; maybe they were sad old men whose trauma was manipulated by right-wing propagandists. But they did what they were supposed to do. Kerry’s campaign lost its footing and never quite got it back. Instead of being able to challenge Bush’s lies about about the war in Iraq that was happening at the time, he was stuck on the defensive against Bush’s lies about the Vietnam war, which had ended decades before. In one retrospectively critical moment of priming the conservative base for Donald “I like the people who weren’t captured” Trump, delegates at the Republican convention wore silly purple heart bandaids to mock the wounds Kerry received in combat.

We know how that ended. Bush won the popular vote by around 2%, which back in the day actually used to be enough to win the election. Thus, ISIS rose and New Orleans drowned.

The thing is, the bad guys don’t actually forget the past as easily as they hope you do. When a play works, they run it again. When a play almost works, they run it again but better. When a play doesn’t immediately work, it still rallies the right-wing base and softens up the general public for their authoritarian politics of lies and abuse, so they keep it in their back pocket. So we should probably try to understand the specific elements that made the Swift boat propaganda campaign particularly effective.

Imagine you’re an amoral Republican candidate and I’m your mercenary sociopath of a campaign manager. I’ve just said, “look, you’re getting your ass kicked, we’re going to have to swiftboat your opponent” and you’re like “what’s a swiftboat? Write me a memo!” So, here it is. (You may be thinking “but you don’t know anything about me, and I’d never be a Republican candidate for anything!” Lesson the first: it doesn’t matter, because your swiftboat attack has nothing to do with you.) 

A swiftboat attack is bullshit. We like to think the truth is the most effective political weapon, but what if there really aren’t any disqualifying skeletons in your opponent’s closet? If you’re going to sabotage them anyway, that’s kind of liberating. After all, true stories depend on facts, which can be too boring to stick with people, and don’t have made-to-spec story arcs that conveniently fit with your campaign’s themes. Plus, if you’re relying on some actual truth that exists in the universe, you’re running the risk that there’s some mitigating factor out there, some witness who can give different context or a wronged party who can say they’ve buried the hatchet. Worse, your opponent already knows about stuff they actually did. Campaigns do a ton of background research into their own candidates, specifically so that they’re prepared for a predictable attack. They can’t prepare themselves for literally anything your army of political strategists can imagine, so you will always have the element of surprise.

Swiftboating isn’t an attack on your opponent’s policy. It’s an accusation that they’ve violated some taboo. There’s some sticky detail that people won’t quite be able to forget, even if they are exposed to the eventual debunking. The story, whatever it is, should be most upsetting to a large, important block of voters who are inclined to support your opponent.

The allegations don’t come from you, your campaign, or even a sympathetic journalist. They’re laundered through apparent private citizens who are part of a group of people that the general public tends to find sympathetic. This makes your story seem more credible to at first glance, wrong-foots anyone who wants to defend your opponent against the allegations, and lets you get credit for insincerely denouncing the attack while continuing to benefit from it.

This is a dick-swinging exercise, so be shameless. You’re not just putting your opponent in their place by showing you can get away with lying about them, and maddeningly rejecting responsibility for your lies. You’re showing off an authoritarian contempt for truth itself.

You need a relentless multimedia assault, impossible for people to miss. You might have to bully legitimate media into teaching the controversy, but they’re wimps. You’re not trying to convince most people that this specific story is true, you’re just trying to plant some seeds of doubt, and to sap time and enthusiasm from your opponent and their supporters. Make the election as miserable as possible and voters will reward you for it.

The most important thing is that you want your swiftboat attack to be on some area where you have a real liability and your opponent has a real strength. You want them to have to defend themselves on something they should get to use as a selling point. Even better, you neutralize a totally fair criticism of yourself – no matter how accurate they are or how ridiculous you sound, the press will dismiss it as “both sides point fingers.”

Kerry’s campaign gets used as some kind of object lesson about the futility of primary voters trying to pick a candidate they think will win: “Kerry was supposed to be electable and Kerry lost, so there.” (You’ve probably heard the even stupider cover version, “if Hillary was so electable, why’d she let herself get targeted by all those criminal conspiracies, HMMMM?”) This is 20/20 hindsight spiked with the just world fallacy. John Kerry seemed like a good candidate because he was, in fact, a good candidate, which is why he did significantly better expected, and he came pretty close to beating the odds. If there’s a lesson here, maybe it’s that swiftboating can keep a clearly electable candidate from being elected.

That’s a real buzzkill because it means we can’t treat the primaries like a round of playoffs where we root for the most exciting player and then kick back to watch the finals. But what it lacks in self-gratification, it makes up for with agency. If a swiftboat attack is supposed to affect how people respond to a candidate, then people get to choose whether or not we play along.

Trump, a textbook narcissist who instinctively projects his infinite failings onto others, is almost a swiftboating savant. His campaign is being handled by the professional Republican operatives behind the original Swift Boat campaign. (Literally, some of the same guys.) So as we move into the general election, know that this is in their bag of tricks. If you start to hear alarming stories about presumptive Democratic nominee former Vice President Biden or any other prominent Democrats on the ballot …. give it the smell test, is all I’m saying.

[eveninglottie]

write what you want regardless of the genders. it's better to spit the story out and then go back and revise then get hung up on whether or not every interaction or plot point could be part of an 800 word call-out tweet-longer that briefly trends on fanfic twitter. everyone comes at fiction from their own distinct background. you could write the most 'pure' romance ever, regardless of the genders, and it could still inadvertently trigger someone or raise concerns. comfort can be misleading.

so I don’t want you to think I’m disagreeing with you here, because you’re right. people spend way too much time thinking out the possible doomsday scenarios of what they might do instead of just doing it to see what happens. I am one of those people, for sure, it’s stopped me from doing pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted to do my whole life, so we’re on the same page here with both the concept of not worrying about what other people will think and also how no one holds the magic gatekeeping key which dictates what is problematic or not. every person is different and some things will upset people in a way that doesn’t upset you. that’s just a given. 

but I think that’s not really helpful when you’re trying to figure out your own motivations for doing something. 

like, yes, is a lot of this affected by how I think other people will react to things I create? of course. everything i do will be affected by how I think other people will react. that’s just how my brain works, and it’s my job to keep growing more confident in myself to counteract that (because the older you get you really do give less of a fuck and boy it’s so nice!!) what I was trying to bring up in that post was my own reasons for feeling more comfortable writing one thing than another. 

because I just think it’s fascinating and complicated and I’ve mentioned more than once to friends that it really just surprised me how freeing writing m/m has been vs m/f. it’s like my descent into sk was this moment of enlightenment when I realized “hey this is a hell of a lot easier to talk about when there are two boys involved!” like I realize that the majority of my writing the past two years has been on my own, and even though I can tell you’ve I’ve written well over 500k words and only posted maybe a fifth of that I can’t prove what I’m about to say so you’re just going to have to take my word for it, BUT I’ve included so much more discussion about sexuality and how characters express it and grow with it and figure out for themselves what they are. like it was never a thing I thought about a lot when I was writing my m/f fics (even tho all the women were still bi but that’s a whole other barrel of monkeys). it was never me sitting down and interrogating my choice for writing that pairing the way I did. I just did it. (I didn’t stop to consider the gender is what I mean, I thought about literally all the other things but gender and sexuality were not included in that) but now there’s a whole other sphere of characterization that I keep finding myself drawn to, and even without realizing it, it becomes a big part of how I write certain characters. (like deciding to write keith as demi while still being sexually and physically attracted to shiro has been really eye opening for me as someone on the asexual spectrum.)

because like, for example, I wrote a fem!bilbo fic, right? so clearly I was thinking about gender a bit, but most of that had to do with me having always reimagined that story (and lotr) with female protagonists. that’s what I did with a lot of childhood faves, actually, eragon, harry potter being two of the most prominent, and thinking about fem!bilbo and how that would change the story especially if she was in a relationship with thorin and the shire was maybe a bit more stifling for a woman, etc. - BUT that was one of those pairings that I’d never been drawn to when it was m/m. I couldn’t really get into it, and I was not a fan of the hobbit movies at all, honestly, and I tried, and it was only when I switched things around did that fic click for me, but I wonder a lot if I were to have come to hobbit fic later, after I’d gotten over my aversion to m/m (not in general, just me writing it, because reasons), would I have written it with bilbo as a boy? would I have been less likely to imagine bilbo as a woman? or was it a number of factors that led me to write that fic which really couldn’t have existed in any other incarnation, and would it have been a different fic entirely?

(the hp thing in particular is SO WEIRD to think about now because a lot of what I’ve been grappling with in my drarry fic is very male-centric? not like in a bad way, just thinking about the rivalry and bonds between boys and how boys look up to their male mentors and authority figures in very different ways than they do their female counterparts and also what does being interested in other boys do to one’s internalized and very misogynistic/homophobic ideas of Legacy and Family and Proper Gender Expression specifically when it comes to sex with other men like it’s Very Gendered in my head and it’s hard to separate that from what I used to be interested in which has expressed itself in other ways, specifically roslyn as chosen one in ascendant which I’ve said before was the result of a decade of rewriting those boy heroes as girls because I felt so connected to them and wanted girls to be every bit as important as boys, like I could draw a straight line from me writing bits and bobs of girl!harry as a fourteen year old and me writing roslyn in ascendant and wow I kind of want to punch myself in the face for how long I’ve rambled on about my own stuff but you know what no this is my tumblr and I get to obsessively and exhaustively talk about my own fictional worlds if I want to)

so it’s been a bit of a mindfuck trying to reconcile this shift in my own interests with the fact that I am a woman who identifies as largely asexual. and I think it’s important to sit down with yourself every once in a while and really look at the things you produce and do some self-examination. because I do wonder a lot if my comfort writing m/m now is because of this lack of pressure I normally feel when writing female characters or if it’s because I don’t have to interact with Me As Author so much when I write about boys because I am not a boy or if it’s because I feel a lot more comfortable identifying as queer when for the majority of my life I’d forced myself to be straight even though it didn’t feel right. 

then there’s the whole conversation about women writing m/m and how a lot of queer men feel they’re being fetishized or that their stories are being appropriated by women, in the same way that white people writing stories about people of color can be appropriative, men writing about women, straights writing about lgbtq+, cis people writing about trans or genderqueer people, et cetera with literally any minority being written by someone not from that minority, right? 

and I think it’s a bit reductive to say that it doesn’t matter. because it does matter. you’re right in saying that it matters to someone and I think the job of anyone who creates any kind of content is to think about that and be mindful that you don’t create in a vacuum. your art has power even if you don’t think it does, if you don’t want it to, and that’s something no one should take for granted.

now, I am not saying that certain people do not have the right to write certain stories. no one has the right to write anything, just as no one is forbidden from writing anything. and no one writing anything should be harassed for writing something that people perceive is out of their wheelhouse (because a lot of marginalizations are not visible! abuse, disability, sexual orientation, gender identity, whether you’re neurotypical or not! and there’s no requirement that you make public your trauma/identity to provide cred! in fact it’s kind of horrific that anyone thinks this!) it’s a complicated dynamic but the more we talk about these things the easier it is when a marginalized person says, “hey this thing you wrote is kind of bad,” the writer can go “oh man I’m sorry, let me think about it and see what I did wrong so I can do better in the future” OR “oh wow I see what you mean, but this is important to me” and the reader can go “I respect your right to write what you want and in the future I’ll do more to shield myself from this kind of content” instead of Cancelling someone because they didn’t effectively prostrate themselves before the ultimate judges of problematic content, a bunch of randos on the internet.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, yes, I agree with you that it’s not necessary to worry about this stuff, and that a lot of it is energy wasted especially when you’re worrying about theoretical responses from people who read your stuff, but that’s not helpful to me, because I think that’s disregarding the fact that we live in a society with weird power dynamics that are constantly shifting. I think it’s my job as someone who is mentally capable of dealing with this kind of self-examination to push back on some of these things when I can. because if I didn’t challenge myself every once in a while, I wouldn’t grow as a person or a writer and if there was one mantra I would live my life by besides the assertion that I would be blissfully happy if I downloaded my consciousness into a robot body, it would be that You Have To Be Okay With Critique and It’s Good When People Call You Out In A Safe Setting, like everyone is a dick and an asshole and a Bad Person and pretending you’re not is the most useless battle you could ever fight. we contain multitudes and some of those tudes are downright ugly.

quick sidebar: I would not have been able to have this kind of conversation with myself four years ago, and something I have not even talked about is how my shift toward more m/m content began at the same time as I was getting used to getting medical treatment for my grab bag of mental illnesses, like it’s pretty obvious that I got into sk right about the time I settled into my meds so what does That even mean?? so many THINGS to consider!!

idk. I know when I write stuff like this people think I’m beating myself up over it, but I’m really not. I just like talking about it sometimes and this tumblr is where all my neuroses go to live forever more in the annals of this blue hell until I chicken out and delete them the next day. I guess I know that when I read other people talking about things I’ve also been thinking about, it’s nice to hear. and as this is something that is still new to me, fandom in general is still bonkers to a part of my brain because I came into it as an adult, the whole conversation (if there even is a conversation because there might not be but there’s one going on in my brain) about women writing m/m is interesting complicated and something I think about a lot. clearly without any real focus or conclusions to be drawn, because I dropped out of college and never learned how to make my point in a concise and understandable manner. 

anyway I hope you don’t read this as me arguing with you nonny, I just wanted to clarify what I mean in the original post <3

[murasaki-murasame]

The moral of Ao no Flag chapter 44 is that Shingo is definitely the kind of person to be like ‘I vote third party because both political parties seem equally bad to me’.

Anyway, oh boy do I have some Thoughts on this chapter, which will be under the cut.

This is definitely gonna be a really polarizing chapter for a lot of people, and in a lot of ways I’m nervous about where it’ll go, and which characters Kaito is being more sympathetic toward here.

Since this whole chapter was about characters talking about homophobia from different angles, I may as well just jump straight into it as well and talk about the ideas and themes being discussed here.

To be blunt, Shingo’s attitude in this chapter pisses me off because it’s the kind of ‘neutrality’ that actively benefits oppressors and abusers. It’s the kind of attitude that just keeps victims from being able to defend themselves, and that allows abusers to keep hurting people. It’s the type of middle-of-the-road nothingness that supports the status quo, which in practice just means that people like him just end up sitting back and watching homophobes beat up gay people and all they feel like doing is going ‘hmm I dunno guys, both sides seem equally at fault here :/’. This is exactly the sort of situation where the idea of the paradox of tolerance comes into play. If you express universal tolerance toward everything, including intolerance, that just creates a situation where bigots and abusers get free reign to hurt people, which is obviously a bad thing. The only way to actually take any meaningful steps to punishing and preventing bigotry is to accept the fact that not everything deserves to be tolerated, and that punishing hatred is not morally equivalent to hating and hurting innocent people.

The situation with Touma and Kensuke pretty bluntly illustrates the imbalance of power and blame that lies at the heart of this. Literally the only thing that Touma did was being gay and having a crush on his best friend. And on the other hand, Kensuke decided to step into this situation that didn’t involve him at all and physically assault Touma over it. Acting like those two things are on any level meaningfully equivalent is cowardly and selfish. Kensuke’s own feelings and personal history are a separate topic that at this point have nothing to do with the immorality of how he treated Touma. Particularly because what Touma did has literally no direct connection to Kensuke. All Touma did was just tell Mami that he likes Taichi, and Kensuke was outside of the room eavesdropping. He wasn’t involved in the conversation at all, and he wasn’t even the subject of Touma’s feelings. He just went out of his way to force his own insecurities and baggage and bigotry onto a situation that has nothing to do with him. Maybe if it was a situation where, like, Touma had a crush on Kensuke and suddenly kissed him and Kensuke freaked out about it, then his past trauma might at least somewhat excuse it, but that’s not what happened.

Even though on paper the topic of male victims of rape is something that should be discussed and respected, I feel like it was kinda haphazardly thrown into this chapter to try and make Kensuke seem even somewhat sympathetic, even if it didn’t really work. As I said, the fact that Touma was talking about having feelings for someone other than Kensuke, and that Kensuke wasn’t part of the conversation at all, means that there’s absolutely no room to act like Kensuke’s trauma has anything to do with it. Him having past trauma because of some other gay person he knew doesn’t give him the right to randomly beat up any other gay person he knows about. Again, it’d be one thing if Kensuke was actually part of the conversation, or the subject of Touma’s feelings, or if Touma actually acted inappropriately toward him in a way that would be triggering, but, yet again, literally all Touma did was tell Mami that he likes Taichi, and Kensuke decided to go out of his way to barge in and assault him. Besides, if we’re going down the route of moral equivalency, it seems hypocritical for Kensuke to use his own past assault to completely ignore the fact that he also assaulted Touma. If they want to play the both sides card to get sympathy points, they don’t get to have it both ways and ignore Kensuke’s own assault toward Touma.

Which is it’s own thing, really. That most people who try and play the devil’s advocate centrist role aren’t actually what they seem to be. They’re usually not arguing in any sort of good faith. More often than not, they have their own biases and prejudices, and don’t in fact see everything equally. They just use the idea of politeness and tolerance to try and guilt-trip people who want to point out that it’s shitty of them to beat up a gay dude just for him being gay.

On the one hand, you can definitely say that Mami’s friends were inconsiderate and disrespectful toward Kensuke’s past assault, but honestly that whole plot point felt so transparently like ‘a plot point’, so to say, that I can’t even really suspend my disbelief over it, so I can’t exactly blame them for not caring. It’d be one thing if these were real people talking about real experiences, but since they’re just fictional characters, in this sort of situation I think what matters more is the author’s own intentions and methods in how and why they chose to bring this sort of thing up in the first place.

I was kinda hoping that there might be more layers to the whole situation with Kensuke, but nah it really was exactly what it seemed to be right from the get-go, and he really is just inexcusably bigoted and awful. But at least I expected that. I’m more disappointed with Shingo for deciding to completely throw Touma under the bus in order to try and protect Kensuke and his gross homophobic violence. He’s very rapidly losing points with me after this chapter, to be honest. Even on top of how incredibly rude he’s being to Touma by more or less accusing him of being just as bad as Kensuke, it seems really shitty of him to suddenly be defending Mr. “I have literally no choice but to treat men and women differently and to treat all women as sex objects and all gay men as rapists. I am just a smol creacher I cannut help it uwu” after the whole flashback with him sticking up for Mami and validating her desire to just be seen as a person and not as a woman. It kinda makes him seem really fake and two-faced in retrospect.

Not to mention the last minute implication that the blonde girl is apparently Shingo’s girlfriend, which makes his attitude seem even more shitty, honestly.

I honestly have to wonder if there’s some deeper reason why he seems to be pretty much abandoning his morals so he can aggressively double down on defending Kensuke’s actions at all costs. It just seems like a bit of an unnatural 180 for him.

And then there’s the whole scene with Futaba and co at the end of the chapter. Which is it’s own whole thing. I don’t really have much to say about it, but I do gotta admit that the whole way that they’re hammering in this idea of it being rude to Futaba for anyone to wish that Touma and Taichi could have gotten together is kinda feeling more and more uncomfortably meanspirited as time goes on. I dunno exactly how to put it, but especially after the whole “Touma’s apparently just as bad as Kensuke and apparently deserved to get assaulted for being gay” thing, it just seems all kinda of uncomfortable and loaded with all sorts of potential baggage that we immediately then had a whole scene of Mami basically going “you shouldn’t care so much about Touma’s feelings, you should just prioritize yourself and be happy about the fact that YOU’RE the one who ended up dating Taichi instead of Touma”. It really just seems like Touma’s getting shit on from all sides of the equation here. In a lot of ways it doesn’t really help that I don’t even think Taichi and Futaba’s relationship is that interesting or deep, so it’s just kinda annoying to see it get propped up and used as ammunition for this weird guilt-trip-y ‘if you want Touma to be happy, that just means you hate Futaba and her relationship with Taichi’ attitude.

Then there’s the whole thing at the very end of the chapter with Futaba unintentionally striking a raw nerve by being all cliffhangery and suddenly bringing up the [not-so-]hypothetical situation of Masumi being in love with her. I’m curious to see how that goes, but let’s just say that I don’t really want Masumi to also get shit on in the next chapter after what happened in this one, lol.

On the note of Masumi, we also finally got confirmation that she, for one reason or another, suspected that Touma was gay before she eventually became certain of it. I’m still curious to see if there’s any specific reason why she suspected it that early on, but I guess we’ll see.

Most of all I really wanna see more of Taichi’s thoughts on everything, since he’s been kinda non-existent for the last few chapters. Though I’m a bit nervous about whether or not I’ll even like what happens when we get a deeper look into his head.

At least for the time being I’m not going to personally judge Kaito for what happened in this chapter, since at the very least everything the characters said is more or less realistic for how teenagers talk about these things, but the big question is just which side of the argument Kaito wants us to sympathize with more in the long run. It’s one thing to just present different sides of an argument in a piece of fiction, but when it becomes clear that you as the author personally advocate for one over another, then it’s something worth talking about, one way or another.

This was really negative and ranty, but it’s not like I hate the series or anything, lol. I mean, my opinion on it might take a sharp downward turn if it becomes clear that Kaito just wants to throw Touma [and Masumi] under as many buses as possible while cozying up to violent homophobes, but we’ll see if it gets to that sorta point.

I’m just particularly sensitive about these sorts of centrist, willfully ignorant attitudes because they’re so directly at fault for so many of the world’s current political problems.

[racefortheironthrone]

Thoughts on House of X #5

Time for the issue where HoX/PoX horniness kicked off!

Society Comma We Live in One:

Time to talk about an issue that definitely merited the coverted red issue status. The issue starts with Magneto and Polaris having a dialogue on society that comes off as a bit writerly, more about Hickman creating an opportunity for him to talk about his ideas about society than what Magneto and Polaris would actually be saying to one another (unless Polaris just arrived on Krakoa and is being given the tour, but that doesn’t quit fit her dialogue).

To start with, Magneto is making an argument that “the one good thing humanity taught us was society,” but attaches this to the concept of human beings shifting from settler-gatherer to agrarian cultures. Notably, in Magneto’s version, this shift also has implications for national identity, what with the whole “this is a good place - it is...ours, and from this land we will not be moved.” 

At the same time, it would be highly inaccurate to suggest that hunter-gatherer cultures don’t have societies or engage in (what Magneto is really getting at here) cooperation. The main difference between hunter-gatherer and agrarian modes of cooperation is that, by creating substantial surpluses that allow more people to not engage in food production, the agrarian mode enables a new form of cooperation based on specialization.

All of this applies pretty directly to Krakoa and the resurrection ceremony that Magneto and Polaris are witnessing: as long as mutantdom was constantly fighting for survival (the time when “the greatest necessary traits in mutantdom” would be “strength and aggressiveness”), it was essentially stuck in a hunter-gatherer paradigm. But once mutantdom established themselves on Krakoa, “intelligence, ingenuity, and creativity” started to come to the fore: the Krakoan flowers and medications, Doug’s interface and the resulting Krakoan systems, KASA, Cerebro, and now a new one. Contrary to certain implications from the Librarian in Powers of X #6, rather than simply relying on their “natural” mutant powers, Krakoan society is technologizing them. 

The “Five” are a great example of this process at work. I’ll get more in detail on how this particular Krakoan biomachinery works when we get to the infographic (which brings together all of the information into one place), but there’s some more subtle details at work here:

I love how the (Fab) Five’s social/cultural status is prefigured by their on-page introduction, which looks like nothing so much as the slow-motion group shot from Resevoir Dogs combined with a supergroup pose complete with spotlights.

As many people have pointed out, Hickman’s reinterpretation of Goldballs’ “seemingly benign and pointless power” shows how a different social and technological context completely changes the way we think about the value of different x-genes. 

As someone who’s spent their fair share of time studying the history of science, I do like how much the Five’s introduction re-emphasizes themes of cooperation and specialization rather than the Lone Genius myth: even with Goldballs’ limitless “eggs,” he still needs Proteus to make the eggs viable, and so on and so forth. As Magneto puts it, ““separate...they are great mutants, but only significant, not transcendant. Together..."

An interesting commonality in Krakoan biotechnology is the use of psychics and other mutants - in this case, Hope plays a similar role to the Cuckoos in KASA - to allow the group to work in unison without the need for the literal hiveminds of the machine consciousness. Something to keep one’s eye on.  

At the same time, the Five’s biomachine relies on two other forms of technology of varying levels of technology. As the red diamond on the syringe confirms, Mister Sinister provides the DNA to grow the husks and (and this is one of the Big Reveals of the issue) Cerebro downloads the mind into the body. 

Playing her role in the Socratic dialogue admirably, Lorna raises the vital question of whether these clones are “just their bodies...not them.” What’s really interesting about Magneto’s response is that he’s not just talking about downloading the mind of the mutant, but also “the essence..the anima...[the] soul” of the mutant, which implies a pretty strongly spiritual conception of Cerebro’s primary purpose. (It’s an interestingly monist approach to the question of the soul as a form of data that can be copied, uploaded, downloaded, etc. I wonder what Nightcrawler thinks of this?)

Xavier’s statement that “even knowing I could bring you back...a part of me dies when any of you do” really backs up what I was talking about re: Xavier’s motivation for changing his worldview. Resurrection doesn’t change the emotional impact of death, especially since the system requires Xavier to be psychically linked to the X-Men he’s sending into harm’s way, so that he’s experiencing all their pain and suffering. This also reads quite differently in the wake of Powers of X #6, because it suggests that (quite aside from his broader plans for Krakoa), Xavier’s shift to being even more of a pragmatist has a lot to do with years of compounding trauma.

BTW, a clear sign that there is a high degree of continuity of consciousness going on is that Scott’s first thought after being resurrected is “did it work?” For all intents and purpsoes, this is the Scott Summers who died on Sol’s Forge.

We See Them, Do We Know Them?

I’m going to take this opportuntity to get on my high horse for a second and take parts of the X-fandom to task. While I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse anyone of arguing in bad faith, I do think there has been a tendency to not grapple with the text in an honest way when it comes to certain characters or themes, with the Resurrection Ceremony as Exhibit A in this tendency.

Rather than being about cults or nakedness (more on both of those soon), what this scene is actually about is the coming together of the foundational aspects of Krakoan society/culture, and how two groups of heroes - the five and the strike team - will be treated in this new world. 

As we might expect, there are both parallels and differences in how the Krakoan masses treat and are expected to treat these groups: as we’ll learn later from the Resurrection Infographic, the Five are “universally revered...as cultural paragons [something sacred to be treasured].” 

Storm’s exhortation provides the text that is supposed to shape and give purpose to this popular attitude, that the Krakoan masses should “love them...for they have righted the wrongs of men and defeated our great enemy death.” As with many RL human cultures, historic grievances are used to define in-group and out-group, but at the same time, the Five’s “miracle” is defined as a victory over “our great enemy death,” (which neatly ties together anti-mutant violence, mutant-specific epidemic diseases, all the forces of the “on the brink of extinction” stories we’ve seen for almost twenty years). 

Given that the Five are responsible for A. reversing mutant genocides which have directly and indirectly affected all mutants in profoundly traumatic ways B. making mutants functionally immortal, it would be utterly unprecedented if a cultural and social change of this magnitude did not have some element of spiritual or religious feeling behind it. World religions have been founded on far less than this.

By contrast, the Strike Team are described in more secular terms. For removing the existential threat of Mother Mold (let alone Nimrod) which had loomed over mutant society, Storm describes them as “heroes of Krakoa,” but not so much cultural heroes as secular military heroes who have made the ultimate sacrifice for their nation: “through their deaths...a great victory was won for our people.” 

Another sign of difference is that the Strike Team’s public reception is conditional, requiring a further ceremony where the community asks “we see them, but do we know them?” I love the way that Hickman turns the meta-question of whether these resurrected mutants are the real thing or “just clones” into a cultural question. 

Thus, he has Storm act as the Master of Ceremonies for a ritual that’s all about recognition and confirmation of individual and social identity, and uses X-comics continuity nods that readers will recognize in the same way that Storm does as the clues:

Cyclops remembers losing the leadership to Storm in UX #139, and I like this particular deep cut because it’s a great contrast to their present-day respect and affected, and because Scott’s inability to commit to his marriage to Madelyn Pryor will help kick off Inferno.

Similarly, Jean recalling line-for-line what she said to Storm in UX #242 works especially well because it’s a line about asserting your identity in the wake of death, resurrection, and the existential questions of cloning, and because once again it recalls Inferno. I’m not sure whether it’s a good sign or a bad sign that Hickman gets Jean’s voice better here when he’s quoting earlier authors rather than writing original dialogue.

And finally, in a great Rule of Three joke format, Monet breaks the pattern by going for a character beat - Monet has strong personal space boundaries - rather than a deep continuity callback.  

Having done my close-reading due diligence, let me get to the point: this is not a cult, and you don’t need to take much in the way of Anthropology coursework to see that. Call-and-response between an officiant and the congregation are incredibly common across many religions, as are ceremonies in which the individual’s membership in the group is confirmed, and so on and so forth. If you want to describe this as a cult, or cult-like, you need to point to qualities that are specific to cults as opposed to other forms of religious activity.

Similarly, I find it quite strange to describe Storm as acting out-of-character in this sequence. Storm, who’s all about giving speeches at the top of her lungs, who’s been worshipped as a goddess in multiple countries, would have a problem with giving a sermon and carrying out a basic ritual? This is the sort of thing that makes me think that a lot of these comments are just people trying to disguise personal preference as story critique.

The scene ends with pulling back to see Xavier and Magneto reacting to all of this, and their feeling of tempered joy is a pretty good synecdoche for how things stand at the end of HoX/Pox: while the “good work” is clearly a cause for joy, it’s clearly at a very early and vulnerable stage, and there’s a feeling of determination that it has to continue “until it is done.” Interestingly, both Charles and Erik view this aspect of Krakoa as more “foundational” than any other element, and I wonder whether this could be part of why they don’t quite see eye-to-eye with Moira any more.

Another sign that things are not as secure as they’d like is that Krakoa still hasn’t gotten over the hurdle of UN recognition, which requires getting around a veto from a permanent member of the Security Council.

Resurrection Infographic:

So let’s talk about the Resurrection process, now that we have all of the information in front of us.

The Infographic really confirms that Mister Sinister is absolutely crucial to the Genetic Base working - “without this, we have nothing.” But given that we learn in Powers of X #6 that this was very much in opposition to Moira’s wishes, I wonder how the original plan envisioned this working. I wonder whether Magneto’s statement to Emma Frost in Powers of X #5 that “we are not ahead of ourselves...we are woefully behind” suggests a motive. Mister Sinister already had a comprehensive DNA database on the go, they might have gone to him because they wanted to accelerate the time table for reversing the Genoshan genocide.

At the same time, you can already see how Sinister has become the snake in the garden. At the moment, Xavier and Magneto have “limited...current mutant modifications...to “optimal aging,” but we can already see Sinister’s influence in the line “it is believed that in the future, designer modifications will be possible.” Unless they are very, very careful, this is how the chimera singularity could topple all of this into the abyss of the singularity.

The Five:

As I discussed above, each of the Five are a crucial element of the overall process.

Fabio Medina (Goldballs): produces limitless eggs for limitless husks. Without Goldballs, the resurrection process would be extremely limited in how many people could be brought back at any time by all kinds of resource constraints; with him, the process can be turned into one of mass-production.

Kevin MacTaggart (Proteus): turns unviable eggs into viable eggs; without Proteus, Goldballs’ innovation would be effectively stillborn. Kevin’s presence here is also a strong indicator that this was part of Moira’s plan, so as with so much in HoX/PoX what we’re talking about is a question of means vs. ends. 

Joshua Foley (Elixir): “kick-start[s] the process of life, initializing cell replication and husk growth.” Without Elixir, the DNA might sit dormant within the egg; with Elixir, you have a bridge between the raw building blocks of life and the end product of a viable husk. 

Eva Bell (Tempus): “temporally mature[s] a husk to a desired age.” This is potentially an under-appreciated aspect of the whole process: without Tempus, you’d still have to wait decades for resurrected mutants to come to maturity and all throughout that time, the process would be incredibly vulnerable; with Tempus, mutants are brought back to life as fully-grown adults capable of doing their part for Krakoan society. 

Hope Summers (Hope): has the more nebulous task of “enhancing and synergizing...to ensure the success of each resurrection.” As Magneto explains, resurrection is “delicate, almost impossible work.” Hope’s unique power set allows her not only to boost the powers of the rest of the five, but also to improve coordination and thus quality control, so that the overall process has a success rate of 100%.  

As we can see already, this is a system with a lot of irreplacable parts, which means a bunch of potential points of failure. No wonder, then, that Krakoan minds are at work trying to overcome these problems. We already see that “Synch or Mimic” have been floated as “upgrades/extensions/stand-ins” for the Five, which suggests that they’re already thinking about ways to improve functionality by adding to the “circuit” or about ways to maintain service if one of the Five needs to be replaced. 

Similarly, I love how the “Proteus problem” shows how Resurrection is changing our perceptions of so many things in Krakoan society. From his introduction, Proteus has been shown as inherently dangerous because of the way that his powers damage his body - but with the Resurrection system, Proteus is just a mutant who happens to have a chronic illness that can be treated. One interesting question...why is Proteus’ “backup mutant husk” based on Charles Xavier? Charles isn’t his father, so it’s not a question of genetic compatibility. 

The Mind:

Here’s where we really get into the philosophy of identity. Hickman gets really emphatic here that these are not “just clones,” because the backups include “the essence of each mutant, how they think, how they feel, their memories, their very being.” 

I’m personally inclined to agree with Hickman. Even without transference of consciousness as a real thing, I don’t think a strict view of continuity of consciousness can really hold, given the fact there are plenty of breaks in said continuity - we don’t consider people who get knocked out or blackout drunk or just have a nap to no longer be the same person, so what’s the rationale for saying that any of the Strike Team aren’t the same people who they were before?

I also love how the Cerebro part of the system adds all kinds of new problems: there’s the technical complexity of scanning every mutant mind on the planet and then storing and copying that datat to “multiple redundant “cradles,” as well as new philosophical and ethical issues about what happens when you put someone’s mind in someone else’s body, etc. More on this in a bit. 

Scale:

So at least at the time that this document was written, it looks like the mutant population is back to 100,000 (although how much was the Five isn’t clear), but that there are 1 million de-powered mutants (many of whom might want to use the system to regain their powers), and 16 million mutants who were murdered and whose resurrection is a key ideological drive for Krakoa.

As Hickman points out, this brings up issues of productivity and efficiency that we’re used to seeing in industrial and technological processes. The Five’s initial rate of 200 a day would take 300 years to accomplish the goal of reversing Krakoan genocide, which is way too long a timeline.

However, it turns out that there’s a mutant version of Moore’s law: the more the Five do this, the better they get at it (with a nice nod to Wolverine, so “its estimated that capabilities could possibly reach around 30,000 a week” (or 6,000 a day), bringing the timeline down to a far more manageable decade. 

A final bottleneck: Charles Xavier “is not capable of” 6,000 daily downloads, and we already seen Krakoan minds thinking about “a workaraound or a team of telepaths” to supplement someone who’s also busy attending U.N meetings, Quiet Council sessions, plotting world domination, etc.

On a policy wonk side note, I was trying to figure out how Hickman worked out these numbers, and I realized that his math assumes that Krakoa has a five day work-week. As we’ll see in House of X #6, there are major open questions about what kind of economic policy (and thus, what kind of society) this new nation-state will have. Good to see that Actual 19th Century Robber Baron Sebastian Shaw isn’t getting his own way.

One particularly odd thing about Krakoan biomachinery, according to “extensive testing,” the Five don’t actually experience “exertion,” but rather a “blissful experience” of self-actualization. This suggests the psychological equivalent of a perpetual motion machine - rather than requiring more and more labor, the damn thing requires less and less and produces “total fulfillment” as a byproduct. Weird.

Another interesting side effect is that the Five have become “an inseparable family unit” who are undergoing a process of symbiosis - given all the discussion of mechanical hiveminds, it’s worth wondering whether we’re seeing a biological one forming and to what extend is individuality being maintained.

A final, slightly odd note: this Infographic describes the Five’s socio-cultural status as that of “cultural paragons” rather than “something achievable through works,” even though the Five are explicitly described as having carried out “good works.” So what gives?

Resurrection Protocol:

One last bottleneck: the whole process seems to take at least 42 and as much as 52 hours to complete. Although they can clearly work on multiple eggs in one batch, getting that figure down would no doubt be useful in further increasing productivity.

An interesting sign of the cultural/philosophical impacts of the system: Krakoan society now has “fears regarding duplication” of an explicit moral character, and thus requires an elaborate system of confirmation to bring someone back from the dead. Thus, we start to see the formation of mutant law-enforcement entities to deal with “mutant missing persons and suspected deaths and murders,” which is presumably going to be X-Factor rather than X-Force as initially believed (since X-Force turns out to be the intelligence service instead).

A Grateful Nation:

Speaking of the burdens of statecraft, the scene shifts to the aftermath of the U.N recognition vote, where it emerges that Emma Frost used her telepathy to push the Russian ambassador to abstain rather than veto, which Xavier is ok with. Krakoa is now an internationally-recognized nation-state in good standing, something that previous mutant nations never quite managed. 

This gave some parts of the fandom a good deal of trouble, but let me say as someone who’s taken a couple courses in diplomatic history, this is really quite mild stuff compared to the usual run of vote selling, wiretapping, blackmail, threats of economic or military retaliation, and other kinds of skullduggery and corruption. The world of nation-states is not one of moral purity.

Also, if we’re talking about characters being in and out of character, as much as Charles Xavier has been described as an idealist when it comes to his ultimate ends, he’s always been a pragmatist when it comes to his means when it comes to psychic powers. Mental compulsion, altering or erasing memories, mind-wiping people into mental vegetables - as long as it’s for the greater good. 

I’m curious what Emma Frost’s reward will be. This scene explicitly comes after she made her bargain with Xavier and Magneto for a fifty-year monopoly for the Hellfire Trading Company and three seats on the Quiet Council, so I wonder what this bonus will be.

Mutant Diplomacy Infographic:

Speaking of the moral ambiguity of international relations, we learn from this infographic that “all current mutant diplomacy...is dependent on relationships with human nations centering on their need for mutant pharmaceuticals.” On the one hand, it’s better than basing your diplomacy on military aid. On the other hand, it’s notable that Krakoa isn’t building its diplomacy on the basis of human rights or cultural exchange or other elements of “soft power,” it’s all very transactional. (It’s also not a good sign that “nations that have rejected a trade treaty with Krakoa are considered to be naturally adversarial.)

We then get a list of non-treaty nations. Some of these inclusions make sense, others are a bit puzzling, and I have some questions about why certain nations didn’t make the list.

Asia:

Why just Iran in the Middle East? OPEC should be losing their minds about the potential for Krakoan portals to undermine the value of oil. Likewise, plenty of Middle Eastern regimes might be worried about other ethnic minorities using the Krakoan precedent to redouble their own pushes for national independence. And if it’s religious ideology, why is it only a Shia issue and not a Sunni issue?

Madripoor: given where Krakoa is located, this is probably an issue of being afraid of a new power in their sphere of influence. Also, Madripoor has tended to get up to a lot of mutant-related crimes, so they’d probably be worried about this.

North Korea: this being listed as an ideological issue is a bit strange. The official state ideology of North Korea is really peculiar, even among putatively Communist regimes, so it’s hard to tell 

Europe:

I imagine the E.U’s role in negotiating trade deals probably is responsible for the relative lack of European nations on the list, but I’m surprised that none of the right-wing populist governments that have sprung up in central/eastern Europe in recent years who aren’t particularly friendly to real world minorities wouldn’t have an issue with a powerful nation of mutants.

Latveria: probably because Doom is a paranoid, egomaniacal autocrat who pursues economic autarky generally. I am curious, however, about other Marvel-specific nation states - we know that Namor isn’t going to go to Krakoa, but what is Atlantis’ foreign policy on this issue? What do the Inhumans think? Etc.

Russi: as we’ve seen from House of X #1, Russia fears a new global superpower. What’s interesting is we don’t see them exerting any successful influence on Central Asian or Baltic or ex-Soviet eastern European nations. 

South America:

Brazil: is this Bolsanaro's cultural conservatism at work or something else? Because...

Venezuela: is kind of on the opposite end of the spectrum from Brazil’s current government, so it would be odd to see them on the same side of this issue. The only thing I can think of is that this might be due to Chavezista anti-imperialism. Because...

Santo Marco: contrary to what Magneto said in House of X #1, mutants have not been entirely free of the sins of conquest and imperialism, and in one of his first appearances, Magneto conquered the Republic of Santo Marco and ruled it in an extremely brutal fashion. That’s the kind of thing people remember for a long time, so I’m not surprised that you see some South American countries taking a negative view of Krakoa as a result.

Terra Verde: Similarly, Terra Verde’s government was briefly overthrown by the supervillain Diablo, and although mutants were not involved, they may be generally wary of superpower-led nation states. 

Central America:

Honduras: it’s not that I think it’s implausible, but what makes Honduras different from other Central American countries on this issue?

Africa:

This is where we get a potentially really juicy plot hook. As late as X-Men Red, Wakanda has been generally positive towards mutants, especially since not only does T’challa have a personal relationship with Storm, but in the current run of Black Panther, Storm has been popularly worshipped as Hadari Yao, the Walker of Clouds. 

Given that Wakanda is seen as a threat because “they do not need mutant drugs,” this may be a case of Krakoan/Moira’s paranoia that Wakanda’s advanced technology and self-sufficiency might mean that the post-human revolution might start there. 

At the same time, the fact that the rest of the “Wakandan economic protectorate” also reject a trade treaty might suggest that we’re just seeing a simple story of nation-state competition for spheres of influence.

Krakoa Is For All Mutants:

In a very straight-forward example of X-Men dissenting from Xavier’s plan, we see Wolverine - who’s about to take up a significant post in Krakoa’s national security infrastructure - has a big enough problem with the amnesty program that he mentions wanting to beat “Chuck” to death for general smugness and condescension. 

A whole bunch of supervillains cross-over, but while some of them will become significant as members of the Quiet Council or Captains, Apocalypse is framed as the most significant one, because he’s the only one with a pre-existing connection to Krakoa

Indeed, he goes full Disney Princess on page 27 because Krakoa “knows me, and I Krakoa,” which might be a big problem later on if Krakoan’s earlier and deeper connections to Apocalypse come into conflict with its more recent alliances with Cypher and Xavier.

At the same time, at least for the moment Apocalypse is the most ideologically on board with Xavier’s broader project, seeing it as the culmination of his life’s work. 

Thus, he’s happy to say the words: “we submit to the laws of this land, be what they may, and acknowledge from this day forward, we all serve a higher purpose than want or need. One people from this day forward.” It’s an oath of citizenship, but it also speaks to the conditionality of the amnesty. And there are penalties for breaking it. 

[wendibird]

Room of Revitalization

Author’s Note: So, this is my submission for @idreamofplaid ‘s Bunker Challenge. (Sorry it’s a day late!) And honestly, I have no excuse because this idea actually came to me several months before she declared her challenge. And I STILL procrastinated like a bad procrastinator who procrastinates. BUT it’s finished now, and I’m actually pretty happy with it. :)

This takes place between Episodes 14X8 “Byzantium” and 14X9 “The Spear”. I’ve tried to stay mostly canon-compliant while possibly taking a few liberties with explaining a few things or going into greater detail in some areas that the show didn’t have time for.

I signed up for: Original Room, and Sam-focused (Has a lot of his POV but also POV from other characters at times.)

Title: The Room of Revitalization

Summary: Sam has been working himself into the ground lately, trying to subsist on two hours of sleep a night or less while also being an emotional support for the people around him, and it’s taking its toll. But long ago, someone amongst the Men of Letters recognized the potential for burn-out among their fellows and worked a fail-safe into the Bunker that would activate when one of their own was pushing themselves too far. Trouble is, no one read the right manual that covers its existence, so when Sam seems to disappear into thin air, “worried” doesn’t quite cover how it makes everyone feel.

Pairings: None (Gen-fic)

Warnings: Minor language, talk of past posessions and other traumas experienced by the brothers but nothing explicit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, some fluff

Word Count: 6,414

Also found on AO3 

Sam tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable on the extra-firm mattress that had been in the room when he and Dean and moved into the Bunker all those years ago. Dean kept bugging him to get a new one but he continued finding reasons to put it off. They weren't hurting for funds AS much as they used to be, thanks to a few artifacts he’d auctioned off online as well as Charlie, (THEIR Charlie) showing Sam a few tips in "Creative Fundraising" as she'd called it. But even so, he didn't NEED a new mattress. It's not like the springs were poking out of this one or anything like that. It just wasn't as comfortable as Memory Foam. Which was okay. He didn't need that much extra comfort. He didn't spend that long sleeping anyway.

With a sigh he turned over again and peered at the red numbers on his alarm clock. 2:30 am. He'd be getting up in a few more hours to check on any messages that might have come in during the night from the teams out on hunts. Plus, he still had some more research to do. One group was running into some problems with some murders that weren't fitting any of the standard lore. And he was still researching ways to take out an archangel. Dean was getting more and more antsy about that. Not that he blamed him. It wasn't easy knowing that the thing that had ridden you around for a while was still out there, still causing trouble, still hurting people, and you couldn't stop it. They still didn't know WHY Micheal had just let Dean go like that. Dean didn't want to talk about that either, and again, Sam couldn't particularly blame his brother. But it still niggled at the back of his mind. Micheal never seemed to do anything without a reason.

His arm started to get sore so he shifted over onto his stomach, tucking both arms under the pillow as he tried to get his thoughts to settle. But they continued to flit around in his head like a herd of humming birds. Or would it be a flock? Did humming birds flock? That would be pretty loud. They were louder than most people realized. He remembered one time they'd been in Colorado on a case. Boulder, wasn't it? They were interviewing a witness, sitting out on her back patio, and the little jeweled things had been zipping all around them, from one feeder or brightly colored flower to another. The buzzing of their wings had almost made him think of large insects. Dean had almost swatted one, purely on instinct as it buzzed just a little too close to his head, and the nice old lady had actually hit him with a fly-swatter, scolding him for trying to hurt her babies...

...Why the hell was he thinking about hummingbirds?

Rolling back over, he looked at the clock again. 2:40.

Thing was, he was actually tired. He felt like he should be able to sleep for days he was so bone-deep weary. Not that he could. People needed him to be there, doing what he did; keeping things running. Cas and Jack were off on a small case, just a little over the border in Nebraska. Dean was about ready to jump at any sliver of a chance that came up of dealing with Michael, whether or not they could confirm it was actually a “good” chance. Ketch was still trying to track down another of those golden eggs. (Apparently, the one they'd used on Lucifer back in the day, and then handed over to Cas for safe keeping had burnt itself out on the Archangel. Now it was a pretty paper weight sitting on Storage Shelf 32-C.) Jody and the girls had just had Thanksgiving with Donna over, had invited them all too, but... there was just too much going on. Always too much going on.

At least Jack was okay though. Well, mostly okay. His soul was keeping him alive now. That was another thought that lurked at the back of Sam's mind, like a dark-colored cat hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce when you weren't looking. One of their babysitters when they were kids had had a cat like that. It’d hated Dean for some reason. Was always trying to attack his legs when he’d least expected it. Sam had managed to coax it into letting him pet it a few times. He kind of wished he could get Jack a pet. Something he could feel responsible for, that would also return his affection unconditionally. Goodness knows, the kid needed someone or something that could be there for him.

A tightness formed in Sam's chest at the thought. He WANTED to be there for Jack. He wanted to tell him that he understood, maybe better than Jack thought. He remembered being able to help people with his powers, and then not. Of feeling that helplessness when faced with a demon wearing some innocent person when once he'd been able to pull that sulfurous black smoke right out of the person without killing them. But that was all tangled up in so many other things. Things about demon blood, and the Apocalypse, and his role in it, and Lucifer and Michael, (their Michael) and... and other things. Things he wasn't ready to talk about. And Jack didn't need all of that. He still blamed himself for so many things that weren't his fault. He didn't need to hear about all the horrible things his biological father and uncle had tried to do to the world. And Sam definitely didn't want to get into what it had taken to stop them. It wouldn't help Jack to know that about Lucifer now.

And in the same vein, he wanted to explain to Jack why it was SO important to use this new magic of his sparingly. He wanted to tell him why it was imperative that he not risk his soul. Because he knew... he had two sets of memories still, of that time when his soul had been in one place, and his body and mind in another. He honestly tried not to think about either. One left him reeling in agony, even to this day, and the other left him feeling cold and hallow. But how could he possibly explain to Jack about why he'd been running around soulless for about a year and a half without explaining everything else? He wasn't even sure if he would be able to if he tried. The mind had so many layers, and those memories, both halves, he'd tried to bury as deeply as he could because his brother had been right about hell. There was no "getting over" it. It would be there, forever. It wasn't meant for mortals to comprehend, and it couldn't be fixed with some therapy and talking it out. (Or screaming it out.)

And anything else he tried to tell Jack felt like it came up short. It wasn't enough. Wasn't what he needed. Same with Dean, really. He could probably understand how his brother felt better than anyone else. But the words, or at least the right ones, always seemed to get stuck in his throat. Plus... well, some comparisons he could draw might only make Dean feel worse. He didn’t have the words to help either of them, even as he saw them both struggling, so he’d put all his efforts into helping in any practical ways that he could; making sure Jack ate right so his body would have the strength it needed, researching solutions to the Michael problem, keeping the AU Hunters organized so Dean wouldn’t have to worry as much about all the other monster problems out there, even shouldering as much of the parenting responsibilities as he could so Cas could also be there for Dean. His brother didn’t exactly have a wide support system, so he wanted to be sure he and his best friend had chances to talk. If his brother ever actually felt like talking.

2:55. Exasperated, Sam gave up and got out of bed, deciding to give the bathroom a visit. Then maybe he'd find some boring lore to read.

~o~O~o~

After washing his hands a few minutes later, he started wandering in the general direction of the library. He paused for a moment as a yawn nearly dislocated his jaw, then noticed light coming from under and around a door that was just barely cracked open. He glanced at the room number but something about it... he shook his head abruptly, trying to clear it. It was like when he'd been up WAY too long, and he'd read the same passage in a book over and over again and none of the information would sink in. He hadn't thought anyone else was up...

"Um, hello?" He knocked tentatively on the door, but there was no answer. Opening it cautiously, he peered inside and raised his eyebrows a little. It was a room with the same concrete and brick walls and tile floor as most of the ones there, but where most had a utilitarian, or stuffy feel, this was... cozy. Set into the far wall was a fireplace of green marble that had white and black veins running through it, and a fire was already flickering inside behind a brass screen. Next to it was a coordinating brass bin that held extra wood and on the other side were some fireplace tools. In front of it on the floor was a braided rug in autumn colors upon which sat a comfortable looking armchair, complete with footstool and a small table next to it. The lamps scattered throughout the room gave off just enough light to make it feel inviting without being too bright. His eyes were next drawn to a bookshelf just to the right of the door against the wall. He barely noticed the door closing behind him as he moved to inspect it more closely, finding quite a few titles that he'd often intended to read just for the fun of it but for one reason or another had never gotten around to.

Well, he'd been looking for some way to get his mind to settle... Smiling, he pulled one from the shelf. Its cover was a faded red, almost the color of creamy tomato soup, and on the front in friendly, inviting letters was printed "The Marvelous Land of Oz". Stepping over to the armchair, he settled down into it with a contented sigh. It was comfortable. Really comfortable, considering he usually found it difficult to find chairs that actually fit his long legs and torso just right. A soft, plaid blanket that he hadn't noticed before was slung over the back and he pulled it forward, draping it over his legs before propping them up on the footstool. The lamp on the little table next to him gave off just the right amount of light; enough so he could read easily without straining his eyes, but not so bright as to be glaring. Comfortable now, he opened the book and began reading, the delightful prose helping his thoughts to calm their constant whirling.

~o~O~o~

Sam was just about to start into Chapter 10, "The Journey to the Tin Woodman" when he realized he was a bit thirsty. Dreading the long trip to the kitchen when he was already so comfortable, he almost considered ignoring his thirst for now when his attention was caught by a small but serviceable looking wet-bar against the far wall, made of the deep, rich mahogany that much of the furniture in the Bunker seemed to have been fashioned from. Strange... he hadn't noticed it earlier. But, he thought to himself, he hadn't really looked THAT hard at that particular wall either. Standing up and stretching, he then padded over to it, finding everything in good (and clean,) condition. He considered some of the alcohol that was available but wound up going with just some ice water (yeah, that was fresh ice in the bucket,) for now.

As he sipped the water he took a moment to really look around the room. It had a few wall-hangings, giving the place some color without being jarring to the eyes. Most were replicas (he figured) of old tapestries. There were also a few oil paintings of pastoral settings. In one of the closer corners was an old-time gramophone, the brass edging on the black, lacquered bell gleaming warmly in the firelight. Curious, he set his glass down and walked over to it, examining it carefully. It seemed like it might be in working order. Opening the wood-inlaid cabinet it was sitting on, he found an array of discs for it. Flipping through them idly at first, he paused when he came to one titled “Assorted works by Bach”. A soft smile pulled at his lips and he nodded a little to himself as he straightened back up again. Bach had always appealed to him; something about the precision and purity of the music helped him relax in ways that few other things could. After a few moments he got it working and soon the strains of two violins could be heard coming from the antique music player. He set the volume down low, not wanting to awaken Dean, then took his water back to his chair.

As he sat back down again a feeling of peace seemed to settle over him. A cork coaster was sitting on the small table next to the lamp, (had it been there before?) ready for his glass, and as he leaned into the supportive padding of the backrest, he felt it give way just a bit, and the entire back began to lean back with just a little intentional pressure applied.

If he thought about it... this room kind of made him think of the "Dean Cave". In the way that the "Dean Cave" was the ideal place for his brother to sit back and really relax, this place was ideal for him. Had Dean put this together for him? He was pretty sure they'd found every room to be found in the Bunker, and he would have remembered one like this. And honestly, Dean HAD put his own rec-room together entirely without Sam noticing. With a shrug, he decided he'd ask him about it in the morning. For now, he wanted to get back to his book. Pulling the blanket back over his legs again, he picked it up and delved into the next chapter.

~o~O~o~

Ten minutes later he was blinking as he tried to keep his eyes open, the lower sounds of a cello now reaching him from the far corner.

Twenty minutes later he was snoring softly, the book resting open across his chest. Gradually, the lights in the room seemed to dim, even the fire itself burning down low to just some softly glowing coals which kept the room comfortable but not too hot. The seat reclined back further and Sam sighed, unconsciously pulling the blanket up closer in his sleep.

~o~O~o~

“Where the hell is he?!” Dean yelled. Again.

If Castiel weren’t just as worried as Dean, he might have found himself annoyed at his friend’s constant repetition of the same question which obviously still didn’t have an answer. But, the angel WAS worried. “I don’t know Dean. We’ve searched every room in the Bunker. We even found a few previously undiscovered ones.” “And none of the cars are missing.” Jack added in, holding up a clipboard with a sign-out sheet, listing all the vehicles the Bunker crew had. Included were the antique ones left over from the previous Men of Letters as well as the random stolen or otherwise obtained ones used for the various other Hunters who came and went. Sam had put it together some while ago when most of the AU Hunters were still using the Bunker as their base of operations. It had made things much less confusing when trying to figure out what was available for supply runs and what was being prepped for going out on hunts. Jack had thought of checking it to see if anything was missing that shouldn’t be. “All the ones not here were signed-out a while ago by people out on long-distance hunts. So, he didn’t leave by one of our cars.”

“It’s been THREE days!” Dean yelled, his voice a bit rough. He’d been doing a lot of yelling for the past two. “His phone’s still here. His clothes are still here. His laptop’s still here. Looks like his bed was slept in. But no Sammy.”

Cas and Jack both nodded. They’d heard the litany of things-not-missing since Dean had called them about two and a half days ago. They had just been wrapping up the hunt they were on anyway, so they’d made their best speed possible back to the Bunker. (Cas didn’t usually like to go over the speed limit by THAT much, but they had mainly been traveling country backroads that were mostly deserted. And Sam was missing. Neither he nor Jack had debated the urgency of the situation.) When they’d arrived Dean had already searched the place high and low, but they’d all done another, even more thorough search; not just looking for Sam himself, but for any clues as to his mysterious disappearance. Little to nothing had been discovered though. There were no signs of blood or other injury, and as Dean had just said, none of the usual personal items were missing that Sam would normally take with him if he were leaving of his own accord. (And with his cell phone there in his room on his nightstand, they couldn’t try tracking him with that.) He hadn’t left by car, or at least, not by any of their cars. None of the warding had been tampered with, nothing looked odd or disturbed outside the bunker, and Castiel hadn’t sensed any odd energies or residues that weren’t normally there. It was like the younger Winchester brother had simply vanished.

He was trying to remain calm for both Dean and Jack’s sakes, but the truth was, all of them were very worried.

“Alright,” came the thick, brogue-accented voice of the most powerful witch any of them knew personally. (And fortunately for them, she had been feeling heavily inclined towards helping them in the past several years, especially, the angel had noticed, if it had anything to do with Sam.) “I think I’ve gotten all the things I’ll need. Now, if ye’ll all just clear one o’ these tables, I’ll get this set up.”

Usually ready for a snappy comeback, Dean instead set right to work clearing-off the table in the middle; the one that had his and Sam’s initials carved into it. Cas and Jack moved to help him with it.

Rowena set down the large bronze bowl she’d been carrying and began removing items from it: several different candles, a mortar and pestle, a silk cloth in which some various herbs were wrapped, a box of matches, and a few other bottles with different liquids or other substances. Her hand brushed briefly over Sam’s initials as she considered them. “Did he by chance carve these by his own hand? Or did ye each carve each other’s?”

Dean looked up briefly, apparently taken off-guard by the question, but noticing that she seemed to be asking in seriousness, he shrugged and shook his head. “Naw, we each carved our own.”

She nodded firmly and began pouring ingredients into the bowl. “Wonderful. I can use that as a focus.” Noting everyone’s perplexed expressions, she rolled her eyes a bit. “Think of it like a lightnin’ rod. Since he carved it, it’ll help draw the energies I’ll be usin’ t’ scry for him. Now, Dean, did ye get a hair or fingernail or somethin’ like that of his like I asked ye to?”

Dean paused in his pacing, nodding as he fished a small envelope out of his pocket. “Yeah, found a few hairs on his pillow.”

Rowena accepted them while Cas and Jack stood a bit to the side, watching curiously.  Setting them carefully aside for the moment, she went to work grinding the herbs.

“Thar we go, I think we’re about ready.” Straightening up, she looked over her work again and nodded before waving an elegantly manicured hand at Jack. “Jackie-boy, would ye be good enough to turn off the lights in here?”

Nodding, seemingly glad to have something to do, Jack moved to turn off the overhead lights then each of the various table lamps. Meanwhile, Rowena began lighting the candles which were arrayed in a particular formation around the bowl with one alone, the white one, sitting directly on Sam’s initials. She lit it last, and once they were all that was illuminating the library she began chanting while methodically adding the last several ingredients. Last of all she dropped in the longish, brown hairs and the white candle flared brightly. Cas noticed that everyone, including himself, seemed to lean in closer, uncertain as to whether it was working or not. Rowena’s gaze remained fixed on the white candle, her brows slowly furrowing. “I don’t like that look…” Dean grumbled under his breath.

The red-head seemed to ignore him for several minutes as the candle flame alternately flared high then down low, almost winking out altogether. Eventually, it grew steady and even and Rowena blew out an exasperated sigh. “Well… that could’a been more helpful…”

“What? What’d you find out?” the anxiety that had gripped Dean since his brother’s disappearance plain as day in his voice.

“Well…” she paused for a moment, seeming to be gathering her thoughts more than any attempt at drama. “I found out that he’s alive, first and foremost.” The relief Castiel felt was clearly shared with the other two, if their expressions were anything to go by. “But,” she added, holding up her hand to forestall comments, “I canna tell where he is. At all. Well, he’s somewhere on Earth, I can say THAT at least. And that he doesn’a seem in bad health. But wherever he is, it’s blockin’ any attempts at findin’ him.”

Dean sunk into one of the chairs, a defeated look on his face.  

Jack looked over at Cas, raising an eyebrow questioningly. The angel shook his head though. “I already tried contacting Naomi. Apparently, I’ve “used-up my favors” in Heaven at the moment. And besides, the Enochian sigils I carved into his ribs a while back would prevent him from being found by angelic means.”

Jack nodded, though his brows scrunched up in puzzlement. “Why would you have-” “Jack.” Dean’s voice, though not raised like it had seemed to be a lot lately, still held a note of command. “So not the time for that conversation.”

Jack sighed but nodded, his shoulders drooping as a feeling of despondence seemed to settle over him as well.

Rowena, who’d begun blowing out candles and packing up the supplies after turning on the nearest lamp now paused to rest a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’a forget, wherever he is, he’s alive and he’s well. We know that much at least. Now, all we can do is wait an hope he returns.

Jack nodded slowly, though he felt a burning in his eyes that had nothing to do with the wisps of smoke rising from the extinguished candles. “But… what if he doesn’t?”

Rowena tried to smile encouragingly, but even she couldn’t keep the sadness from her eyes. She didn’t have an answer for him, so she just gave him another squeeze before going back to clearing-up.

~o~O~o~

Sam yawned and stretched, slowly waking up. As he did so, the lamps in the room gradually brightened and the fire flickered back to life, crackling merrily by the time he’d opened his eyes. Though he was completely comfortable, he also felt fully rested and sat up, the armchair reassuming its original configuration. At some point in the night he must have put the book on the small table because there it sat with a bookmark in it, next to the glass of still cold water. Feeling a bit thirsty, he drank down the rest of it before standing up and stretching, hearing several of his vertebrae popping.

“Might have to come in here more often…” he mumbled to himself, giving the room a last fond look before opening the door and walking back into the hallway. Everything still seemed pretty quiet, so he had no idea what time it was. (He made a mental note to see about putting a clock of some kind in there, next chance he got.)

After using the bathroom he followed the smells of frying bacon and eggs towards the kitchen. Stepping down into the room, he waved casually at those gathered, mumbling out a “Mornin’ everyone.” on his way to the coffee pot, pausing when he belatedly realized that not only had Cas and Jack apparently gotten back in the night, but Rowena was there too.

He didn’t really have time to ponder that before he was attacked by three grown men (well, two grown men and one angel,) trying to hug him all at once, and everyone was yelling, and asking him questions, and he couldn’t understand any of them cause they were all talking at once, and he was feeling very confused.

“Enough!” Rowena’s commanding voice cut through everyone else’s causing them to fall silent, though no one seemed inclined to let go of Sam anytime soon. “Samuel, dear,” she inquired sweetly, “Would ye be so good as to tell us where ye’ve been fer the past FOUR days?”

Sam’s eyes widened as he looked between those hugging him and the witch. “Four…. Days?” he responded weakly. (Cas seemed to have forgotten his own strength and breathing was steadily becoming more difficult.) The red-head rolled her eyes. “Och, will ye all let him breathe for a minute before ye suffocate the poor lad? Come on…” She tapped at various shoulders until, reluctantly, they let go of Sam who was starting to be able to breathe easier again.

Shaking his head at the shocking news, Sam moved over to the table they’d all just recently been sitting at. (Well, Cas, Jack and Rowena had been sitting at. Dean had been over by the stove cooking something.) “Dean,” he waved over towards the stove. “Think your bacon’s burning.”

Shaking his own head, his brother grumbled as he stalked back over to it. “Vanishes for days and then what does he do? Lectures me about my cooking.” There was no venom in it though. In fact, relief seemed to practically pour off of him even while doing something as simple as turning off the stove and dumping the extra-extra-crispy bacon onto a plate, which he brought over with him to the table.

While Dean was doing that, Sam did his best to collect himself as he tried to reconcile what they’d said with what he remembered. “I was here the whole time.” Reaching out, he idly took one of the pieces and began crunching on it. “In that new lounge room. Though I could swear I was just there from last night… well, early this morning really, til’ now.”

Four confused faces regarded him and he held his arms out in exasperation. “You know, that room I’m guessing you set up for me? Has a fireplace, a comfy armchair, some books, is actually decorated nice…” The faces only grew more confused and he realized now how unlikely it would have been for Dean of all people to have decorated a room like that with tasteful wall-hangings and oil paintings. “You didn’t put it together.”

It wasn’t really a question but Dean shook his head anyway.

Jack, who seemed not only confused but also getting close to irritated also shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. We searched the whole Bunker. Several times. We looked in every room and broom closet and corner in this place.”

“Samuel,” Rowena interjected, “Why don’t ye just show us where you were?”

Nodding, Sam lead the way back down the hallway, making a few turns until he at last came to a stop outside… a mop closet? Shaking his head, he opened and closed it a couple times, but it didn’t seem inclined to change back to the cozy room he’d spent the night, (or, the last 4 days) in. “I swear, this is where it was.” He was starting to understand how Lucy from the Narnia books had felt that first time she’d stepped back through the wardrobe. Only, the time dilation seemed to run opposite in this case.

“Hold on.” Cas said, and stepped closer, opening the door again. On the inside of it was tacked an envelope of some thick, old-fashioned-looking paper. Taking it down, he turned so everyone could see it. On the outside, in neat handwriting was written:

Room of Revitalization Report for Samuel  Winchester Men of Letters Legacy

Cas turned it over and broke the red wax seal on the back with the Aquarian Star stamped into it. Opening it, he took out a sheet of paper, also written in the same handwriting. At the top was the current date then the following message:

Four days prior, the Room of Revitalization was activated due to the physical and emotional distress of one Samuel Winchester. (MOL Legacy, descendant of Henry Winchester) As per protocol 158-B the RoR provided comfort based on Samuel’s subconscious needs, releasing him once his chronic fatigue had lessened to acceptable levels.

In order to avoid future reoccurrences of this problem, the following steps are recommended:

Samuel should make all reasonable attempts to sleep for a minimum of 7 hours each night, though 8 would be ideal.

His work-load should be lightened. High levels of mental stress were detected in addition to the physical fatigue.

Several unresolved emotional issues were also detected in relation to close-working colleagues or family members, and should be discussed with them to help improve overall morale.

Several hours each day should be set aside for leisure activities.

It is suggested he be sure to ingest 3 nutritionally-balanced meals per day as well as keep himself hydrated.

Attention to personal hygiene is not only good for the body, but for his and others’ morale as well.

Had matters continued unchecked, Samuel would likely have experienced a mental and/or emotional break, as well as causing physical damage from aforementioned fatigue. We hope he will take these recommendations to heart so further intervention can be avoided.

This concludes this report, and the Men of Letters hope Samuel found his stay in the Room of Revitalization enjoyable and restful.

The signature at the bottom was next to impossible to make out.

After everyone had read it, they looked back and forth between Sam and the “report”, and for his part, Sam felt his face heating with embarrassment.

After a few awkward moments, Dean cleared his throat. “So… Looks like this place has an automatic ship’s councilor and holodeck.” He winked at Sam. “Was there a hot-chick in a skin-tight grey pantsuit in there too?”

Huffing a laugh, Sam swatted at his brother, honestly grateful for the tension-release. “Yeah, you wish. Maybe your version would feature Councilor Troi.” He started walking back to the kitchen and the others followed.

~o~O~o~

Later on that day after Dean had personally seen to it that Sam ate a full breakfast and then shooed him off to the shower, they all said goodbye to Rowena then settled down in the library.

Despite Sam’s insistence that he “really was fine now” Dean, with both Cas and Jack fully backing him up, were adamant that at least some of Sam’s workload should get redistributed. By now he should know which people could be relied on to do what so he didn’t have to micromanage everything. Jack was actually very helpful with that, having several ideas as he’d been observing the AU Hunters for some while now. And after a phone conference with Maggie, she agreed to help with organizing the various hunting parties and everyone (including Dean) insisted that they would help out with research.

After that, seeming to sense that the brothers needed to talk alone, Cas offered to go with Jack on a food run and they headed out, though not without both again expressing how glad they were that Sam was back and okay.

Once the steel clang of the door heralded their departure an awkward silence fell between the two. Sam idly scraped at some wax that had dribbled onto the table, not meeting his brother’s eyes. “Look,” they both wound up saying at the same time. After a brief chuckle, Dean gestured for Sam to go ahead. Nodding a little, the younger brother again fixed his eyes on the tabletop and the wax. “I’m sorry. Really. I know how worried you must have been.”

Dean was about to open his mouth, ask if he really did but then paused, considering, and…. Yeah. Sam would know how he’d felt. All the times Dean had died, or vanished, or been angel-napped? And then it hit him just WHAT Sam was apologizing for. “Sam. No.”

His brother looked up at that, his brows furrowed, clearly about to say something but Dean held up his hand, silently asking him to let him talk. “Look, I’m not happy that I spent four friggin’ days not knowing where the hell you were, but I’m glad it happened. Man, I know you’ve been pushing yourself. And I shoulda seen it sooner, I should have noticed how bad it was getting. And I’m glad that that “Room of Requirements” or whatever-”

“Room of Revitalization,” Sam corrected, but Dean waved it off and continued on.

“I’m glad IT at least noticed, and did something before it was too late. And… well, I want you to know, if you… you know. Need to talk…”

Sam half smiled but shook his head. “Dean… really. It’s okay. It’s just… lots of stuff is going on. I want to help Jack more, but I don’t know how. I can tell Mom’s still having problems but I don’t know how to help her either. I’m worried about whatever it is Michael is planning. I’m worried Jack’s going to run into problems eventually with his soul.”

Dean didn’t miss the expression that flashed across his brother’s face for just a moment there, that almost haunted look. He’d never really asked him what all he remembered from being soulless, but it was at times like these when he figured it was more than probably either of them would like. He was also aware of the one thing Sam wasn’t saying, the one person in his list of people he was worried about that he hadn’t mentioned. And he could pretty-well guess why.

Ever since Dean had come back, his possession, what he’d actually experienced and even more so how he felt about it, had been the proverbial elephant in the room with them. He knew Sam wanted him to talk about it, and he had to an extent… but he was also painfully aware of certain aspects of the whole situation that neither of them had come close to addressing; aspects of it that he tried to avoid even thinking about. Because even more so than the horror of what he’d experienced at Michael’s hands, what really got to him, and what lay curled somewhere deep in his gut was the knowledge now of just WHAT it was that he’d done to his brother all those years ago. But he knew Sam would never press him about it, and he just… he couldn’t talk about it. He still couldn’t talk about it.

So, taking a deep breath, he nodded. “Yeah, I get all that. Some of it you can’t really help with though, as much as you want to. Some people… well, they have to figure out their own shit, you know?” He met his brother’s eyes, hoping he’d hear what he wasn’t saying. “Sometimes, even if you know what someone else is going through, they still have to go through it on their own. They have to find their own ways to deal with it. But trust me… They know you care.”

Sam met his gaze and slowly nodded, letting what was unspoken remain that way.

Dean managed a half smile though. “But hey, maybe with Jack you two should go do something together. Hang out. Remind him that you aren’t just the “Rules Dad”, but the one who seems to really get him.”

Sam nodded, returning the half smile, though it seemed genuine. “Yeah… I think that sounds like a good idea.”

“Also,” Dean leveled a stern look at his little brother, “under absolutely NO circumstances are you to get anything less than 7 hours of sleep a night.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, 6 is standard for hunters. And I can make due on 5 without problems.”

“Nuh-uh.” Dean was already shaking his head. “I’ll have Cas knock you out if I have to, but you’re getting your sleep. We’re not risking this happening again.” “Well, what about you then?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“What about me?” Dean tried to look innocent but he had a feeling it wasn’t really working.

“Come on Dean, you barely get 4 hours if you’re lucky.”

“Hey, I’m not the one the Room of Recharging or whatever-”

“Revitaliztion.”

“Right, I’m not the one it cherry-picked for some enforced R&R…”

Their debate continued on in typical sibling fashion, but it was clear that most of the tension in the situation, at least for now, had been released. The spellwork that had been laid into the very walls of the Bunker long ago reverted back to its dormant phase as the crisis threatening one of its inhabitants was averted for the time being. But it would activate again if the need ever arose. Because Men of Letters tended to be a stubborn lot, and working themselves into the ground seemed to be a universal trait among them, which was why the room had been conceived in the first place. The Bunker watched over its own.

[demethinkstoomuch]

Learning To Read, Pt 6: F is for Faerghus

Chapters: 6/26 (7/26 on AO3) Fandom: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Fire Emblem Series Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro Characters: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Dedue Molinaro, Gustave Dominic, Original Characters, Rufus Blaiddyd Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Canon Compliant, Grief, Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Angst, Fluff, Tragedy of Duscur, Racism, Developing Feelings, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Blue-Lions Typical Mental Illness

Summary:

A series of 26 alphabetically-titled vignettes examining the period where, in the wake of The Tragedy of Duscur, Dimitri taught Dedue to read: a time in which they learned about each other, and the rules of their relationship, perhaps more than about books.

Read on AO3!

A is For Ambiguity

B is for Book

C is for Commendation

D is for Dining

F is for Faerghus

The woman who called herself Cornelia Arnim considered this whole affair to be something of a fiasco, even if the potential for instability from the regency council was immense . But the council was giving her a headache. It was just a cold room full of sycophantic pigs snorting the air at the smell of fresh slop. They weren’t terribly interesting as puppets or tools, the newly-minted regent and his collection of cronies. They couldn’t even recognize that they were pigs, and wasn’t that just sad? None of them were grand noblemen; the room didn’t have a Fraldarius or a Gautier, or even just an equal in terms of clout. Also, at least one of them — one of the regent’s drinking buddies (which described about 2/3rds of the room), a minor noble who’d run in Rufus’ circle since his own academy days — seemed unaware of the fact that she was not there for his personal amusement.

But she smiled sweetly at him from across the table, and tried to think of how best to use him. Cornelia Arnim’s body had its advantages as a lure, at least, even if the fish weren’t the ones she was hoping for. If she needed to get anyone that way, it’d be the man himself. She’d been planning that the Agarthans would have owned Faerghus by now, using the dear ickle prince’s secret stepmother, wise and noble, stepping into the limelight for the first time. Obviously not the real thing, she was much too whiny and sentimental, depressing and depressed — and this was Cornelia’s opinion as the woman who had had to lure in Patricia. It had been stunningly easy, which had made the plan seem viable. Patricia had wanted so terribly to see her little girl again; she’d offered that wish for Cornelia to use however she liked. They’d spoken with other nobles, ones who were so wildly ambitious that they dreamt of freezing time so their precious kingdom would always be theirs. Ones so hungry they wanted to devour the land. They’d promised Patrcia she’d get what she really wanted, if she was only willing to take a little risk.

The plan had been, obviously, that Patricia would never see her little girl again. Or anyone else, for that matter. The attack from the nobles’ henchmen went off without a hitch. They’d even kept the prince alive, if only just, which would have made things easier. (Now, she wasn’t sure if it was something she wanted. He might have to be neutralized somehow, was the thing.) But after they’d walked Patricia away from the carnage and killed her in secret, that was where things went wrong. Because those moronic soldiers showed up, some detached battalion catching up a little too late. Their absurd vengeance culture rearing its head like a bunch of sharks smelling blood in the water. That pathetic Gustave had arrived too early. They hadn’t had time to get their Patricia ready for her miraculous survival, and so, Patricia simply had not survived in any form. All they had to show for it was the slaughter of an entire town and a sizable power vacuum currently being stuffed with hot air. Which wasn’t bad, necessarily, there was some quality chaos and a lot of raw material, but it was second place. But there were advantages.

Such as the scene playing out before her right now — once you tossed out the more worthless parts, like 90% of the animals littering this room. One of the more studious members of the council — it paid for anyone important to have at his command some little man with nervous energy, bookish disposition, and the patience for paperwork, and Rufus for the time being had this one — was explaining a situation. The son of a minor nobleman had been, according to contacts with official church messengers sent to observe and aid while the kingdom was in this transitional stage, found to be involved as a conspirator in the Tragedy. This was, and about half the room knew it, not remotely true.

“Your Highness,” asked the obligatory bookish man to the regent, “What would you like to do concerning Lord Lonato’s son?”

“...They say he was involved in the king, my brother’s, murder, do they?” asked Rufus, lifting his head from his hand, and sitting back upright in his chair. He was popular with women for a reason, besides his loose spending — the Blaiddyd men bred tall and prone to tapering appealingly from strong shoulder to toned waist, and Rufus had kept himself in that same shape as he’d entered into his early 40s — his face was lined slightly, marked at his eyes and the corners of his mouth with the careless smiles of an adult life lived with abandon. His hair was warmer than his brother’s or nephew’s, not cool blond that had darkened from an infant ice-white, but a vividly red-gold color that blazed thick and sunny all throughout his life. 

“That’s as they report,” answered the man. “They are, of course, offering themselves as aid in the matter of capturing him, while we’re so short-handed.”

“Let them, then. I’m sure their information is accurate.” Rufus brought his chin back down onto his hand. Of course, Cristophe Gaspard had nothing to do with any of this. About half the room knew it, and some of them were so faint of heart they looked shocked or appalled. What precious little cowards. Cornelia made a note about them for later. 

“My lord,” said one, tentatively. “Lord Lonato was once a knight in your service, was he not? As his lord...” 

The other half of the room, the half that didn’t know, looked righteous, and one of them answered first in defense of his lord.

“If Lord Lonato allowed his son to contemplate such monstrosity, then he has betrayed both his lord the archduke and his lord the king; what he ought to do is take revenge into his own hands!”

“I intend to. But not concerning Christophe.” Rufus looked only like he was shoving away a boring chore. As it was: this would let the church think they were busy with something, that was all. “We have more significant action that must be taken than to concern ourselves with him.”

“Ah, yes. Lord Kleinman has a report, Your Highness. It appears emissaries from Duscur’s council of aldermen have come to him seeking peace terms.”

“He should have sent them on to me, not a report.” Rufus glowered. “I am regent.”

“He already knows your answer though, right?” said one man with too much of a smile. He chuckled. “He’s the one dishing out the punishment. You can’t possibly go and fight yourself.”

“I can!” Rufus snarled, pounding the table with his fist. Papers and mugs of beer shook as the whole structure rattled. That was why they couldn’t just replace a Blaiddyd — even the crestless ones had surprising strength. And the ones with crests were beyond even that, monsters in human skin. Their experiments, Solon had told her, were showing real results now, but they weren’t going that well . Rufus’s strength bristled under his shirt-sleeves as the old nerve in him, one she’d have thought killed by drink and sex, reeled as it was struck. “I can, and so I must, or none will believe it of me!”

Everyone was silent until he sat back down, drained his beer and handed the tankard to a servant to have it filled again.

“His part in this measure may be great, but he must remember who has the crown’s authority if he is to receive the crown’s reward.” His cheeks were just the tiniest bit flush when he proclaimed that, the color fading slightly in the next moment.

“Ah, my lord…” said a secretary, who’d been standing by the door with a look of apprehension.”Prince Dimitri has been outside for some time now, demanding to see you. Again. Should I let him in?”

A few people made pitying noises. Rufus dug the heel of his palm into his forehead, preparing himself for what was to follow. He had been avoiding the prince’s efforts to speak to him seriously for some time now. Since the boy had gotten back up onto his feet, more or less. Cornelia had been politely helping him with that, citing the prince’s condition as a reason not to let them talk. ‘He’s been so traumatized after all, we don’t want to upset him further.’ That kind of thing.

“Very well, bring him in.” Rufus sighed. That story couldn’t go on forever, nice as it was for him not to deal with that child. His little brother’s son. 

There were probably people who hadn’t seen the prince properly since the tragedy, and they looked appalled when the drawn little figure entered the room — which was, in its own ways, comical. They had just casually tossed a young man to his death not a moment ago; now, one grave-looking boy was enough to tug at their heartstrings? He’s not even doing that badly anymore! He only trembled a little as he strode forward, as much anger as nerves. 

“Uncle, you must put a stop to this violence,” the prince proclaimed. Oh, yes. He needed to be handled, one way or another.

 ***

“You can’t do this!” “I know what I saw!” Those shouts, high and shattered with fury, had resounded from the walls behind Dedue for a long time, and more besides. Dimitri fought alone in a room where men too important to look at Dedue discussed whether Faerghus would end the retaliation against Duscur now or throw the full weight of the crown’s knights into it. Eventually, there came a wooden cracking noise like a tree collapsing and a great clatter from inside — metal, glass, wood tumbling down onto the stone. The regent’s council shouted in frustration and disgust, their words muffled until only tone remained.

The lady Cornelia had seen Dimitri out after that sound, with Dimitri clutching his left arm as a nasty bruise welled up through it, still shouting. She’d handed Dimitri over with a reminder not to get too worked up; if the arm continued to hurt, she’d have to check it for re-fracturing. 

“I understand you’re upset, Your Highness, but you will have to apologize for the table when you calm down, okay?” She’d said, patting him on the shoulder. She glanced at Dedue, cold and dismissive. Dedue glared back, but she tossed out her order without regard. “You. Keep an eye on him.”

 Dimitri hadn’t responded sensibly. He’d cried and he’d shouted, still carrying out his arguments. His apologies and shouts had given Dedue time to sit them both down on the steps, try and recover his own wits. He felt at once stunned and a gnawing cold misery: He should have known.

 Dimitri’s words had been barely coherent enough for Dedue to assemble what had gone on. They’d said Dimitri was confused. That he hadn’t seen what he said he’d seen — he hadn’t seen his father’s killers the way he thought he had. Not if he said they weren’t from Duscur. The king’s life must be paid for. So the war would not be postponed, would not be stopped, not if he could not produce names for the regent that showed the people of Duscur innocent. 

But he could not produce names. So all he could do was insist and shout and plead until he was like this, his voice worn to shreds, his arm aching, his whole being unfocused and unraveled. The blood would be spilled. That was all there was to it: what other price for a king was there?

“I don’t know who they were... Father, how can this be for you, when it has nothing to do with your killers?! How can you want innocent people to die?!” Dimitri muttered into the echoing expanse. The stairway stretched out before them, descending away from the formal council room into an open hall. The sounds of people were distant, muffled by stone walls. Dedue didn’t attempt to answer him yet. He wasn’t sure he could have. And so Dimitri went on. “...I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll get it right. I will. I’m....” He shut his eyes, lowering his head into his hands. “I’m sorry, Dedue.”

This was the first time Dimitri had acknowledged him, and so Dedue had to finally try and find something to say. Everything in him was squeezed tense — his shoulders, his gut, his jaw were all tight, and it was hard to find a way around it.

“It is not your war,” he answered, eventually. A sigh parted his lips. Dedue could only stare upwards at the great, vaulted ceiling. He was not used to feeling small.

 “If I’d only been calmer, would they have believed me?” Dimitri asked, the fury of his voice inward. Dedue was not sure if he entirely believed Dimitri, either. He would have liked to, but Dedue wasn’t entirely sure how to trust his mind; in moments like these, when everything was so close to the surface, it seemed like a ship tossed on the waves. Everything that day had been so confused. Instead, he shrugged. His feet descended down another step, his long legs slipping from their fold. The floor was a great way down.

“Not if they would not think about you when you are...hurt,” is what he said, his voice deliberate, stiff, quiet. He couldn’t say what he was feeling; he didn’t want to. Just let it flatten like a plain until he could build something useful on it. “Perhaps once they have had a battle, they will be tired of it. It will stop.”

“It shouldn’t be happening at all!” Dimitri answered. Obviously, but that wasn’t helpful, save spiritually. “If we could stop it before a true war breaks out, then it’d be OK!” He lifted himself back up to his feet, wincing from his arm. Dedue half-turned to watch the prince pace.”What if I ran away?”

“Where?” Dedue raised an eyebrow.

“To the border, of course! My uncle might be in charge here, but I am the crown prince… And the common soldiers and knights agitate for my father’s sake. The fools,” Dimitri’s eyes narrowed, bitter words breaking through his clenched jaw. His footfalls bounced off the stone. “But surely, they’d listen?” 

The idea had allure; it shimmered between them as a gossamer dream, intangible as light, but just as real. 

“Perhaps…” Their eyes met and held one another, hope sparking for a moment; they’d pack in the dead of night. They’d hurry there, as swiftly as they could, carried on the wind; speak with passion and valor; be heard by people who must have been, in their own ways, simply trying to do what seemed just. 

Dedue tore his eyes away from it. It hurt more than he wanted it to.

“No, you should not.” It stung to say, but the truth had sunk in.

“Why not?” Dimitri’s voice lifted, his footsteps coming to a halt.

“You are not well enough to travel alone. We would be slow and caught together.” Dimitri was much recovered now, at least physically, but a country away was too far. Dimitri knew that and sagged with a shake of his head. 

“...If we were caught, you would certainly bear the brunt of consequences as if you’d kidnapped me,” he said, to Dedue’s surprise. He hadn’t thought about what would happen to him . “I don’t want to imagine what would happen to you, or to everyone else as a result.”

“Hm. Second, even if you managed to move the soldiers and knights… If you cannot move their leaders, they will find more soldiers,” Faerghus was a rack of swords; Faerghus was a place where they said children of their high families learned to fight from the time they were born. The leaders themselves could fight best of all. So there would always be more until there was no one left. 

 “I hate this.” Dimitri’s gaze eventually broke, and he dropped himself back down onto the steps next to Dedue. It should have been a relief to hear — it prickled up against him instead, like a leg half-asleep. Tears weren’t dripping down Dimitri’s face, but they bubbled through as he spoke, his hands covering his face. When his hands dropped, slowly, they left red, scratchy trails. “I hate being so weak. People are going to die — not just soldiers, but fathers and mothers and —! Doesn’t anyone care?”

Part of Dedue was glad Dimitri cared, even if it meant watching him tearing himself to pieces like this. Part of Dedue felt Dimitri’s hands, only closing on air, grabbing him and pulling his heart, and he didn’t want that. He wanted nothing. Dedue’s teeth found his inner lip and bit down on it, unsure which part should win. It was a tiring battle. 

“You do,” he answered, unable to catch what feeling with which he meant it. The feeling in his voice wasn’t relieved, but he went on, “And I need this of you.” He reached out to grab Dimitri’s hands, take them back from the edge before they did more damage. 

“Of course,” Dimitri’s answer was more confused than confident. The hands in Dedue’s grip went slack, stopped resisting. They were limp and lost and defeated. Dedue let them retreat back to Dimitri’s lap. Dimitri had turned to watch Dedue’s face. His eyes looked clearer than they had since he’d gone in the other room — clear enough to see the way Dedue’s jaw was clenched tight and how Dedue hated it, clear enough to see the way his eyelids trembled with what he could not keep holding back. Things clicked, it seemed, and Dedue was surprised to hear Dimitri sniffle back a tear. “I’m sorry; it’s selfish of me to go on like this, when it’s so hard on you. But I refuse to surrender, and neither should you.”

“So what will you do? Will you continue to ask?” He tried to ignore the matter of himself, of how hard it was . He rested his hand on the stone, shutting his eyes and feeling its polished surface under his hand. His fingertips brushed over little pits and light flecks marring the darker shades. Dedue envied it — cold and quiet and stable; it hadn’t so much as warmed under him. It endured everything, and it felt nothing. It didn’t wonder if that place was home, even with nothing left for him but memories that toyed with comforting and hurting him. It didn’t have to remember. It didn’t clench itself, toes to teeth, when the memories of swords and fire still echoed, summoned by the flames burning miles away, summoned by the sound of knights, summoned by the knowledge that right behind him, at that moment, were men who would toss a world into that fire if it only satisfied their blood. It could simply not have those feelings when it couldn’t do anything about them. 

“If I can start by clearing the names of the people of Duscur…  Then there surely everyone will see sense. I know there are people who don’t want this — they can’t . But everyone is hurt and frightened. If they understand, then we can make peace and make things right!” He insisted, clenching his hands over the air. But he didn’t begin to scratch himself again. “I owe it to you, and everyone who died, and everyone who will die. I will… try to remember anything that could point to their true identities. I know it might not be heard at all. Fools. Fools.” Dimitri shook his head, his eyes tightening. His hands balled into white-knuckled fists, tremors running through them. Dedue pressed his hand harder onto the stone, trying to block out what was creeping in him like the first freeze. How hopeless it all was — someone who had actual courage, trying to plead for human lives with men like that.  “But I can’t stand for Faerghus’ justice to be used as nothing but a cudgel.”

And Dedue’s hand slipped off the step. His knuckles, so tense they could have burst through his skin, scraped against it. The tendons in his neck froze into place, wound like a clock whose springs went tighter and tighter, until finally — he snapped. 

“That is what it is,” he said, voice plain and simple, and finally dropping a weight. He didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Why was he saying this? It would be easier if he didn’t. His throat tightened like it might choke him. “They do not want your words to matter, and so, they will not work. What they wish for is battle. What happens next is of no consequence to them. 

“Perhaps some it is just.” He almost tossed the words at Dimitri, whose eyes were wide and staring, wounded at not being believed even by Dedue. Then they drew nearly to a close, softly, which was worse. He must have seen how misty Dedue looked. He felt like an avalanche, moving downhill — his words came with a building momentum, inexorable.“I cannot judge. I know that Duscur is like anywhere, maybe even here… There are good and bad people. Murderers. Children. But it is all the same to them. How could it ever stop?”

 He took a long breath, found it harder than he expected; it sputtered and broke before becoming deep enough. He was not yet crying — but he understood, he would. He couldn’t stop anymore; he’d broken at last, and now he could simply keep sliding down into his own depths. Part of him wanted to stop. To keep going on with the life he’d found worth living after the people who’d made his life before were gone, pretending he’d never felt like this. He shut his hands tight. They were shaking with bottled-up feeling.

“I truly...hate it. All of it. I hate knowing what Faerghus can do, will do, has done . I hate being looked at the same as if I had killed your father myself.” But going on as if it weren’t true wouldn’t make it untrue — still. He felt like as he pulled and pulled, it just went deeper. Feelings dark as night he hadn’t named , had put aside. It wasn’t hot — it was cold, so cold. It was drowning and freezing at once. He envied the stones, he really did: stones didn’t turn themselves over and see something they hated. “I hate the way I am spoken of… They way only I could not be let by your side when you were hurt, because of them… And —”  His eyes fell on Dimitri, then, and he understood. There was nothing that feeling did not touch. He recalled the way Dimitri’s feelings could drag his own out of him, and now — now that face, lips tense, eyebrows set gravely, and eyes red-rimmed and so, so sad for him — so uninjured by all Dedue had said, save that he didn’t believe. So undefended, like Dedue could plunge in a knife.

 “...I hate how ugly I am, to feel the way I do,” Dedue croaked, unable to look at that gods-cursed face a moment longer. He couldn’t change how he felt, not anymore, but he could stop. He could turn away; it would just have to be bolted up inside of him, turning his innards black with frostbite. 

“I think you’re right to be angry,” Dimitri answered, which made it all worse. “You’re right to hate all of this...What happened that day, what’s happened since, is monstrous, and nothing else. Even if no one else sees that right now, I…” His voice was shaking. Still somehow, Dedue was the one with the knife in him when Dimitri said, “feel like that, too. I don’t mean to say they compare, but… I think your fury just.”

“Dimitri, you do not understand.” He was unable to bolt it in if Dimitri kept dragging it out — stop, just stop. “It is still uglier than that… To hate all that I hate.”

“Oh.” Dimitri’s face briefly slackened, until it somehow — worse than anything — masked itself in a bland little smile, the smile of the Prince of Faerghus. Even if it collapsed almost instantly, it had been placed. The eyebrows drawn sadly together, the smile reaching his eyes not happily, but with soft self-deprecation. ”Me.”

“...I do not know if it is hate. I do not know the right word.” He knew just the right word in his own language, and said it aloud then — a word that meant something that ground you like wheat in a mill until you were bitter and tired.

 It hung there in the air, waiting for something, but all Dimitri could do was shake his head. He couldn’t translate that one, either. Before Dimitri could say anything, Dedue held up his hand. The feeling was awake, alive, trapped under his ribs and locked up in his lungs, his neck, his closed-off teeth. The borrowed tongue fell away from him, then he returned to his own. Dimitri would have to keep up, to guess over gaps in his knowledge of the language, as Dedue so often had to with him. He couldn’t say it any other way. 

“<I am… mad at you, sometimes. Something like that, anyway. I’m mad at who you are and what you mean.

“<You are the ‘prince’ of Faerghus. And this is so important that I’m unworthy of you to everyone . You bear their name! They kill for that name, for your father’s name, for that title I barely understand! Your good name is… so precious to them. But when the time comes…>” Turning this on Dimitri hurt. But that truth also hounded him — it leapt up his closed-off throat.  He hurried over the words, not looking to see if he was understood. Dimitri did not try to stop him — good enough. “<It’s all meaningless. It’s all useless . It’s cruel to ask you to carry this, but if you can’t, then no one will. I see that, now. It’s cruel that you’re the only one there is to ask.

“<And…Sometimes, I’m mad at you because I think…>”Dedue’s feelings crested, swelling up in his chest until they pounded against him, and came out the only way they could. Hot tears pooled in his eyes and dropped smoothly down. His voice was small and hoarse, a pained whisper. “<Why me, Dimitri? Why not save someone else?>” 

The bit of Dedue that pounded against his breastbone like a maddened, captured bird wanted Dimitri to not understand. Or more; say Dedue had no right to feel that way about his savior, or to say he did the best he could, or to say there was some reason for it to be him — some divine reason, some calculated reason, some reason less or more than that even the life of a stranger could be precious. Then Dedue could be truly mad at him, truly angry, then he could admire Dimitri a little less, care for him a little less, cut Faerghus into one great bloody clump and hate it all with a chill he’d hardly known was there until this moment, when he looked it in that hollow-eyed face. 

And when the hate had wrung out of him like tears, he really could turn his heart into stone.

But Dimitri didn’t say that. Not a word of it. Instead, he frowned, his eyes gone soft teardrop blue. He almost reached out a hand, but though it hovered in the space between them for a moment, it retreated to fall back onto his lap.

“I know that, for everyone I could not save then and cannot save now, there is neither excuse nor forgiveness. It would be mad, not to hate me after how much we’ve hurt you...There’s nothing ugly about it.” Dimitri stared at the hand he had almost reached out, his expression still somewhere far away from it. The silence stretched until he looked Dedue head-on again, a sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he whispered, small and hoarse,  “It’s OK.”

 Something thawed out inside him at those words, easing into the shelter they gave him.  It was OK. Nothing could make its way out of Dedue save tears. Silent, marked only by the faintest tremor that ran through him. It was OK. That black frost was still somewhere inside of him, and that was OK. Dimitri’s answer took him by the hand and warmed him, piece by piece, massaging his jaw until it let go, until his fingers and toes unclenched, until that feeling had surrendered him. All the things he’d gambled on Dimitri’s answer, all the things he’d considering throwing aside, all the rest of him came back to meet him, shocking as a spring flood — his heart, his hope, his life. 

His shoulders shook; his throat worked to make a breathless whine. Dimitri’s hand reached for him, and Dedue slumped into the touch wordlessly. Stone could never be warmed like this, not if it sat in the sun a million years.

“I won’t give up. I swear. I swear. I...I’m sorry you have to ask that. I’m so sorry.” Dimitri murmured, voice bare. And this, too, was a hurt stone couldn’t know. He had survived. They had survived, and this was all the reason that there was for it. Dimitri’s body heat was added to Dedue’s side as he, all the parts of the Prince of Faerghus that were simply Dimitri, leaned his head against Dedue’s shoulders. When Dedue didn’t shift away, a sob tore from him. He looked up through lashes only a little darker gold than the rest of him, blue summer skies streaked through with cloudy tears. He whispered something from the back of his throat. . “It really is a painful thing to wonder, isn’t it?”

 All Dedue could say for his understanding was in the way he leaned his own weight against Dimitri’s side. The smaller boy didn’t fold or crumple, but stayed, their figures leaned close to one another. His tears fell onto Dimitri’s hair as they slid down his face; Dimitri’s tears pooled against Dedue’s neck. It was regret and hurt in them, hate and frustration. They were surprisingly warm. The boys huddled on each other’s shoulder, there on the steps before the regent’s council chamber. When the adults exited, they would have to go around. The two of them wouldn’t be moved just yet. He didn’t have to move. He didn’t have to attempt to stop. For a long time, they simply wept for a world they could not change. They didn’t speak another word until all the tears had been wrung out from the bottom of Dedue’s heart, from Dimitri’s heart, from the burning plains of Duscur, miles and miles away.

[maybe-a-little-wicked]

GOT season 8 spoiler rant ahead: Why Sansa and Daenerys hating each other is dumb.

Forewarning: This is long.

We all know the show done did Dany dirty. It’s probably the thing most of have  hated about season 8 the most. Even people who don’t like Dany have disagreed with how her storyline has unfolded, and some even found themselves rooting for her when they didn’t like her earlier on. 

But you wanna know what else REALLY burns me? 

The relationship between Sansa and Daenerys. 

I think most people can agree when I say that the two characters who have undoubtedly suffered the most on Game of thrones would be Sansa and Daenerys. Similarly, they are also perhaps the characters who have overcome the most odds and managed to come out on top despite the horrors they suffered. 

In a lot of ways, their stories parallel. 

Both of them were horrifically raped, sexually, physically, emotionally, and mentally abused by terrible men. Both of them were ‘sold’ for the benefits of a man. They were both beaten, humiliated, and forced to overcome atrocities. Both have been held captive. Both have been manipulated. 

Both have committed terrible acts themselves. 

Sansa stans can say what they want; letting someone be devoured by dogs and smiling about it is just about on the same level of burning a witch lady alive because she killed your husband and unborn child. 

These two characters have suffered the same crimes committed against them, and yet they don’t get along. Sansa immediately hated Daenerys, and it doesn’t really make sense. 

I mean, sure, Sansa is cautious. That makes sense. She’s also pissed at Jon for not listening to her and bending the knee to a foreign ruler. She also probably can’t help but worry about Daenerys being another Cersei, but Sansa is not the type of person to act so blatantly rude to someone with more power than her. 

She learned the game, didn’t she? Even if she didn’t like Daenerys in the beginning, she would’ve hidden it a lot better than she did. 

Then, Daenerys extends an olive branch. And for a moment, it seems like the two might start to get along. That ends when Sansa brings up the North. Not entirely out of character; Sansa cares about the North, she protects it. But again, Sansa has learned diplomacy. 

Also, I don’t really agree with Daenerys’ reaction either. Yeah, Daenerys has a temper, it’s true. I don’t think anyone, even Daenerys stans, would disagree with that. She’s also been known to have trouble with people who question her authority, which I would personally say is fair, given how she started out. But Daenerys has also been shown to have a softer side, especially with women and people who had experienced similar suffering to her own. It’s clear from what she said later on ‘She’s changed’ and ‘not after what they did to her,’ that Daenerys knows, to some extent, the terrible things that happened to Sana. 

Yes, Daenerys doesn’t want her claim to the throne contested, but she also has been shown to show a lot more understanding and compassion to people like Sansa. Why didn’t Daenerys try to speak to Sansa about who Daenerys wanted to be as a Queen? Explained to her that ‘I know you’ve experienced terrible things. I have too. That’s why I want to be Queen; I want the world to be better.’ 

Furthermore, this idea of Sansa judging Daenerys by her parents doesn’t exactly make much sense? Sansa has never before shown an inclination towards such behavior, and after all of the people she met and experienced, she learned that sometimes the monsters can actually be good, just as the ‘good’ can actually be monsters. I mean, look at Sandor. Sansa obviously never held a grudge, and was even grateful that he tried to help her. 

I think the biggest issue was the itty bitty lie Jon told in the beginning; he said to his people that in order to get help from Daenerys, he had to bend the knee, but Daenerys had ALREADY pledged her army and dragons to the Northern cause after she saw the Night King. Furthermore, I think it comes down to that part about being mad at Jon. As we saw in Season 7, Sansa was getting more and more frustrated with Jon not listening to her and ignoring her advice. My first thought was perhaps Sansa was more mad at Jon than Daenerys, but was taking her anger out on Daenerys, but they didn’t take this route even though it made more sense. 

But let’s fast forward a bit. Daenerys SAVED Winterfell. 

There’s a lot of debate about this on the internet I’ve noticed, but let me be clear, because it really is very simple: Winterfell and the North would not have survived without Daenerys’ army and dragons. 

Regardless of your arguments, that is the truth. 

Whether or not you think Daenerys had an obligation to the North or not, or whatever else, Daenerys didn’t have to go North. I’m not talking about on a moral level or anything, or what a Queen Claimant should or shouldn’t do. I’m saying that Daenerys as a character, regardless of her claimant or not, could’ve just said “well that doesn’t look like a fun battle, I hope you guys enjoy, I’m gonna go ahead and take King’s Landing and prepare it for the Night King. It’s much better fortified anyways.” 

But she didn’t. Why? Because contrary to what people like to claim, Daenerys does actually care about her people and her kingdoms, and she doesn’t like to see people suffer. 

Sansa also is not an idiot, as we’ve all seen time and time again. She would, on some level, at least recognize the truth of this. 

And so we get to the battle, and Arya kills the Night King, yes, but Daenerys and her armies and dragons were the tipping point for the battle. Arya never would’ve gotten to the Night king, perhaps not even survived long enough, to kill him if it weren’t for the fire power and more soldiers. 

Daenerys may not have killed the Night King, and she may have been in a pretty tricky situation near the end there, but let’s be clear: there wouldn’t have been a battle if she hadn’t been there. It would have been a massacre. 

And again, Sansa, being the smart and intelligent person she is, would recognize this. 

You would think after everything, she would’ve at least warmed to Daenerys a little, considering she saved the land and people she loves and cares for so much. 

But no, Sansa continues to hate her. Why? What point does it serve her or anyone else? 

The point is, it doesn’t make sense. These are two women who have so much in common and who were allies in a war, and yet, they’re frosty and cold to each other. (Sansa more than Daenerys) 

It’s the fucking narrative. D&D once again decided to ignore characterization or logic for their narrative, and I’m not okay with it. 

And neither should you. 

Also, both Sansa stans and Daenerys stans need to chill. (From what I’ve seen, maybe Sansa stans more, but I haven’t really seen the full extent of Daenerys stans hate on Sansa stans.) These are two characters who are extremely similar, and it’s ridiculous that the show pitted them against each other like this, and you shouldn’t give into D&D’s ridiculous narrative and pit two strong, resilient, trauma survivors against each other. 

Thank you for coming to my tedtalk.