#hackney moves

[loveintensely]

Jonathan Bailey, after completing the Hackney Half Marathon👀😍💪🏼 representing for LGBTQ+ youth charity, Just Like Us UK and successfully raising over £30,000 in May 2024!

Support, get involved or donate here: https://justlikeus.org

Never can get enough of ANY of this!👀🥵😍🫠🔥

[mayday505]

I hate nothing more than a bitch who pretends they’re a Londoner when they lived there when they were a baby like you don’t even remember that shit king how r u gonna pretend to know what Peckham is like.

[avocado-writing]

home

pairing: 14th doctor x reader & 10th doctor x reader

rating: E

notes: no gender or age given for reader, just that you last saw the doctor fifteen years ago. thank you to @mcganns for being my beta!!

This too shall pass.

It was a sentiment that you had to cling onto when he left, because fuck knows it was the most painful thing you’d ever felt. And you’d run away from actual explosions before. Big ones, in space! Supernovas which could eat entire planets while you hung onto the side of a little blue box. 

And yet none of it even begins to compare to when he fucking left you. 

He said it wouldn’t be forever. Well, he shouted it at you as you fell out of the TARDIS. There was a time explosion, and you got rocketed back to your little flat in the middle of Hackney, on Earth only a few days from when he’d picked you up — but in your reality months of adventure had passed. 

You’d not really settled back in, certain that he was going to come and rescue you. But then days turned into weeks into months and you finally accepted that the Doctor had abandoned you. 

So you went back to it all. Your mundane little existence before a mad, brilliant man had whisked you away. Your boss was a bit miffed that you’d gone AWOL but you were their best employee so they couldn’t afford to let you go, all you got was a slap on the wrist and a command not to let it happen again. The people you loved didn’t really seem to notice your absence that much, which stung; you couldn’t blame them though. You’d probably not miss you much either. 

The Doctor. He made you feel special in a way nobody had before. Like you were the centre of a whole, giant, fantastic universe, and he adored you for it. 

Still. 

No point mulling that over again, is there?

Fifteen years. Things did get better. You moved on eventually. But you still find your thoughts drifting back to him every once in a while, and that fragment of time you spent totally utterly in love with each other. When you think about the way he kissed you, without realising it you end up touching your lips.

No. No. Stop. 

The singing of the kettle snaps you back into reality, and you pour yourself a hot cuppa. Ah, tea. The antidote to everything. You go to turn the radio on for some company as you shift into your morning routine when you hear a knock at the door. 

Probably the postie. He’s a bit early today, you think, but make no more of it as you undo the latch and open the door. 

Your heart stops. 

Because there he is, of course. 

Older. Weathered. Not the young man you once knew but a grownup version of him, as exhausted by life as you are. 

You drop your mug. Quick as a flash the Doctor grabs it out of midair. The tea sloshes onto the floor but at least nothing gets shattered. 

He goes to look up at you, but his attention is drawn back to his hand. 

“I bought you this mug years ago,” he says, utterly amazed. 

You shut the door in his face. 

Well, you try to, anyway. But he sticks a foot in between the door and the frame, with one of those stupid Converse he always wears.

“I know you’re angry, I know. But please let me come in.”

It’s such an absurd statement you find yourself laughing, a high and desperate noise. 

“Absolutely not!” Actually, no. That’s not enough. “How dare you. Why are you even here?!”

“Because I wanted— I needed to see you.”

You still want to slam the door on him, but there’s a desperation to his voice that gives you pause. And when he looks at you with those sad, puppy-dog eyes? Those eyes as lined with age as you are?

Fuck. You’re so weak. 

So that’s how you find the Doctor sitting at your kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him. You lean against the counter, defences still up, eyeing him from over the top of your mug. He drums his fingers against the tablecloth. 

“I like your house. Your calendar is nice, I enjoy the kitten motif.”

“Don’t,” you spit, slamming the mug down and sloshing tea onto the floor, “don’t you dare. You don’t get to waltz back here and start telling me ‘oh, I enjoy your furnishings, haven’t you made a nice little life for yourself since I abandoned you!’ I let you in to speak your piece, though god knows why. Say it and be done.”

The Doctor looks deflated. His shoulders sag, mouth falls. You take a moment to properly look at him. He seems… tired. Tired in a way you never knew him to be when you went on your adventures. Part of you wants to offer comfort, but the other part of you wants to withhold it maliciously. Anything to make him feel the way you felt. 

“I looked for you,” is what he settles on, heavily. You didn’t expect that, and it knocks you. 

“What?”

“I did. After the explosion, I tried searching all over the galaxy for you. I didn’t know where - when - you’d ended up. I scanned and scanned but something stopped you from appearing on the TARDIS’s sensors. I think… the amount of artron energy emitted during the blast somehow cloaked you.”

You say nothing, your silence an invitation for him to continue his explanation. 

“It took years. Literal years, for me. Every spare moment I had, I dedicated to looking for you. Head buried in the circuitry of the TARDIS, trying to fix whatever was hiding you, gave myself a couple of nasty shocks too. And, when I finally tracked you down, I’d regenerated.”

You blink. Right. Yes. He’d explained that, but you’d never seen it with your own eyes. The same person, a different face. 

“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me if I didn’t look like me. But I had to try anyway, didn’t I? So I came here. To your house. I got myself all ready for it, knocked on your door… and found that you were married.”

Your fingers grip the counter. 

“Oh.”

“He seemed nice. Loved you a lot, as you deserved. And I couldn’t tell you I was back, could I? I saw you pottering around in the kitchen, making the tea - you were always the best at making tea - and you were happy. How could I ask you to leave that all, uproot the life you’d made for yourself, just to jump back in the TARDIS with me? How could I be so cruel? I couldn’t, could I. So I left again. Tried to move on. Like you did.”

You’re crying now. You can feel hot tears slide down your face and soak into your jumper. 

“Oh, Doctor,” you manage. You want to tell him so much. It feels like it might burst out of you. But instead you settle on:

“Why now?”

He smiles thinly. 

“Because somehow I got this face back, and I wanted to see you. I wanted to be selfish for once.”

You find yourself at the table, on the wonky chair opposite him, sliding your hand over to cover his. It’s rough and warm. Just like you remember. He says your name with reverence, but like it pains him. 

“I never stopped loving you. Ever. Through it all, every adventure, I knew it wasn’t complete because you weren’t there. It just wasn’t the same without wonderful, brilliant you,” he admits. He sounds defeated. It breaks your heart — or, actually, it might just put it back together again. 

A beat passes. His confession lingers in the air, heavy, thick and choking like smoke from an untameable fire. 

“His name was Simon. He was a baker. He was lovely, actually… and we got divorced two years ago.”

The Doctor’s brow furrows. 

“You… what… why?”

“Because he knew there was someone else I never really let go of. Someone else who, despite everything, I still loved.”

He looks you in the eyes, and you see something glimmer there that you long since gave up on. 

Hope. 

And then, suddenly, you’re kissing. 

It’s like nothing has changed. His lips are still rough and searching on yours, a hint of tongue giving away into more the deeper you entangle. He sits you up on the table and steps into the space left by your spread legs, and between each kiss he says your name. It’s full of adoration but lined with desperation, too. 

Like the kisses he gave you the first night you laid together, on a bed in his spaceship floating across the galaxy. When he buried himself inside you and you felt his two hearts beat in rhythm with your own. 

“Doctor…” you manage. 

Fuck. You need him. You didn’t realise how badly you needed him. You didn’t realise a piece of your soul has been missing this whole time, fucking torn out of you and leaving a jagged hole in its wake. And him, back, telling you he loves you and always has? You’re patched together like kintsugi. 

Your Doctor is the molten gold you need. 

“Please. I need to…” he’s so desperate he can barely get the words out, but you nod; he’s undoing the belt buckle of your jeans and pulling them off like they’re silk. When his thin waist meets yours you cross your ankles behind him and lock him into place, and his hands - a little fumbling, a little nervous to be mapping out the plain of you again - begin to trace your chest. You lean into his touch to let him know yes. This is okay. I want this. Make me whole again. 

His warm, rough palms slide under the hem of your shirt and lift it easily over your head, the only break in a while you take from your kiss. You let yourself grab his tie to bring him closer. He’s fully dressed still and you’re almost naked; you remember how he used to like that, enjoy feeling a bit more put together than you. Cheeky blighter. Still though, as his suit scratches your skin, you can’t say you don’t agree. 

However. In this instance he has far too many clothes. 

You tug at his jacket and he knows what you need, letting it fall to the floor with his tie and waistcoat following it. He ruts against you as he unbuttons his shirt a bit, not the whole way, but just enough for you to feel the warmth of his chest. He’s so skinny. You’ve always been a bit worried that, on one of your rougher days, you might snap him in half. You still are now, actually. 

Cupping his face in your hands you let your thumbs caress his cheekbones. Your Doctor. Older but the same. Just like you. 

You can feel him more than half-hard against your leg. No more time wasting. You need him. You need him, you need him, you need him. 

It doesn’t take long to undo his fly and have him in your hand. You’ll always be glad he chose this human anatomy. Though you’d love him no matter how he looks, there’s something wonderful about his cock as it is here. He lets his head fall forward onto your shoulder with a moan if your name. 

“Oh… you’re…”

“Mmm hmm,” you agree, a genuine smile passing your face for the first time in god knows how long. He’s just the right length and on the thick side, and you know what a delicious stretch he is when he pushes inside of you. You can’t wait to feel it again. A couple of pumps and he’s ready, dripping precome and a ruddy red. Another time you’d bend down and taste him, remind yourself what a Time Lord’s cock is like. But now today. Well, not now. 

You lay back, readjusting yourself so he can push your underwear to the side and find your entrance. A couple of fingers - those long, delicate, clever and cunning fingers - press inside you and test you out. You’re ready for him. He makes a choked noise in the back of his throat as he realises and you laugh, properly, throwing your head back. 

“Come on, Doctor. Show me that you’ve missed me.”

He used to never shut up. And now he’s stunned into a desperate silence, lining up with you and pushing in as he does his best to make you feel what he’s been feeling too. 

A loneliness is fixed. He slides home inside you and your hips meet, the both of you letting out a long and ragged breath. You sit there for a moment, locked in the most intimate embrace, and just feel each other. You fist your hands in his shirt. He’s here. He’s real. You feel him trace his palm up your back as if you assure himself of the same thing. 

Slowly he begins to move. It is a long and lovely drag, his cock hitting all the points you missed being touched, and when he feels you gasp he goes harder. The Doctor nuzzles into the skin of your neck, nestling to the warmth of you there, and you hear him repeat a mantra both of your name and “I love you”.

Over and over. As if the two phrases are inextricably linked. 

You’re so full. You’re so light. Everything feels perfect in this moment. And when he reaches between your bodies to touch your sex, push you to the edge, you know you’ll climax for him embarrassingly fast. 

When you come you see stars light up behind your eyes. The sky, the unfiltered and untamed sky takes you over. The Doctor says your name one final fine and releases inside you, his hips riding it out as if to savour every second in the sweet grip of you. 

He can’t look at your face when he asks you. He says it from the safety of your shoulder where his face is buried, because if you say no you know his heart will shatter. 

“Come with me, in the TARDIS again. I know I shouldn’t ask you to leave your home but… you complete me, you know. Always have.”

“Leave my home?! Doctor, don’t be daft. This is just a house in bloody Hackney. You’re my home.”

You pull back to meet his gaze. He’s tired, but bright. His eyes twinkle. And there’s the Doctor you know. 

“And of course,” you continue. And, as the smile engulfs his face and he lights up, “it’s not like I’m doing anything else, am I?”

This time, when you go AWOL from your job, you never come back. 

[brokenxmachine]

I'm gonna leave my body (moving up to higher ground)

I'm gonna lose my mind (history keeps pulling me down)

FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE performing "Leave My Body" live at Hackney Empire, UK (2011) // source

[barrenclan]

What kind of characters or dynamics would you like to see more often in WC fanworks/OCs? Your characters are pretty unique in their backstories and dynamics with others, so I'd like to hear your thoughts.

Well thank you! I suppose I'd like to see more people willing to push the boundaries of the series, rather than relying on the tropes, plotlines, and character types that come directly from the book. I think Warriors fancomics are at their most effective when they use the book only as a framework to move within, and it also helps avoid picking up the worst traits of the book (hackneyed plots, sexism, racism, nonsensical motivations, etc., take your pick).

I think, perhaps, some fans of Warrior Cats need to read books other than Warrior Cats and similar YA xenofiction, and that will help them develop a better literary diet and write more unique characters, if you like the ones I create.

Doe of Deadwood is a phenomenal comic, and one of the direct inspirations for me making comics at all. Highly recommend!

[moss-the-irishman]

Riordanverse race/nationality headcanons (Main characters and background characters alike)

This may be a very long post, and I’m throwing in little tidbits about appearances, so with no regard to any particular order, strap in:

(Seriously, this is a huge post)

Edit: Changed Luke from just Korean American to mixed Argentinian/Korean American, inspired by @tagthescullion

The Seven (Including Nico and Reyna):

Percy Jackson: Biracial White/Latino, Cuban American (Sally was born in Havana, she had Percy shortly after moving to the US)

Annabeth Chase: Biracial Black/White, Irish/African American (with Swedish, Ghanaian and Polish descent)

Jason (And Thalia, by extension) Grace: White German American (Beryl moved from Germany to the US)

Piper McLean: Native American, Cherokee

Leo Valdez: Latino, Mexican, Born in Texas

Hazel Levesque: Black, African American, New Orleans (1940's French Creole)

Frank Zhang: Chinese Canadian, Vancouver

Nico Di Angelo: White, Italian with Russian descent, 1920’s Venice

Reyna Avila Ramirez Arellano: Latina, Puerto Rican

Camp Half Blood:

Will Solace: Biracial White/Bangladeshi American, Texas

Luke Castellan: Mixed Argentinian/Korean American (Born in the US, May (or Mi-Hee) grew up in a Argentine Korean community in Buenos Aires before she moved to the US and met Hermes)

Malcolm Pace: White with albinism, Scottish, Glasgow

Travis and Connor Stoll: Mixed Scottish and Laotian, Edinburgh (Source: @freddie-77-ao3)(I think in the TV show, they cast two Asian boys as the Stolls, so I've made them Asian)

Alice Miyazawa: Japanese American, Los Angeles

Julia Feingold: White Luxembourger, Luxembourg City

Cecil Markowitz: White Austrian/Northern Irish (Born in Graz, grew up in Belfast since he was two, has dual citizenship)

Katie Gardener: White Scottish, Aberfoyle

Castor and Pollux Vintner: Black, Irish (Pollux is Albino, Castor wasn’t), Donegal

Michael Yew: Mixed Irish and Chinese, Limerick (Granny moved from China)

Lee Fletcher: White Irish, Donegal

Clarisse La Rue: Mixed French/Pakistani American, Arizona (Mother moved from France)

Chris Rodriguez: Afro-Latino, Nicaraguan (Moved to the states when he was seven, lived in the same neighbourhood as Clarisse)

Silena Beauregard: Blasian, African American and Filipino, Mississippi (French descent)

Charles Beckendorf: Black, African American

Jake Mason: White American, Wyoming

Harley Smythe-Davidson: Biracial White/Aboriginal Australian (Source: @freddie-77-ao3)

Nyssa Barrera: Latina, Panamanian, Panama City

Shane O’Doherty: White Irish, Laois

Christopher Chalkevas: White Greek/English (Born in Larissa, moved with his mother to Hackney, London at age five, has dual citizenship)

Clovis Karlsen: Wasian, Welsh (Welsh/Norwegian grandad, Indonesian granny, Source: @ashthenerdtheythem)

Chiara Benvenuti: White Italian, Florence

Alabaster C. Torrington: British Indian, English, Westminster

Lou Ellen Blackstone: Black with vitiligo, British Ghanaian, Birmingham

Drew Tanaka: Japanese American, New York City

Valentina Diaz: Latina, Colombia

Mitchell Singh-Donovan: Mixed Indian and Irish, Cork

Lacy Alfsen: White Danish, Copenhagen

Ethan Nakamura: Japanese, Tokyo

Damien White: White Irish, Northside Dublin

Miranda Gardiner: Vietnamese American, Massachusetts (Distant Irish ancestry)

Billie Ng: Wasian, Irish/Thai Canadian, Toronto (She grew up in Longford till she was seven, then she and her mortal dad moved to Canada)

Sherman Yang: Chinese American, Alaska

Marcus (Mark) Dooley-Wallace: White Irish American, Georgia

Ellis Wakefield: Black, Algerian

Holly and Laurel Victor: Sri Lankan American, Seattle

Meg McCaffery: Wasian, Irish/Vietnamese American

Camp Jupiter:

Dakota Cheshire: Black, Bermudian

Gwendolyn Nunez: Hispanic, Spanish American

Bobby Herrera: Latin American, New Mexico

Lavinia Asimov: White Russian, born in San Francisco

Larry Schumacher: White American, North Carolina

Leila Grunfeld: White American, Colorado

This has been a very exhausting post to make lmao. I gave some of the characters who don’t have canonical surnames my own Hcs for their surnames. Also, I am yet to read through trials of Apollo, so maybe I’ll come later back to add more Roman names to the list.

Tagging my moots that I like to see their opinions for this (as well as the ones I tagged within the list as well):

@aki-bara @ravingcoffeeaddict @ebony-reine-vibes @squiggle3worm @sleep-needer

[drdemonprince]

pls tell me your opinion/review on cw network television show crazy ex-girlfriend!

The early seasons were incredible at eviscerating shitty romantic norms, shoddy mental health discourse, and contemporary cultural phenomena in equal measure with addictively hook-y songs and cute set pieces. As it went on, the plots eventually got a bit hackneyed and the songs less inspired (the classic "second album curse" kinda struck), and I don't love the show's stances on anti-depressants, diagnosis, or therapy. But I think on balance the show had a kernel of mad pride too it, even if it didn't really understand the political implications of what it initially was and then could have been doing.

I LOVE Paula's arc as a deconstruction as the "fat wacky supportive best friend" trope that actually allowed for her to have both emotional depth and real human FLAWS. Her ambivalence about her children and marriage and how that resolves was so moving to me. The show depicted the many shades of emotional manipulation (between mother and daughter, within romantic partnerships, and even amongst codependent friends) beautifully and with humor. Almost every character has the chance to be more than the stock cliques they are initially positioned to represent, and some of the turns their stories take are genuinely surprising and satisfying (Valencia!! Greg!!), though this did peter out a bit by the final season.

I still cannot believe that after writing JAP Battle Rap that Rachel Bloom is a fucking Zionist!!! The line "We're liberals, duh, progressive as hell/ though of course I support Israel" wasn't ironic???? What the fcukk??

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

First Times (Poly Relationship w/ John & Ghost Headcanons)

I spent the morning exploring Hackney, which is rich in breweries. While wandering about, I got to thinking, what if…

John starts working at a brewery when he retires from the army?

OR!

He starts a micro brewery/pub with Simon, who retires around the same time.

🍺 The two men set to work immediately to acquire the proper licenses and a premise. Fortunately for the both of them, they’re quite handy and so know how to create a lovely, albeit very manly, space without too much interference from contractors. After all, why hire others for work you can do yourself?

🍺 Honestly, the business is a dream come true for John. Owning a micro brewery was his Plan B should things not work out with the army. However, it’s because of his former employment, he’s become a better business owner. It’s through the development of his leadership and risk-assessment skills he managed to secure the rank of captain.

🍺 For Simon, the brewery is an unexpected ambition, a new dream to follow. While he lets John do most of the marketing (because Simon can’t be arsed with social media… being social in general), he’s mostly pre-occupied with the creation of new and improvement of the already existing craft beers.

🍺 The business steadily grows as word gets about town. Soon, it’s not only the local Hackney residents who pop by, but also people from other boroughs.

🍺 Including you.

🍺 Come from Inner London, the people of the area find you somewhat of a posh puppy, a bit of a toff. It’s this view of you which makes them wonder what on Earth you’re doing in East London, this artsy and not as affluent part of the city.

🍺 Nevertheless, you’re a sight for sore eyes if you ask Simon, who’s your old neighbour back from the few years you lived in Manchester after moving there with your parents.

🍺 Though gruff and distant in the beginning, Simon gradually warmed up to you. Despite never opening up emotionally, you two did develop a strong amiable bond. Maybe because you were the only one to greet him on the street, to ask about his career after catching a glimpse of the dog tag around his neck, to welcome him back each time he was deployed.

🍺 To show sincere interest in him.

🍺 Your parents weren’t a fan of you socializing with the giant in the skull balaclava, but they never told you off for it since you two always seemed to have a good time. Moreover, they rarely saw you smile unless you were with him. So they let it slide, prioritizing your happiness over their prejudice.

🍺 It was only in the spring before you moved without telling him where to and he was deployed yet again, Simon realized he had feelings for you. Nonetheless, he put them aside or, rather, suppressed them until they numbed. He had nothing to offer, fifteen years your elder and terribly haunted.

🍺 So imagine his surprise and absolute delight when you stand in front of him, prettier than he can remember. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

🍺 “Y/N,” it’s the only thing he can say, finally out loud after years of uttering it in silence.

🍺 “Who’s this fair lady?” John slides up next to Simon, arms crossed as he takes you in. His sea blue eyes darken when they meet yours. “How can we help, miss?”

🍺 The way he practically purrs the words sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. Yet, you conceal the effect he has on you behind a steady voice. “I saw the notice on the window, about the open position. Has it been filled in the meanwhile or can I still apply?”

🍺 “She’s a good one, John. Hardworking, trustworthy, kind. Fast learner too,” Simon says pensively.

🍺 “Got experience in the field?” John asks.

🍺 “Studied psychology, during which I mostly focused on the effect of marketing on the human psyche. Also run a food blog and Instagram”

🍺 “Thank Simon properly before you leave. I trust his judgment and seeing he knows you best, I’ll take his word for it.” He slaps his business partner on the shoulder. “Drop by tomorrow and we’ll discuss your contract. I’m looking forward to working with you…”

🍺 “Y/N.”

🍺 “Y/N...” John repeats thoughtfully. Then he hums and heads off.

🍺 Thus begins a series of firsts and connections as you settle down in Hackney.

🍺 Over the course of a few weeks, the locals come to see you as one of their own as you show them you simply aren’t some girl with rich parents, a spoiled princess, but a young woman trying to make a life for herself with her own hard-earned money via helping at the counter and striking up conversations.

🍺 John and you grow closer too. He admires and respects your eye for detail and aesthetics, though sometimes he feels a little awkward when you’re trying to direct him for the occasional TikTok. Nevertheless, it’s your creativity that keeps drawing him in, igniting the need to keep getting closer to you. What also helps is you bringing him coffee or reminding him to take breaks (both with a kiss on the cheek later down the line).

🍺 Loves to review the content you create together, especially when you’re in his lap while doing so.

🍺 On your mutual days off, John drags you all over London to visit bakeries and cafés. Never had you thought him a foodie, though it’s a pleasant discovery since there’s always something new to experience on the food scene. Moreover, he loves helping you out with your own blog, not just the one you created for the brewery.

🍺 These days, you’re teaching him photography and are taking baking classes together. Although, you might as well go on your own to the latter because he’s a terrible baker (unlike Simon, who’s self-taught and surprisingly good, like, sale-appropriate why-doesn’t-he-have-at-least-a-micro-bakery good).

🍺 Your bond with Simon mostly rekindles via being his guinea pig. He knows how brutally honest you can be in your feedback, which he thoroughly appreciates. Outside work, the two of you frequent bookshops, have picnics in the major parks in London, and visit the city’s oldest cemeteries. The latter is a bit of a morbid idea of a nice outing, but you appreciate the silence and romantic sense of decay in the air.

🍺 It isn’t long before you take up residence in the apartment the two men share, which leaves the other residents of the building wondering about your relationships to one another. Although, they can guess at the nature of it seeing the “noise” at night. As I said, lots of first including a relationship with two men older than you.

🍺 But aside from the plethora of sensual moments, there are also plenty of tender (and domestic) firsts. For example, Simon accompanies you to your first tattoo appointment. When, the next day, you’re struck by tattoo flu, he takes care of you. Of course John doesn’t force you to come to work nor Simon for that matter, who you clearly need at the moment (despite claiming otherwise). Henceforth, you’re both granted PTO until you’re back on your feet.

🍺 Speaking of the former-captain, John is your very first kiss. You and him went out for pizza (Simon preferring to stay home and read). On the way to Hackney Wick, beneath a bridge heavily decorated with graffiti and sheltering a few barges, he put his hands on your cheeks and crashed his lips into yours. He tasted of tobacco and white wine, laced with the sweetness of tomatoes and basil. That night, he made love to you.

🍺 Another first.

🍺 Simon prepared breakfast the next morning, serving food to ensure John and you wouldn’t succumb to exhaustion later in the day. Nor him, for that matter, because while he doesn’t get jealous and loves sharing you with his best friend, he sometimes wishes you wouldn’t go at it till early in the morning when the next day is an ordinary work day.

🍺 You’re there for them when either of them suffers from night terrors or combat stress. Simon is more prone to the former, whereas John is to the latter.

🍺 You accompany Simon to therapy too after he’s been diagnosed with PTSD. At first he didn’t want to go, refused it even, until he finally relented after another episode of flashbacks and coming to his senses while shaking in your arms.

🍺 Life with John and Simon isn’t always easy nor romantic.

🍺 But bloody hell, do they make it better.

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 5 || Masterlist || Chapter 7

Chapter Summary: A carriage ride to Groveland parks leaves you and Sherlock in a snippy mood.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, domestic abuse, No sex, (mentions of past events) .

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This took a while. I'll be posting chapter 7 very soon.

Inspiring Song: "Achillies" by Gang of Youth

7:01am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England

Early day on the street of London was a thick blanket of fog and horse cabs awaiting their clients. People in uniforms marched the streets, servants and servicemen that did not have lodgings with their employers.

Sherlock and you avoided the mud and horseshit on the cobblestones, stepping carefully. His hand was strong, cupping yours as you lifted your skirts above the stench. The floor path was filthy and the boy who usually scrapped the dung of the road was not to be seen so early in the day.

You shivered slightly at the cold breeze. Your jacket was not as warm as you had believed. You felt a pity for the sight of maids passing you both without even a shawl to protect them, their faces were flushed and pink, they cupped their bare hands and blew hot breath into them. You were grateful for your gloves.

You wondered if anyone down here in the street could’ve heard your shrieking up in the 221B apartment. You weren’t particularly quiet not holding back your screams. Your warm flesh was a fresh reminder that your detective husband walking so nobly and leading you was in fact a sexual deviant.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and was careful not to plant his walking cane into any muck.

As you stepped closer to a hansom cabriolet, Sherlock pinched your elbow and walked you both closer to a hackney coach behind the latter.

“Jarv! I dare say! Jarvey!” Sherlock called up to the driver sitting on top. The man fixed his uniform cap and peered down at you both from the height.

“Where are you off to sir?” the driver called down.

Your husband smiled and opened his coat, his fingers slid into his pocket as he stated, “To Groveland Park, Southgate.”

Your eyes widened, from baker street it was a feet of travel one normally wouldn’t take. You were sure your own husband had to have been mistaken.

“Sherlock,” you softly informed while gently touching his arm “that’s over an hour away.”

He ignored you. His thumb skated across your back softly.

“Of course sir,” the driver nodded, “that should cost you one crown and a tanner.”

Your lips tightened, it was such a large expense. Now you really started to regret using your dowry to pay of Sherlock’s selfish debts. Why the hell was he taking you both across country side!?

The detective saw your disapproval and smiled, patting your hand he exclaimed, “Fret not wife, the expense is reimbursed by Scotland Yard.”

He gave the driver half the require costs from his pocketbook before he opened the door of the carriage for you. As you climbed inside, you jumped with a noise feeling his hand squeeze your backside.

You hissed as you sat on the leather seat. You tried to maneuverer your body to sit mostly on your hip. As he climbed in and sat across from you after shutting the carriage door, you pinned him down coldly with your gaze.

He returned an expression beaming in smirtle and tapped the roof with his cane, “Drive on Jarvey!”

You felt the carriage move with a jolt and sighed as the horse carried you through London’s different roads and pathways. You looked out the window and sighed as the carriage circled down the Regent Park and past the Zoo. You had never been to a zoo in your life, your grandmother stated it was too filthy and uncouth to stroll in pens merely to gaze at queer animals from different countries.

You tried not to stick your head out the window as you kept your eyes on the entrance gates you passed. Now that you lived so close and were a married woman with free time...you pondered if Sherlock would permit you a visit.

He was watching you the entire time. A soft smile came to his face. He took a glance out the window with you.

“I presume you’ve never been?”

Your eyes flickered between him at the steel zoo fencing and you timidly nodded, “I have always wondered what a lion looks like to the real gaze, my father promised to take me when I was a girl but-” you drifted off into silence and looked away from the window.

But he abandoned you for a cold woman in a opportunistic marriage...you hadn’t seen him for years.

“My grandparents would never approve,” You stuttered.

He nodded slowly with his silent thoughts and did not question you further.

You sighed, if you had known the journey would be to Groveland Park, you would’ve brought a novel with you to read. You cupped your hands and leant your head back.

As the cobblestones turned to soft mud and dewy grasslands you heard Sherlock finally clear his throat.

“Dear wife,” he said leaning back, racing his eyes all over your body, “What do you actually know of the Pennicott case? What details have come to light for you?” He spoke with balance.

You pursed your lips and blowed slowly. You didn’t want this to be another test of Sherlock in which he might insult you. You pinched your gloved finger and stated factually, “I recall hearing the Baron went missing a week or two ago. He took a ride on a horse in the middle of the night from his home and then sighted on a ship in Limehouse headed supposedly to France. That’s what the papers say. Then the information you shared with me this morning. You said he made a profit in his company?”

Sherlock nodded and shut the carriage windows. The light darkened the pair of you. Now your eyes adjusted to watch his face as he retold in secrecy, “Yesterday, while at the New Scotland Yard office building I decided to investigate his warehouse expenses. He was making a profit, he was destined to achieve a beating record.”

Lord Pennicott owned the largest suppliers of metal works and machinery parts, ranging from trains, to ships to food cans, to weapons.

“He partakes business often with the Vanderbilt family, very new money in the past thirty years, yes?” you noted aloud. American royalty.

There was talk of Vanderbilts heirs coming to marry English society members, Pennicott was a frequent mention in business.

Sherlock nodded and huffed, “His consultants were blithering idiots however who had barely any insight to his personal life. He was quoted being a private man...what they knew of him was that he was about to have his sixth child. I believe it is time his wife to be questioned. She has given a small testimony to the police already, but I have been offered to consult in this case by Scotland yard...and it is you that officially provoked my interest.”

Your eyes narrowed, “Me?” you exclaimed with disbelief.

He had been so hot headed the last time the topic was even mentioned. You hadn’t dared ask about it again.

“Yes,” he rubbed his hands together, “you.”

You looked at him with apparent annoyance, “Shall you elaborate how it is I that provoked you?”

He chuckled sheepishly, “because you made a an inquiry and berated me when I told you to pay attention on other matters...” His eyes glanced to the floor of the carriage before meeting yours, “I may have...reflected...and deemed it the necessary duty to follow up on the imbeciles of England’s detective division. You are perhaps not as dim as I took you for originally...”

You felt a strange buzz at the bottom of your spine with a tiny seed of smugness blooming upward.

A flutter of pride filled you from his praise until he snorted, “You’re still rather stupid, but with a value of insight.”

Your spark of light blew out. You tried to not roll your eyes.

With most of your diverse self, you desired to throttle him and argue. Instead you took your turn at observing what you could in the dim carriage.

Sherlock was not like the average gentleman. In fact, he was very abnormal to what you had gotten to know... He was incredibly unorthodox. He didn’t adhere to social norms and behaved in contradictions. Therefore you took a moment to hear his words and accept them as a hidden message. A riddle.

You smugly smiled.

“Was that an attempt to...apologise, Mr Holmes?” you finally mused.

Sherlock smirked, “That would require me to be have a sense of regret my dear wife, and I do not account such a folly.”

You smirked back and said sassily, “The words you seek, are ‘Sorry’ and ‘please forgive me.’”

Your toe nudged his ankle playfully.

He glared reliving the warm humiliation you inflicted to him this morning over Mrs Hudson. His grim look was contagious.

He shot back, “And pray tell, how does your backside feel Mrs Holmes?” he chewed his bottom lip. His brows lifted, "Mayhaps you've forgotten and in need of a firm reminder?"

When your smile fell and his grew. He had won this small battle of wits. You looked away from him, your face felt incredibly warm like your bottom.

“Come now,” he purred and lean forward to pat your knees, “Don’t be so bashful. Deep down, I know you just want to be run through...” Your eyes narrowed as he continued confidently stating, “You put on this coy little show last night.” Your lips parted, your teeth bared, yet he kept running his mouth further, “I have intuition like no other man my dear and you...you are scared I will find out all those lustful secrets inside your mind-“

You didn’t let him finish his words before you ripped off your glove and delivered a sharp ringing blow to his cheek. It was a foul sting that ricocheted into your own delicate palm. You huffed angrily.

“What I did last night was not a show,” you spat, uncontrollably hot tears touched the back of your eyes, “What you did was wrong and cruel. You threatened our marriage unless I debased myself. I did what I had to,” you jabbed his chest with your finger, “and I will continue to as long as you remain faithful...”

‘or I will kill you Sherlock Holmes.’

Your words echoed both in his and your memory. He didn’t really believe you were capable of murder, and yet he also knew not to press his thumb against the sharpened knife.

His rubbed his hand on the pink print you left on his pale cheek. He plucked his cane leaning on the seat beside him and hooked it into your collar, tugging you unceremoniously forward into his lap. You were forced to sit directly over his right thigh from the awkwardness of the carriage size. He curled his walking stick behind you and trapped you on top of him.

You could feel the heat between his legs. Oh how Sherlock really was just a animal.

“I find you may come to regret those words...” he panted and licked the spot under your ear, “You think me cruel now? Just you bloody wait until you feel the thrash of my cane.”

You fluttered your eyes shut, squeezing the tears away as you regained your breath and whispered icily back into his seeking mouth, “I look forward to it.”

He pulled back to gaze at your entire face. His eyes were full of confusion. He looked like he was lost on a foreign road with know knowledge on where to go. His lips twitched, unsure to smile or frown.

“I see,” he swallowed, “You can play martyr all you want then, my future masochist...and then we will see whether you truly are a slut...or a saint...but I doubt you’ll like either result...”

You would never describe yourself as a masochist. You didn’t particularly like pain...but after a period of time when he struck your bare bottom this morning you felt warm and floating. Your belly buzzed like last night. It was wrong and you knew it was. A spanking was a punishment not a entrance for pleasure.

Sherlock set aside his cane and cupped your waist. His thumbs ran up and down your torso. He pressed his nose to yours.

“Definitely stupid,” he whispered over your lips hotly before he gently pushed you back until you sat on your side of the carriage.

You felt a slight dizziness. You couldn’t understand Sherlock no matter how much you tried. You slumped in your seat and rubbed your forehead. You pulled back the curtains and watched as the many houses turned into more trees.

Sherlock in the meantime pulled out his pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco for his pocket tin.

The bright luminous shine of the match flame filled the dark carriage as he lit his pipe and puffed. He stared you down as his gums sucked and smacked the thin mouthpiece. A swirl of grey and white smoke tails snaked from his lips and nose. His eyes held no colour, only darkness. You wondered what urged him so drastically to hate and disrespect you.

His cheek was a huge darker in this lighting.

You shut your eyes and controlled your breathing. You tried to stare at your glove that you’d dropped on the carriage flooring.

You sat both in silence for the rest of the lengthy roads to your destination. You pinched the curtains and opened them.

    8:23am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

The forestry and gardens of Groveland Park were magnificent. Giant trees replaced tall buildings. Bird chirp washed out the gossip and clatter of people.

You sighed as you breathed the clear air hunted with the earthy dew scent on the wind.

Your husband finished his pipe and tucked it back into his pocket.

The carriage rocked and creaked to a stop. You felt the driver climb down and opened the door. Sherlock climbed out first, he cleared his throat and hugged his walking stick to his side. He held out his hand for you.

“Come along Mrs Holmes.”

As you reached for him, the both of you matched eyes. Your hand was trembling.

You stepped down to the gravelled path and Sherlock released your hand to pay the remaining wage of the journey to the driver.

You quickly ducked back through its little door to retrieve your lost glove. And when you grasped it you felt a warmth behind you.

Sherlock’s hands with his cane cupped your waist and pulled you back against him slowly. There was something cruel and intimate about it... He stole your glove from your covered hand and slid your naked palm through the material but not before pressing his lips against the inside of your wrist.

Your eyes flickered and your heart thrashed. What the hell was he doing? The driver saw it all and smirked. He climbed back to the top of the carriage and clicked his tongue, fleeing slowly away. Sherlocks eyes were full of obsession.

You crossed your brows and tore yourself from his arms.

“No,” you whispered. You didn’t truly know what you were saying ‘no’ towards. It wasnt right of your husband to play a angered beast to rise fear in you only to transform into an adoring dove.

His false softness reverted back to his smirking wickedness.

His eyes glance back over your shoulder and he chuckled.

“Good morning Inspector Lestrade,” he purred.

You turned around to take in the sight of a short gentleman who was the owner of a thick black friendly mutton chops.

He wore a happy and surprised expression.

He was also carrying on his forearm a walking stick. He nodded his head and tipped his top hat to the both of you. He wore no gloves and to the private eye you could see the darkened yellowing skin of his knuckles and back of his palm.

“Good morning Detective and-“ he paused glancing you up and down.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock cleared his throat, and turned to wave a hand in regards to your presence, “Meet my wife, Y/N.”

The officers whiskers twitched. He bowed his head briefly, acknowledging, “Mrs Holmes.”

You granted a small polite curtsy, repeating back with a soft tone, “Inspector.”

You graced him with a small smile and he flashed you a nervous grin.

He scratched the back of his head and said with a strain in his voice to your husband, “Sir, this is a matter of professional business, your wife present I fear might be deemed....” he grimaced, “irresponsible?” he shook his head at the thoughts, “I must insist she returns to home,” he waved out his arm to direct you to a buggy and horse besides the entrance gates, his vehicle no doubt, he smiled, “Madam.”

Inspector Lestrade was a clear average man with common decency and a good sense of propriety. Sherlock was bring you into his space of work fit for men, you had no place here...nonetheless you willingly came along...he didn’t need to spank that out of you at least.

But before he could take grasp of your delicate hand, Sherlock reached forward and lowered your reaching wrist with an annoyed sigh, “I invited her. She has valued skills I need. It’s the least you can do after yesterday.”

Sherlock lightly tapped to the dark spot growing along his own jawline.

“Mrs Holmes,” The inspector flushed and nervously smiled, “I apologise greatly for the deformation of your husbands face.”

You looked between the two men. From Sherlock’s jaw to the Inspectors knuckles. The dots connected within seconds.. A light noise mixed with amusement, shock and horror slipped out of your tongue as you exclaimed, “You struck my husband?”

“In my defence Mrs Holmes,” Lestrade leaned against his walking stick and glanced to the gravel unable to meet your eyes, “One might argue he deserved it. And he returned a brightful force himself...”

Sherlock deserving a punch? Noooo surely not! After all the pair of you had experienced these two or three days, you understood entirely. For you wished to do nothing more than the same as Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock snickered, and you released a bubbling giggle, “That does not surprise me. I’m curious what drove you to such lengths as to strike him.”

It wouldn’t take a lot you suspected, Sherlock already proved his habit on making more than one person uncomfortable and offended.

But instead of a confident man of the law, he was still sheepishly pushing the gravel around with his walking cane.

“Oh yes, Lestrade,” Sherlock barked in amusement, “Regale to my wife what I did to provoke your fist...”

Sherlock slapped his cane against Lestrades forcing the inspector to lose his balance and fall on one knee.

“Blast!” the inspector cried as he wobbled to stand back up.

You smacked a hand against Sherlock’s chest and shook your head at him and for that he discreetly tapped your backside with the head of his cane. You bit back the gasp and clenched your fingers on his coat. You didn’t like witnessing your husband behave so openly as a bully. It was very unsightly.

“Your husband, Mrs Holmes,” Lestrade winced and dusted dirt off his knee, “decided to elude to that which I am incompetent in my work therefore in other things.”

You accusingly turned your attention back to Sherlock, “Other things?”

“I think the inspector has trouble,” he smirked, “getting it up.”

‘Getting it up? What up?...oh!’ your eyes flashed wide

“Sherlock you didn’t!”

Your husband cackled meanly and rubbed soft circles into your back with his thumb.

“I’d rather say he started it,” Sherlock claimed fluttering his eyes at you before he snarled in the inspectors direction, “Go on Lestrade...now, you tell her what you said to me before I insulted your virility?”

You turned your attention back to the officer.

The mutton chop cop sputtered embarrassingly. His hands straightened his jacket and lifted his hat to smooth back his hair.

He licked his dry lips and hastily muttered, “I dare not repeat the words I so indecisively chose especially in front of such a fine and polite lady.”

Sherlocks mouth was close to your ear as he whispered, “I think he’s rather scared.”

“Of what?” you snipped back still crossed with Sherlock’s behaviour.

“What you’ll do to him...after what he called you.”

‘After what he called me? What was said? When was it said?...’

You softly hummed, “Did he insult me?”

“Detective Holmes,” the inspectors face turned a darker shade as he tensely pressed, “This really isn’t professional.”

Your husband moved his hand and lightly guided you to stand behind him as if to be a protective wall between you and the inspector. He stood a full foot above the inspector.

He glared down and sneered, “Then why bother saying it yesterday when you can’t even say it today in front of the woman herself?”

You saw how his hand squeezed his cane furiously. It was that action alone that sent an icy stream of fear down your spine. You weren’t sure of it, but you couldn’t put it passed Sherlock to start a brawl, particularly since the two men had clearly tussled fearsomely yesterday.

You sighed obnoxiously loud and very unladylike. You clapped your hands to snap both their attentions your way.

“Listening to a pair of men bicker is tiresome and leaves my learning brain in wanting,” you rolled your eyes and walked ahead of them both, calling over your shoulder, “Let us put aside what frivolous nonsense occurred yesterday and perform our duty instilled by the righteousness of God and the Queen herself, yes?”

You were stepping towards the main large house where you were confident was the Pennicott Estate. The gravel crunched beneath your striding walk.

Sherlock and Lestrade appeared gobsmacked by the sight of your leading March.

“Very well,” the inspector relented and walked ahead.

Sherlock caught up with both of you and squeezed your elbow, he gestured forward with his cane, “Lead the way Lestrade.”

And as the gentleman walked ahead of you, Sherlock sucked his head back to your ear with a smug tone, “Nicely done, dear wife.”

You rolled your eyes and shook him off, as if he wasn’t the reason you performed such a song and dance if tell them to return to their work over his foul demonstrating behaviour.

    HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[idkwhyyouaskingm3-blog]

Before the next episode I thought I'd stick all the information I found on Error on here. It's all a bit messy but I spend an embarrassing amount of time doing this over the past few months so might as well share it (I'm so normal about this podcast):

Timeline

(If the monster in episode 1 is Error then it is at the Magnus Institute Manchester on 12/05/22)

09/03/24 - Magnus Institute Manchester - Appears to be trapped under a trap door until Sam drops a key and it manages to escape

20/03/24 - Milton Court Open Space - Violet Abigail Parker is found dead. Statement taken presumably the pervious night in an Ally way.

22/03/24 - Ally outside of Gladstone Arms, Lant Street - Alice finds a victim of Errors full of water and narrating how she drowned. Tape found next to body.

12/04/24 - Old Warehouse address not given - Error 'saves' Gwen from Ink5ouls by claiming her as its own. (Error may have taken a statement from Ink5ouls as well). Leaves Tape Recorder with Ink5ouls and it bites them.

14/04/24 - Park within walking distance of 17 Gransden Avenue, Hackney - Error takes Mr Jarrod's statement. Having him run around the park in circles. Mr Jarrod is found by Alexander who seems to snap him out the compulsion. Error states it's an archivist, records Mr Jarrods final words then leaves without the recorder.

13/05/24 - Outside OIAR Royal Mint Court - Takes Sam's statement. Appears to be looking for information about the Magnus Institute and stops when Sam thinks about Hilltop Road. Leaves Sam alive but laying in the rain with tape recorder

13/05/24 - Paddington Station - On a train that's on it's way to Oxford

Known locations on a map

Tape Recorder

Starting off with something obvious. Tape recorders are present every time Error is. We don't know if Error has multiple or not. They also seem to be alive. We see them moving on multiple occasions and Error leaves without the Tape Recorder whenever we've seen it take a statement. We don't know what happens to the Tape Recorder once the statement is taken. Other people can hold the tape recorder but they do bite. Ink5ouls hasn't been seen since they touched the Tape Recorder. (Notes below)

Error Description

Error is on 'screen' in a number of episodes. It calls itself an archivist which makes sense given it came out of a trapped door in the archive.

It has laboured breathing and speaks in short sentences in a raspy female voice.

Characters don't see it coming as it emerges and recedes from shadows even when it's sunny. It's been described as being cloaked in shadows and pained whispers. To me it sounds like it's surrounded by pervious statements.

It's also described as having too many eyes and as a watching figure. Even when it's eyes can't be seen you can still feel it watching you. (Notes below)

Episode 1 has a 'monster' that sounds similar to Error but it should be still trapped under the trapped door and it uses modern tech when Error uses Tapes. They both are watches, stalkers, and associated with eyes.

Statements

This is more of a feeling than a fact but the cases taken from victims seem to fit more with the original fears than the other cases.

The drowned woman Alice finds statement fits well with the buried. Her description of drowning is very similar to how Daisy describes being in the coffin just water instead of dirt. What's interesting is the water is salt water but the closest water source is a river. Salt representing the body in alchemy

Violets seems to hit on a lot of the stereotypical Lonely statements (fog, no one will find me, locked doors, literally ends with "I'm alone") Mentions of yellow which could link to alchemy. Daffodils are probably another reference to William Woodsworth.

Mr Jarrod's running and being chased which feels a lot like a hunt statement.

Gwens statement is about a fox full of maggots so feels a lot like a corruption statement

Sam's seems a lot like a flesh statement. More so as the statement goes on.

Ink5ouls I struggle to place and feels a lot more like a standard TMAGP statement.

Victims

Victims seem to get stuck in their worst nightmare. While they're still seen in the real world they seem to have physical reactions to the nightmare. Drown victim drowns, Violet ends up miles from her home, Mr Jarrod runs until he's caught.

Victims seem to come back to the real world when they interact with other people. Mr Jarrod briefly see's Alex, drown victim dropping in and out of the water could be when she bumps into people, Ink5ouls continues to interact with Gwen basically the whole time she's giving the statement so never fully goes to the nightmare. Should be noted that Gwen, Sam (and Ink5ouls) don't die in the nightmare and as a result don't die in real life. Other victims do.

My theory is that Error is using the victims statements and the tapes filled with them to stay in this dimension and not get kicked back out. It lives off of the fear and this universe isn't the fears. That's why it doesn't walk in and walk out. It appears and recedes. That's why Sam "recedes" into the statement.

Magnus Institute Manchester Ruins (Burned down in 1999)

Error first shows up under a trapped door under the Archive in the Magnus Institute Manchester. It's in a similar place to the one in the TMA Archives.

In episode 1 we get a description of the institute in 2022. It's described as being badly burned but the flooring being in a good state. Alternatively, just 2 years later, the floor is badly rotten to the point where Alice and Sam fall through it multiple times. It appears that there's more water damage done to the institute between 2022 and 2024 than between 1999 and 2022. This could be due to RedCanary maybe waking something up or letting something out?

RedCanary didn't find any paper while Alice and Sam find a lot. This could be because RedCanary never entered the Archives. (Making it even less likely that RedCanary didn't have a link with Error but maybe something else).

In both 2022 and 2024 symbols are found around the institute. RedCanary describing them as graffiti while Alice describes them as looking more like a worm eating the wood on the floor.

Notes below:

Air / Breathing & Water

Similar to Error itself a lot of the victims have trouble breathing due to the statement. It seems to be breathing in the Statements and surrounded by the 'pained whispers.' Error also only seems to turn up when water is present. Some of the examples are more of a stretch than others but I don't think it's a coincidence that it turns up when it's raining or in areas near the water. Notes below

This could be a link to alchemy. Water and Air being 2 of the 4 classical elements.

Not an expert on Alchemy (this is off of wikipedia) but the important part is that air linked with the start of life while water is linked with the end. Could Error be trying to preform some kind of rebirth into this universe. It's living in the water but it's trying to get into the air.

[craigslisthorses]

i looked at your instagram, and you just seemed like a good person to ask about it. but why do show horses park out? i thought standing square was the best way to see confirmation? or is it for a different reason?

idk it just looks like theyre gonna piss to me which i find kinda funny

It just depends on the breed! Square is the best way to show conformation. In breeds like the TWH we judge based on movement, disposition, and ability to stand parked out patiently without moving. Most parked out horses I think are wayyyy too stretched out in pictures I see. I like a light stretch personally. Other breeds park out like Morgan's, saddlebreds, spotted saddle horses, and hackneys as well. It was originally designed to lower a horses back for mounting but has since been a way people stance them for halter classes. I just so happen to be very good at teaching them to park out, so I make extra money training them hehe

[heyidkyay]

And I'm petrified of being alone, now |

Part Ten

Matty Healy x reader

Summary: She’s just trying to get by, really. What with being a single parent to her four year old son whilst simultaneously trying to kick start a successful career as a radio presenter. She’s got everything she’s ever wanted though, friends close by, a mum who’s merely a phone call away, and of course her baby boy. What else is there to wish for? But then, it’s not long before her relatively normal life gets upended and turned on its head, and she’s suddenly forced to deal with situations she’s never even thought to imagine.

What happens when one mention of a certain controversial singer on her show sends a flood of unexpected challenges her way? 

Authors Note: It was in the drafts and it's been a while so I thought I'd post. Might not hear from me for a bit though after this, so I hope you like the next part. Thank you for all the love on this one.

Masterlist

A warm bout of light filtered into the bedroom through a small gap in the curtains. It gave the space a sepia feel, tinting the light bedding and walls a warm hazel colour. Creating a haze of skittering beams above me.

It wasn't much, the room. It simply held the necessities I thought I needed seeing as I didn't spend too much of my time in it, other than when I needed to dress or sleep. I’ve really had too many other things occupying my time during the past few years that have kept me from worrying over the state of it.

There was a rickety old dresser, which sat in the far corner and had been something I'd picked up during my time at uni. Student accommodation had been lacking and so Finn had decided, quite early on I might add, that it would be in our best interest to find ourselves some cheap furniture to fill it with.

In truth, we’d actually had to lug the pesky thing all the way down a dual-carriageway and across a roundabout, after having spotted it advertised in the window of our local offy. It held a good few memories though, like when the pair of us had jumped up onto it at the first sight of an eight-legged pal, or the time I’d walked in to find him getting railed over its top.

Then there was the large mahogany wardrobe that had been purchased from a wholesaler not very long after I had finally gotten a newly born Teddy settled into the tiny flat I'd rented out in Hackney. 

It had been cramped, what with the bathroom having been the size of a broom cupboard and the only bedroom having led straight into our ‘fun-sized’ kitchen. But we'd made it work. In fact, it had practically been a Godsend during those nightly feeds- six steps and I’d been right by the cooker!

The wardrobe had been a much needed purchase though, and one of the first things I had bought solely for myself since I’d moved out of mam’s.

Then there was the side table, sat next to the one edge of my bed that hadn't been backed into a wall, which held a reading light, a three wicked candle and a couple of novels with folded and refolded receipts sticking out the sides as page markers.

I had garnered quite the collection of books, I could admit, all of which seemed to line up haphazardly on the opposite wall. I tended to smile whenever I caught sight of its heavy shelves, a reminder of all the havoc that had gone into them whilst putting them up. It had taken me three whole days, and even though they were still a tad lopsided, I still gazed upon them in pride.

A woeful plant burdened my windowsill, a slither of its olive coloured pot barely seen from behind the billowing beige curtains. Whilst cushions sat in disarray across the hardwood floor below, having been tossed every which way the night previous.

There were dirty clothes in the hamper by the half-opened door and a basket of clean, partially folded, washing in a chair sitting beside the wardrobe. 

The room wasn't completely tidy, but not a tip either.

Humming groggily to myself, I began to stir from the deep sleep I’d lost myself in and used the ball of my palm to rub tiredly at my eye just as a furrowed line creased between my brows. 

It was far too quiet, I deemed, and must've been later than usual too because Teddy normally had us both up long before the crack arse of dawn. So I sniffed once and then went to turn over, just to check the time as I always did, but couldn't stop the way I stilled completely at the sight that greeted me.

Because in bed, right beside me, laid another body. One hidden deep beneath the weighted duvet and my favoured blanket, but a body nonetheless. 

Shit.

It appeared in the remaining foggy haze of last night, I had quite simply forgotten about the man I'd invited back home. And into my bed, it seemed. As well as the ill-timed events that had led up to it, too. 

My breath hitched when the man suddenly moved in his sleep and I did my very fucking best not to express any of my thoughts or feelings outwardly. Desperate not to actually rouse the sleeper. 

Instead, I inhaled. Once, then twice. Before finally, I gathered enough courage and strength to slowly inch myself all the way down to the very end of the bed. Mindful not to drag the duvet down with me.

Once I was standing- still fully clothed, I might tack on (thank you to small miracles!)- I allowed myself a second to just peer down and admire the dark, curling locks that now sprawled across my pale pillowcase. As well as the slither of skin which poked out from beneath the bed sheets. 

In all honesty, I couldn't actually recall the last time I'd shared my space like this, so freely it almost felt effortless.

Quickly though, I blinked myself out of those sorts of thoughts and took another, much needed, deep breath. The flat was still as quiet as it had been a moment prior, but I was careful to tread incredibly lightly when I turned to grab the nearest set of clean clothes. Then, cautiously, I started to tiptoe my way out of the bedroom.

Standing in the hallway, with a wooden door now planted firmly between me and my overnight guest, I threw my head back in silent ire. Questioning just how, why! I had gotten myself into a situation this stress inducing, a situation I had not been in since my days at uni. I could only  just begin to imagine how this would all pan out once everyone was finally wide awake and Teddy had-

Oh God, Teddy!

It was painfully embarrassing to admit that I had just about worked myself into a right state before it finally hit me that Teddy was, in fact, still with Finn. At his flat, not even ten minutes away, and not down the hall, sleeping in the same space as a fucking strange bloke he’d never even set eyes on.

So with that anxiety riddled train of thought now settled, I found that I was ultimately calmer and took a deep breath before resolving to head off to the loo before anything else happened to occur. Or before I sent myself into another full blown panic attack.

I wandered down the rest of the hall into the bathroom and went about my business before stripping out of last night’s clothes. I couldn't stop myself from wincing at the laddered tights I’d since tugged off, those which would surely have to go straight in the bin, and then stepped into a pair of well-worn joggers as well as a newer jumper I’d found during the early summer sales.

It was a long and thoughtful process that had me deciding that I should start on a pot of tea, because if I couldn't sneak my way out of this entire affair via the front door, then tea would simply have to do. Us Brits, hey?

But first, I needed to find my phone.

The thing wasn't too hard to locate. I found it lying on the kitchen counter when I walked in, charging, and did my best to recall the events of the previous night as I puttered around to fill the kettle.

There had been the phone call.

Then Finn taking Teddy.

The tube ride to the bar.

Ronan... As well as everyone else.

And then, Matty had appeared out of nowhere and turned my entire sodding night on its head.

"Christ." I heard myself grumble under my breath, feeling as though I had aged an entire year in a single night.

The hangover I was now supposed to be nursing was teetering around the edges of my mind, a headache oncoming I reckoned seeing as though my shock had hit it clean off onto the verge upon waking up. But still, I found myself rubbing at my temples for a brief second before splaying my palms out on the cold counter in an attempt to calm my brewing emotions.

"Could tell you a few ways to reach him, but I don't reckon he's the sort to make house calls..."

I startled at the sound of the unexpected voice and snapped my head straight up to find Matty standing in the doorway to my kitchen. The man had apparently foregone trousers, choosing instead to make up for the lack of material on his bottom half with a pair of thick socks and an oversized jumper I knew had been draped across my dresser only moments earlier. 

I couldn't find it in himself to complain though, not that I would've. Matty looked far too indecent standing there, morning light illuminating his milky skin and shadowing his already dark, tousled hair, watching me through bleary eyes.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Is what I chose to reply with, heartbeat still a little erratic, pulsing in the curve of my throat. I reached a hand up to tug on an earring, the other arm moving to wrap its way around my torso.

Matty’s lip quirked upwards when he stepped further into the room, just as the kettle whistled away to a boil.

"You're alright." He waved off, and shook his head lightly as he made his way over to where two mugs had since been placed on the counter. Two mugs I’d put down without much thought as to whether or not he was sticking around long enough for a brew.

Still, I hadn’t needed to fret over it, seeing as I was forced to watch on as Matty brewed the tea himself; popping a tea bag into each cup and steeping them in hot water. He then cocked a questioning brow in my direction which startled me into motion.

"Sugar’s in the tin.” I told him softly, pointing in its direction, “You'll have to make do with skimmed milk though I'm afraid, got none of that oat shit."

Matty snorted in retort and crossed the floor to open the fridge, looking almost too at home in my austere, little kitchen. Especially when the jumper he wore rid high enough up his thighs to expose the edging of his tight, black boxers.

I looked away.

"Might be a bigshot, babe, but a decent cuppa means actual milk." Matty tutted, paying no mind to the homage of colourful drawings on my fridge door as it rattled shut, and then returned to his station to pour an ungodly amount of milk into one mug. He hovered the bottle over the other.

"Just a splash, please. No sugar." I told him quietly and he hummed in turn, stirring methodically before he fished the teabags out and into the bin.

I took my mug rather cautiously once Matty had picked up his own and taken perch on top of my countertop, feeling a bout of unease at seeing the singer so comfortable in my humble home. What must he think of it all?

I tried not to stress anymore than I already had and took a small sip instead, looking at the way the man opposite fiddled with the old school radio that resided on the closest shelf. It was something I'd brought along with me from back home, it had belonged to one of my grandfathers, I wasn't sure which, but it tended to soothe me whenever I cooked in the late evenings, or during the long nights when Teddy was up all hours. 

The warm tea soothed my dry throat and eased some of that tension I still had coiled in the line of my shoulders, enough so that I felt the need to start up another conversation just to fill the lingering silence.

My tongue darted out to wet my bottom lip and then I cleared my throat, cradling the hot mug in my hands.

"So, about last night..."

I was overall quite surprised to see the way Matty's entire mood immediately shifted upon hearing my opener. His lethargic demeanour- mostly down to having just woken up- stiffened entirely and sharpened his tired eyes and soft lips.

"Last night." Parroted Matty, voice low and tinged with a slight rasp that I hadn't paid much attention to a minute ago. It held power, though toneless. 

I paused, if only for a moment to weigh my next words. It was important that Matty understood that last night had been a bit of an overreaction on my part, that I’d misstepped whilst drunk, and not something other. I couldn’t deal with any of that right now, if ever. No one needed to know the extent of what had gone down.

"Ronan, he's... well, he's just always been a bit protective."

Matty stared back at me, his face utterly blank. Enough so that I actually startled slightly when he scoffed. It was a loud sound that echoed off the tiles, before his jaw set sternly and his narrowed eyes met my own. “Hang on, you're actually choosing to defend that dickhead?" 

I blinked in return, gaping in truth, at the realisation that I’d completely forgotten the fact that I'd explained much of what had happened, drunkenly, to Matty on the cab ride home. The same journey which had ended with not only Matty escorting me up to my front door but me also inviting him inside. 

Couldn’t he have just been a gentleman and declined? Left me to choke on my own sick and perhaps allow me to die with the little dignity I’d had left?

It wasn't anything like most would've probably imagined though, the whole me asking him up thing, that much I knew. My intentions hadn't been anywhere near illustrious and I certainly hadn't set out to lure the illusive singer into my bed. I’d merely wanted some company after all that had happened that night is all, scared to be alone with the guilt, even.

Which was honestly a first for me. It had always been so much easier for me to just deal with my many thoughts and complicated emotions alone, behind closed doors and far, far from judgement. 

It seemed that the alcohol had addled my mind slightly.

I couldn’t help the sigh I gave then, nor the way I curled up further into the wooden chair I’d since sat in.

"No, just-"

Matty scoffed again, this time cutting me off completely. "Well, it sounds as though you are, darling."

I went to argue but found I couldn't- not that Matty gave me much of an opportunity to though. No, the man simply stampeded on, didn’t he?

Were all rock stars this pigheaded?

"I mean, for fucks sake, Mouse! What were you thinking? I've met my fair share of arseholes but he was no doubt one of the biggest, toed right in line beside me when I was off my face, in truth. He was so fucking arrogant, controlling and- moody! My God, he was a downright moody prick, too. And those were just my thoughts before seeing the aftermath of what went down at the end of the night!” 

He shook his head vehemently.

"And protective, really Squeaks? I'm sorry to say this, babe, honest I am, but you might need a reality check, mate. He was downright possessive. Glaring at you the entire night only to try and stake his claim the second you were alone."

I gritted my teeth, unhappy with the way Matty had portrayed everything.

"He's a friend!" I tried to defend but Matty, who had since quietly settled his mug down in spite of his obvious anger, jumped off the counter and stepped forward.

"More like deranged!" He spat back, "I saw you! I was fucking there! I had to look into your eyes, see the blinding panic, the fear. Don't tell me that he's a friend, not when he caused a reaction like that. I mean, you can be intimidating when you want to be- all sweet like, subdued, and intelligent. You're all these fascinating things rolled up into one oversized jumper, and yet, you let someone like him walk all over you? Treat you like you're his property or something." He scoffed once more, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the words he was having to spew.

I stared long and hard into his dark eyes before I couldn't stand to any longer, instead I turned away to blow out an unsteady breath.

Matty was right, I knew that much, alright? But it didn't mean I had to enjoy having to admit to that. Having someone else in on a secret I’d kept for so long, one I hadn't even realised I’d been keeping, not really. It all just felt like a little too much to be dealing with all at once and so early in the morning to boot. Because in actuality, I didn't want to face up to the fact that I had actually allowed someone to treat me that way. To know that other people had finally been a witness to it. Seen me that weak.

I had vowed long ago to never let another person put me in such a state of vulnerability. But here I was, a-fucking-gain.

I heard Matty sigh before socked feet dragged closer and I felt a gentle hand come to rest at the bow of my elbow. He sighed again, softer this time though, when I only continued to stare resolutely out of the kitchen window.

"I'm sorry for blowing my top, yeah? I just- it annoys me, to see you wash your hands of it so easily. As though you believed what he'd done was okay."

I swallowed thickly.

"You deserve better than that, okay?" Matty added.

I had to glance up at the ceiling to blink away the mist in my eyes, but did finally dip my head in silent acknowledgement, pulling away slightly so that I could take a moment to gather myself.

Matty didn't move when I crossed the kitchen floor to riffle through my cupboards, rooted to the ground almost, but he was spurred into action only a few seconds later.

I’d just placed a carton of eggs on the side and moved to turn on the hob when the old radio stuttered to a start. It let that silence I so hated fade away, and gave me the kick I needed to carry on.

"How'd you like your eggs?" I asked, and felt more than saw Matty’s relieved smile. He just had a way of taking up all the space in a room, as though he were its own gravitational pull and everyone else just had to be aware of his every cue. 

I hid my own, however tiny smile, as best I could.

"Fried. Got any bacon?"

And just like that, things evened out and our 'talk' was seemingly long forgotten. To be honest, I actually got so caught up in the normality of it all, the radio playing, the sidestepping, the easy smiles, that I completely forgot about the world around us. Everyone else that lived beyond these four walls.

It was just as we’d finished up eating and Matty had jumped up to grab our plates, that a familiar alert sounded. I glanced away and was reminded that life had in fact continued on without us.

I hurried over to where my phone was still sat on the side and worried at my lower lip when I saw the many notifications which lined the dimming screen. The newest was from Finn.

Messages now Finnleyyy Awake yet drunkard? Got a little man here ready to head home, well fed and only a little dirty!

It was instantaneous the way my gaze darted up to where Matty was now standing by the sink, only a tad surprised to find him making an attempt at the washing up. He must've felt my eyes on him though because he turned to flash me a grin over his right shoulder a second later. I tried my best to smile back, but the thought of Teddy meeting Matty, and of Matty meeting Teddy... just didn't sit quite well with me.

My thumbs flew their way across the screen to type up a speedy reply. 

Messages now Just woke up Sort of got a visitor? And before you start, no it wasn't like that, but I promise to tell you more when you get here Can you give me half hour??

It was only a little embarrassing, having to mention my overnight guest, especially whilst knowing it was the same man Finn had been blatantly teasing me about these past few weeks, but I really didn't want to have these two parts of my life crossover. Not right now.

With everything I understood about Matty and his past, I had to be certain that he was the kind of person I wanted my son to be around. The kind of person my son was safe to be around. And I was nowhere near sure where I currently was on that scale.

Matty was unreliable. His job had him everywhere and nowhere at once, up all hours of the day, and on a bus most months out of the year. That was something I really had to consider here. 

Because I really was just trying to be brutally honest with myself. No matter how genuine Matty might've seemed in his recent efforts, I also knew that he was bound to get bored of our dubious friendship sooner or later, and that Teddy tended to get rather attached quite quickly. And I wouldn't stand by and watch my son get hurt when Matty finally chose to walk away. It was tough, him only having so few people constantly around, I wished so greatly that I could give him the big family I’d always dreamed of, but new people always had me so weary.

I breathed out a quiet sigh of relief when Finn finally messaged back giving me the okay, as well as the expected hard time.

Messages now Finnleyyy Ah I'll be sure to rinse you of every detail, you lazy sod! And Teds will be fine, we'll stop off at the park on our way over

Matty popped up right beside me then, just as I exited my messages, and I was merely thankful that I'd managed to avoid him seeing anything that could have led to questions. In an attempt to both evade and act casual, I scrolled down further to see who else had texted. 

"Anything interesting?"

I blinked up at him, mouth now suddenly agape, then to my screen, then back up at him.

"Erm, you might want to see this." I told Matty as I all but threw my mobile into his hands. 

The Sun 07:34 HOTHEAD HEALY IS BACK AND MAKING HEADLINES WITH DARK HAIRED BEAUTY

MTV 08:02 MATTY HEALY SPOTTED AT LONDON BAR WITH NEW FLING!

The Mirror 08:11 A WILD NIGHT OUT ON THE TOWN FOR 1975 SINGER AND FRIENDS TURNS SOUR

In all the new texts I’d gotten Jamie had been the one to send the first few articles, but one seemingly spiralled into another, like a spider spinning its deceitful web.

Matty’s sudden bout of boisterous laughter startled me though, the sound so unexpected, and I shot a hasty look over to find an amused smile dancing on his lips whilst he shook his head.

"Erm," I attempted, but stopped there when I realised I didn't quite have the words, or rather no actual clue on what to say.

"Same old story." Matty told me, shrugging it off as though him being pictured simply standing next to Indra, the friend of a friend from last night, in a crowded bar was enough to warrant such a spectacle.

"But you barely said two words to her!" I retorted when Matty handed me back my phone, surprised by his utter nonchalance.

He only shrugged again! "All publicity's good publicity, and all that crap. Besides, I know the truth, the people who matter know the truth," He dipped his chin over at me then for some reason, "And so does she. They'll find something, or someone else, to hound soon enough."

"What, so it really doesn't bother you then? Being made out to be this person you're not."

"A slag, you mean?" Matty teased as a mischievous smile limned his lips. 

Tutting, I could only roll my eyes at him before I forced myself to my feet and wandered over to the sink. The bigshot singer made an abrupt noise of indignation when he realised that I really did intend to redo all of his hard work.

"Oi, I already did those!"

I couldn’t hide my smirk as I rinsed the plates off properly, honestly glad for the distraction. "And you did quite well, what with it being your first try."

Matty scowled halfheartedly, but I took note of the faint blush that flushed the back of his neck. Seemed like I wasn't too far off in my assumption.

"So, what did Jamie have to say about it all then?" Matty quipped, swiftly changing the subject.

I let him have it, not saying a word more on the topic before I went to dry my hands. "What I think you mean to ask is, why did he text me?"

"Well, yeah." Matty replied with another single shoulder shrug, "How did he even know that we were together?"

"Made a good guess?" I supplied simply when I found that I didn't really have the answer to that particular question. 

But privately, I reckoned that maybe Jamie hadn't realised that Matty and I had been together at all. I hadn't been photographed in any articles, from what I'd seen at least, and neither me nor Matty had had any contact with him until right now. 

Maybe Jamie had just wanted to let me in on what was happening, on the know, perhaps he'd wanted someone to rant or share his frustrations with. It wouldn't have been the first time. 

So I made a mental note to message him again later, when Matty was long gone and I had time to stew on all of this.

"Enough about him anyway, what are you up to today?" Matty asked me as he jumped backup into the counter. I consciously avoided looking at the way his thighs pressed against the granite, the tattoos that marked the length of his skin.

"Apart from bleaching your arse off of my countertops?" I snarked back and snorted when Matty merely wiggled his arse in retort, "I've got a couple of things to sort today."

"Work things?"

I hummed my general assent but avoided meeting Matty’s eye, not wanting to outright lie. I really did have plans though, plans to waste the day away with Teddy, grab a late lunch, and maybe head off to the cinema to watch that new superhero film he'd been yapping on about for the past two weeks. Only, I couldn't tell any of that to Matty.

"What about you?" I asked instead (always so polite!) as I went about the kitchen, clearing away what remained of our cooking session. I'd rather get the majority done now, than fret over it later.

"Not much." Matty mumbled as he ran a fingertip along the edge of a nearby cupboard, kicking his feet up when I swept past. "Avoid Jamie, dodge a couple calls, maybe meet up with some friends. Think Ross got the new FIFA, so might bug him for a bit."

I hummed around a small smile, returning the dry cutlery back to its rightful drawer, "That Danny guy?"

Matty flashed me a knowing smile. "Mayhaps."

"Mayhaps?" I mimicked, shooting him a questioning brow.

"It's a combination of words, Squeaks. Emphasises the meaning!"

I snorted. "I'm sure."

Matty chuckled quietly to himself before he finally pushed himself off of my kitchen side and back onto his feet. "Well, I'd best get out of your hair then. Leave you to do your important work and what not."

I faked a sigh of evident relief and dodged the swat he aimed at my arm, grinning as I rounded a table chair.

"Don't act like you won't miss my Godlike presence, darling." Matty looked down his nose at me mockingly as he made his way over to the doorway.

A belly laugh bubbled up out of me upon hearing that and Matty all but lit up at the sound. "Godlike? Wow, it's nice to know that fame really does get to some people’s heads."

Matty cut his eyes at me and with a mirthful smile, flipped me off. "Dick. I'm just gonna head up and get changed. That alright?"

I dipped my head, feigning wiping down the table before I glanced up to watch him walk away, finding my smile never faltering even after Matty had disappeared from sight.

It wasn't too long later when he popped back up again though, all dressed up in a pair of expensive boots and the tight trousers he'd been wearing last night. I didn’t miss the flash of my jumper that had been hidden somewhere behind the zip of his jacket though, but I didn’t say anything, pleased that he’d taken a liking to it. 

Looking at him, it didn't even seem as though he'd been out drinking all night, or that he'd just rolled out of the bed of some other. He looked rather lovely like this, still a tad bit sleepy- it was all in the crook of his smile, you see- and soft.

"Well, I'd best be off then." Matty announced from where he was now stood idling waiting in the hallway. 

I propped myself up against the bannister and found myself wearing an amused smile, drinking him in. "Best be."

He grinned back over at me and just when it felt as though he was about to reach out, he stuffed one hand into his jacket pocket and pointed at me with the other. "I'll text you later, yeah? So make sure to actually reply this time, all right?"

Rather dramatically, I blew out a large breath and crossed my arms over the ball that sat atop the bannister’s wooden beam. "Seems like a hard task..."

I laughed when Matty shot me a particularly nasty glare, but relented.

"I'll be waiting on your many messages, my dear." I corrected, doing my best to feign the doting wife sending her husband off to war, even going as far as to clutch at my jumper in a pained goodbye.

"You’d better." Matty smirked and when I took a step away from the staircase, he decided to take that as his leave.

Though it was just as he was halfway out the front door that he paused and turned back to chance a glance at me, ring clad fingers toying with the latch on the inside lock. 

"We might've dropped the subject but, just know, if I ever see that ginger prick near you again I will put my fist through his face hard enough that he'll be shitting out my rings." And with that Matty dipped his chin at me once and let the door swing shut behind him.

I wasn’t ashamed to say that I stood there in the silence that encompassed the house for a very long moment, before my lips finally quirked upwards and I let myself laugh. 

It seemed that everyone was right, Matty Healy truly did have a way with words. Only, the wrong kind.

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2024: 18 Hackneyed

“This is,” Thancred began, waving the thin paperback carelessly. “Quite possibly one of the worst things we have yet read.”

Aeryn snatched the book from him before it slipped—purposefully, the dexterous bastard—from his fingers, glowering. “You liked the characters.”

He grinned at her indignation. “I liked a character, and how she makes the others come to life when sharing scenes, but one well-written character who is quite likely the author’s self-insert cannot make up for a trite and tired plot. Which you said of it first.”

“I said it employed some hackneyed tropes that did weaken the climactic moment,” Aeryn said, trying to smooth the spine and cover again. “You’ve gotten crumbs in the binding, how in the world…”

“Anyroad,” Thancred said with a dismissive shrug. “I think we can agree that even for a cheap yellowback, it’s a stale and clichéd tale that was produced for a quick gil and will be forgotten just as easily.”

Aeryn nodded, shaking the last of the crumbs out and fixing a few dog-eared corners. “It’s the sort of novel that lives up to the stereotype of purchases from those wandering book stalls. Yet you never fail to let them stop you and sell you some tawdry affair.”

“When we were young, Fourchenault once called them a plague in the city streets, and thus did they become my favorite places from which to purchase reading material,” Thancred replied cheerfully. “I have in fact found a few rare gems among the muck, now and again.” He gestured at the tattered tome Aeryn was attempting to clean up. “This is not one of them.”

“Highly readable, though,” she mused. “You know it’s drivel, and yet keep going because it simply moves along.”

“Oh, the author has a way with words, certainly. Neither of us stumbled or grew tongue-tied whilst reading aloud. Excellent craftsmanship. Now if they could only extend that to plot and characters.”

“Perhaps they do,” Aeryn said. “The bookseller said this is an early entry in a series.”

“No!”

She nodded. “A dozen and counting, all around that one shining character and her exploits.”

Thancred rubbed his chin. “Hrm. This may bear further investigation, then.”

“You said you hated it.”

“I said it was among the worst things we’ve ever read. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. And so did you.”

“Well. Sure. But do we really want to read more?”

“Now that we are aware of the possibilities, I say we unfortunately need to. It’s become an imperative.”

Aeryn rolled her eyes.

“I’m quite serious,” Thancred said, getting up and meandering to the door. He looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Especially since some of that authorial talent with wordplay during the sex scene had quite the impressive effect on you.”

Her blush instantly darkened her cheeks as she opened her mouth to retort, snapped it closed again, and resorted to glaring and fuming about how mad she actually wasn’t. She would not throw the book—for various reasons, chief among them her tendency to baby anything bound—but it was probably one of the closest baits he had managed yet.

“Come along,” he urged, nonchalant. “Let’s find that bookseller and see if they have more of these wretched things, and if they do in fact improve with the writer’s practice.”

She did join him, and arm in arm they made their way out to Sharlayan’s streets and plazas, searching out cheap and terrible reading material.

[sareisnot]

Lord Gwyn: The Perfect Anticlimax

"Dark Souls is a hard game"

To anyone who's even a little bit familiar with the franchise, this is an obnoxiously obvious statement. The game has held the title of THE "hard game" for so long, that not only has the statement "X is the Dark Souls of Y" become a cliche, but so has every subsequent mocking subversion of that comparison. To even acknowledge its obviousness, as I did, is territory so well-worn, that I'm at risk of falling through, into the hackneyed void. But it's still worth mentioning. It's a well-earned reputation. Not only is Dark Souls, on a purely technical level, difficult to beat, but its entire identity is based around its difficulty, if the name of the "Prepare to Die" edition is any indication. Its world is a punishing one, seeking to beat the player character down at every single opportunity, until they can't stand to move another step forward, lest they get thwacked by a swinging axe, skewered by a demon, swept off a cliff, or obliterated by a dragon with teeth where its torso should be. It's a game that crushes you down, intending to make very clear just how easy your character can die, and, importantly, just how unimportant your death will be. To these bosses, these titans, these near-gods, you are nothing but an annoyance. Many of these fights feel like climactic struggles against an ancient, near-unbeatable foe, who existed long before you were born, and has a pretty solid chance of existing after you've expired. When you enter the arena of Ornstein and Smough, the music swells, and the two knights flex the skills that they're going to use to kill you over and over again. Many of the game's bosses, try to tap into that sense of scale, of importance, of grandiosity, each of their respective battles feeling like they could easily be the final one.

Then, after a long struggle, you make it to the end.

The game's final boss is Gwyn, a towering figure who's been hinted at throughout the game, through dialogue and item descriptions. Even if you didn't pay much attention to the little pieces of lore that the game hands you, you're able to put together that he's a pretty important guy: the mighty Lord of Cinder. The buildup to his fight hints at an even larger presence than the other bosses. You travel beneath Firelink Shrine, your home base for most of the game, where you find a massive expanse of land, cold and dark, a mysterious coliseum-like structure looming in the distance, which is impossibly large, even so far away. As you get closer, ghosts of old knights appear to attack you. They are easily dispatched, but still a shock. The structure towers over you, emphasizing just how much space is needed to house this mythologically strong figure, and the power that he holds. You enter, and find…….a hollowed old man. He's slightly taller than you, dressed in robes, and wielding a flaming greatsword, but he's nowhere near the scale of other bosses. However, he rushes at you all the same. When you begin the duel, it feels different from the others. There is no dramatic, sweeping music. All you get is a somber piano, like something that would play during a funeral, rather than a climactic duel. It feels like Gwyn's theme is actively pitying him. Granted, it's appropriate for the fight. All Gwyn can do is swing is flaming blade, which you can avoid with ease. There's been some easier bosses, but at least they didn't feel like they WANTED to die. Besides, this isn't the fragile Moonlight Butterfly, or the starting Asylum Demon, this is the final boss! He should be challenging you! Putting all the skills you've learned to the test! He's a fucking King! Why isn't he stronger? Fighting Gwyn after you've fought everyone else feels like walking into the home of an old, dilapidated hoarder, and kicking him while he's down. If you've been practicing your parrying, its like doing the same, except with cleats. He just seems………tired. As pathetically destitute as you were at the start. He might as well just keel over when you walk in the door. You beat him, naturally, and then the game just kinda….ends. If you got the ending I did, you just exit the area, look at all the nice snake friends you just made, and then roll credits. For all the work you've put into getting here, and all the struggles you've had to overcome, it feels like a severe anticlimax, like the game is playing a prank on you.

But if you know anything about the setting of Dark Souls, you'd know that there's really no other way this could end.

"The world of Dark Souls is dying"

This is a phrase that, while not as oft repeated as the above, is also pretty common knowledge at this point. Lodran, the game's setting, is a desolate place, long past its glory years. Once a powerful kingdom, teeming with life and magic, it is now in ruin, every citizen either dead, hollowed, or left to survive amongst the numerous deadly creatures that now roam the land. Everyone who's still around at the start of the game is either destined for misery, or already there (Unless you're Andre. He seems to be doing pretty well, all things considered). Somewhere around the time Lordran has reached the end of its life cycle, is when the player character enters the story, albeit with a rather unenviable role. Your job is to essentially be the world's janitor, cleaning out the world's former main characters, most of whom are insane, and all of whom are well past their useful days (or, if you have the DLC, you get to see Artorias right as he passes this point). Unfortunately, most of them would like to keep being alive, so they're going to make that difficult for you, by turning you into red mist until you stop trying to kill them. Even the grandiose presentation some of them have can't entirely hide the fact that this is a rather sad state of affairs for everyone, especially for those who haven't really done anything wrong (I nearly cried at having to kill Sif, and I will never fight Priscilla). Fortunately, some of these bastards contributed to the world's current bleakness, so killing them provides at least a twinge of catharsis, albeit one that will certainly be gone by the time you move onto the next bastard. The goal of this whole clean-up process, is to prepare the world to either continue with the age of fire with you as the catalyst, hopefully without those brutes who were clogging the power vacuums, or plunge the world into a new age of darkness, now that it has been cleansed of its polluting influences.

The only mean to either of these ends, is to kill Gwyn, the Lord of Cinder, former ruler of Lordran, and one of the primary reasons that this world is such a goddamn mess. To sum up his actions without getting too deep into the lore's intricacies; Gwyn knew that his kingdom was destined to fall, due to the world's oncoming transition from the age of fire into the age of shadow. This transition was represented by the dwindling light of the first flame, the lifeblood of the kingdom. After utterly failing to rekindle it, Gwyn entered a final gambit to prolong the life of his empire, linking himself with the first flame, but burning himself, and many of his knights, away in the process. This left him as a hollow, doomed to languish in his kiln, until another unfortunate soul took his place, linking the flame to further prolong the changeover. In doing this, Gwyn went against the natural laws of his world, which didn't react well to having its transitionary cycle interrupted. The world fell into a sharp decline, becoming a desolate, unhappy place, festering with demons and monsters (many of whom were the result of the last time someone tried to rekindle the first flame), making life hell for anyone unlucky enough to still be around afterwards. Gwyn wanted to prolong the inevitable, prevent the death of his kingdom, and continue its prosperity, so he sacrificed everything. His realm has persisted, but in a state of undeath, having stuck around long past its natural expiration date, just like him. Gwyn's story can be properly summarized as what happens when someone is psychotically obsessed with preserving their power, even when that preservation only serves to make the world a substantially worse place. Gwyn, in his hollow state, is a symbol of Lordran's persistent deterioration.

None of this information is directly handed to the player. Some bits are alluded to through snippets of dialogue and item descriptions, and the opening cutscene depicts one of the major inciting events of the narrative, but for the most part, it's a sprawling, multi-phased story, that is dolled out non-linearly, and piecemeal.

Now, with that context, let's cast a new lens on that fight…

After delving underneath Firelink Shrine for the final time, you come upon a desolate landscape, the Kiln of the First Flame looming in the distance. It's clearly well past its glory days, looking decrepit and sad. It is home of the world's lifeblood, but in name only. Now, it holds the last remnant of an age long past. As you approach, the spirits of old knights come to attack you, but they aren't much of a challenge, being just shadows of their former selves. They're victims, really; their loyalty has bound them to a sorry task, but they're in the way, and they weren't really living much of a life anyway. When you get closer to the kiln, it feels impossibly large, but also cold, and surprisingly dark, for something that's supposed to house an eternal flame. When you can see more details, it becomes clear just how long it's been falling into ruin. It feels abandoned, but you know its not. After all, you're here to end the life of its only resident. You enter, and find…. Lord Gwyn, a king who destroyed himself and cast the world into ruin, just to hold on to a formerly prosperous time. Lord Gwyn, whose refusal to let the fire die is the reason why you had to struggle through this entire journey. Lord Gwyn, whose death will mark the end of a era, no matter what you do afterwards. He charges at you, barely even conscious anymore, having been locked in this tomb for unknowable amounts of time. But he can't really fight you, at least not well. His strength isn't nearly what it used to be, now that he's a hollow, tired and worn-down, just like you were at the start. He's a pitiable figure, and the music knows. That sorrowful piano fades in, almost like something that would play at a funeral. But this isn't a funeral. This is a mercy killing. Spiritually, Gwyn died a long time ago. You're just putting his body to rest. When he's finally dispatched, it feels like an anticlimax. But of course it is. Gwyn is the embodiment of the world you've spent so much time exploring. Lordran has been denied a proper climax for so long, because he extended the story long past where it should have ended. He's been waiting to be killed for ages now. It feels only right that Gwyn be an easy, anticlimactic boss, because how could such a destitute figure be anything else?

"Dark Souls is a hard game for a reason"

The above statement is a simplified summation of why Dark Souls is one of my favorite games that I’ve ever played. It's set in a dying, hostile world, that's been brought to ruin by the violation of its natural laws. Thus, the game is insistent on making the player struggle at every turn, to make them feel just as downtrodden as the world they explore. Lord Gwyn is a example of just how thoroughly holding onto power can corrupt someone, leaving them as a husk, the scraps of their former glory existing only the in the memory of the people who are still forced to cope with the consequences of their selfish actions. Thus, his boss fight is an intentionally easy anticlimax, to emphasize just how far he's fallen, to the point that he can't even put up a good point. It's the themes of his character, perfectly melding with the gameplay. It's a perfect encapsulation of the game's best quality, how the experience of playing the game, reflects the themes and tone of its story. The reasons why the fight with Gwyn is the perfect anticlimax, and why Dark Souls is a near-perfect game, are one and the same.

[jbaileyfansite]

Interview with Evan Ross Katz (2024)

Whether he’s carrying Kylie Minogue to the Hyde Park Festival stage with his pal Andrew Scott, making the Internet go collectively feral for merely running a half marathon, chasing dinosaurs (in the upcoming Jurassic World reboot), romancing Matt Bomer (in Fellow Travelers) or Simone Ashley (in Bridgerton) or Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo (in Wicked) or, with his most recent venture, launching an LGBTQ+-focused charity, it seems Jonathan Bailey is always up to something. And yet, he still makes time, from his hotel room in Thailand (where he’s shooting Jurassic World 4), to hop on a Zoom with me to catch up.

We discuss everything from chafed nipples to queer shame to who he’d like to see in the “Drink Your Milk” T-shirt to if we’ll see him on Broadway any time soon, which is to say it’s a brief but wide-ranging chat.

I haven't seen you since the Met Gala! When we last spoke, you were prepping for your first half marathon. I obviously saw the viral photos that went around of you at the finish line, but how did it go?

You know, I should have put those nipple stickers on. That's my main takeaway. 

[Laughs] Did you bleed?

I did a bit, yeah. Did you? I know you've done a couple of marathons. 

I did bleed, and I didn't know about the bleeding beforehand. It's not something you really hear about but it's painful and uncomfortable.

Totally! And not even just beforehand: It took ‘til 4 hours later when my best friend told me there was evidence [of the bleeding]. But anyways… it was euphoric!

At least there was no photo evidence of that element!

Exactly! So thankfully, it's done. But it's just the most amazing thing, isn't it? And the community as well. Hackney Moves is amazing and they raised loads of money. It was the Bridgerton [Season 3 release] week so I feel like you could sort of harness that.

I do have to ask you a pressing question: Days ago, it was announced that Wicked had moved up its release date and will now be released the same day as Ridley Scott's Gladiator 2. Many online were affectionately calling this Barbenheimer 2.0, which led many to try and speculate about a proper portmanteau. Jon Chu wrote on Instagram that the consensus seems to be “Glicked,” which you reposted on Instagram, signaling a cosign. But I have to ask you, Johnny: Are you not considering“Wickediator”?

I love it. Whatever Jon Chu has ever said to me, I’ve taken as gospel, so I actually hadn't explored all the other options. The one that I've now heard since then which is making me reconsider everything is “Gladicked.” [Laughs] It's quite good, isn’t it? 

Yes! To me, “Glicked” feels too Wicked-skewed and then “Wickediator” is just clunky AF, so I like where you're at. 

We want it to be equal footing for sure. Another thing that I love that went viral is someone going: “Oh, brilliant. A film for the ladies and a film for the ladies.” [Laughs] 

I am both ladies! 

Oh, yes. Me too! 

Let’s talk The Shameless Fund, the charity you founded to raise money for LGBTQ+ nonprofit organizations. Can you tell me about the formation of this project?

It's been a labor of love over the last three or four years. It's been quite an organic experience, mainly inspired by Fellow Travelers, hence why I started with a collaboration which references a very specific scene and a performance by Matt Bomer.

I think through Covid and Bridgerton coming out, I found that there’s a real sense in the queer community about awareness of people who came before you and other experiences. And then obviously in Fellow Travelers, which explicitly explores that, the character I played was sort of on the front all the way through a very complicated experience for gay men at that time.

He experienced real moments of blooming liberation and quite insane amounts of oppression as well, and he was always fighting. He ends up becoming an activist, essentially, and I think it was in playing that part — which was kind of spiritual for me and for everyone who's involved in it — that I was like: Right, okay. I know that I've got this idea in my head and having experienced how much love there is for things like Bridgerton and how much money there is in collaboration, I felt that there's so many things I had said “no” to because it didn't feel quite right for me but if there was a world in which I could marry all of it in a creative sort of cocktail, then why not? And to give back to the community that I so love, and also, I'm a massive beneficiary of the work that the people that came before us did, so that's where it came to fruition from. 

You collaborated with our dear friend Jonathan Anderson, the creative director of Loewe, on a T-shirt with a memorable quote from Fellow Travelers to promote the launch of The Shameless Fund. How did this collaboration come to be?

During the strikes during the filming of Wicked, I went on a run one day and this idea of a T-shirt came into my head in full form. Then I sat next to Jonathan [at a Studio Voltaire fundraiser], and he’s lovely and brilliant and naughty and has a foundation, so it was all kind of organic.

Then I went over to DC to present Matt Bomer with an award for the Human Rights Campaign and it was really galvanizing to experience the American fervor. It was a gala, and the energy in the room was absolutely wild and there were amazing stories on stage. I texted Jonathan and I said: “Look, I have an idea and it involves milk and a T-shirt. What do you think?” and he said: “Call me tomorrow,” and then he said yes within the same phone call. I just felt tentative because it’s the sort of thing where you ask and you don't know, but then it went from there. 

I do recall first seeing a photo of you in the shirt several months ago during a night out with the Loewe team in China…

I went to the Loewe exhibition in Shanghai, which was incredible, and that night, we had quite a big night out and I wore the T-shirt because I’d been given the first prototype.

I was having a little boogie and [Anderson] uploaded it whilst I had no access to the Western World — my phone was off the whole time. So by the time I came home, you could see that people were gonna go wild for the T-shirt. Now, it's sold out and we're gonna get some more and it'll be a first step for The Shameless Fund to raise some money. 

Jonathan Anderson did my and my husband's wedding looks and I had to send him that same initial text to be like: “Can one even ask this?”

That's what's so brilliant in life: People who have the ability to collaborate, and that's just what Jonathan does.

One thing that you said just now that struck me is: “Why not?” I interview a lot of people in your profession and they're not asking that question all the time. A lot of people say:

“Oh, there's lots of money I can make. I can have more money. I can have more things for myself.”

Why are you a “why not?” person rather than a “why”? Is that something that was imbued in you by your family and your upbringing or is it how you've always been?

I don't know. I just feel quite strongly emotionally. I sense injustice in certain places, and I think what comes with success — especially being a gay actor — is that you think: “Hang on a minute. Are there limitations? Are there glass ceilings?”

When you experience success that you never thought you would and you grew up thinking that you're limited because of your identity and who you are, I think about the people that have supported me and the people that were really pioneering, but also, the actual heroes who do the real work; the people who work for these nonprofits and these charities where the majority of their energy is spent trying to raise money. When Bridgerton came out, I was inundated with requests to help draw attention to [these organizations] or raise money or donate things that they could sell, so that's where the kernel of this idea came from. All my life, I’ve been thinking about how I can give back.

It's not for nothing that you call this The Shameless Fund. We grew up at a time when, and I don't know if this is the same for you, but I didn't know that gay people existed. I thought I was the only one because I didn't have access to the kind of media kids do today where you can go on Instagram and see that gay is not only acceptable; it's cool. There's this very significant paradigm shift. I feel like a lot of gay men of our generation felt this shame as young people and often spend a lot of our adult lives working to rid ourselves of it. What is it for you about this idea of shame? 

I totally agree in terms of generations. I think the queer experience changes every five years. Even with some of my friends who are 10 years older than me — it's just so specific to cultural moments and representation as well, as you're saying. But I think my understanding of shame, especially having experienced Fellow Travelers, is that it permeates. It's not just a community that experiences the shame; it's the people around them. It's the parents who don't understand it and kick their kids out of their house. It's the sisters, it’s the cousins, it's the nephews, it's the children that are in broken families because of it. It's actually so toxic, that sense of self-hatred. That’s why The Shameless Fund is actually something that I hope is going to benefit everyone, even beyond the community itself.

Also, the older we get and because of the world we live in now, you can read The Velvet Rage and you can read Matthew Todd’s Straight Jacket and you can explore and have conversations with your friends that are really enlightening and you can have therapy, if you're lucky enough that you can afford to do that. As a 36-year-old now, I look back and I just go: “My God, I had such a loving family and yet I was still so isolated and so crippled.”

Shame can stop people from having a proper education and from being able to structure proper emotional relationships, like fundamental relationships with their family, which is the one place you're supposed to feel safe. It's flawed if the family is not aware of what you're going through. 

How did you come up with the name?

I did have other names [in mind for The Shameless Fund], but we won't go into them. One was so aggressive! [Laughs] But “The Shameless Fund” felt punk enough and fundamental enough. To me, I think that to be without shame is to be able to be joyful and to be able to thrive and to be able to learn and have a bloody good time whilst doing all those things, so it just felt right that it should be targeting shame because then hopefully it benefits the whole community in every color on the pride flag and, in turn, will also help so many people around them. 

So what can people expect next?

There's going to be some really fun things coming with The Shameless Fund and there's different ways in which it can grow, but I have people who really know what they're doing who are helping lead it. By the end of the year, we'll hopefully have worked with three different charities, starting small and helping people understand the work they're doing because that's the most important thing. If you think about Instagram, other than chatting with Evan Ross Katz [laughs], that's the platform through which you can really draw attention to things. Literally anyone in our community who's thriving at the moment — in a community that's obviously under threat going forward — knows what it's like to receive support. We know what we missed growing up.

I, too, grew up with an accepting family, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t still feel ostracized. I appreciate you recognizing that nuance, one I think many of us experience in some form but don’t always discuss.

Now, on The Shameless Fund’s website, it does say that more collaborations are coming. As you said, there’s going to be a restock of the Loewe shirts, but are there other brands in the mix?

There are other brands, and it'll be really exciting because the scope is endless, but I definitely had a couple of other ideas. After Fellow Travelers, the next thing will be a Wicked garment, so you might have to keep your eyes out for that. Maybe jumpers and sexy boots?

That’s perfect for my fantasy! So we've seen Kylie Minogue wearing the shirt — who I was lucky enough to be introduced to by you on the dance floor at the Met Gala after-party, thanks again — and we've seen Kit Connor, Scarlett Johansson and your Bridgerton co-star Luke Newton sporting it as well. I'm wondering who else is on your wishlist of celebrities that you'd like to see in the Drink Your Milk T-shirt?

Oh, God. What a question! Great shout. I would love to see Jerrod Carmichael in it right now. Very specifically Jerrod Carmichael. 

I feel that.

I would also love to see Hanson in it. Their three-part harmonies are a knockout at the moment.

At the moment?

[Laughs] We were just talking about this today. I’ve literally just come away from a field where I was running towards or away from dinosaurs, and we were talking about Hanson for about four hours today and listening to their three-part harmonies. 

That is not what I was expecting.

Who else? I can only think of people who are going to be wearing it over the next few weeks, which is quite exciting. Is there anyone you want to see in it? 

I have quite a few people. First of all, Jamie Dornan. I would love to see him in it. Paul Mescal, for obvious reasons. And the fans are waiting for Matt Bomer!

Don’t you worry. They’ll be satiated! They’ll be quenched. And Andrew Scott had a good time at Glastonbury is what I’ll say. [Laughs]

I bet he did! Last but not least: Richard II is bringing you back to the stage. Wicked is giving us the musical theater moment we've been craving. Is there a musical theater moment that’ll be live on stage in Jonathan Bailey's future?

Potentially, actually. Maybe in 2026. 

On Broadway?

I would! I had the best time recently in New York and I watched as many things as I could. I saw Stereophonic, which, to me, was like a religious experience. That, and Oh, Mary! And Cole Escola.

That is what it's about. I would come back to watch that; I was so inspired by it. Obviously, I'd love to [be on Broadway] at some point and you just have to wait and see what pops up. 

Source

[transmutationisms]

I'd be interested to hear more of your thoughts on Melissa Broder's milk fed

i thought it was so lacklustre. like for a book that sets itself up as a work of psychological realism there's almost no attention to rachel's actual thought process as she moves through the (extremely linear and teleological and clinically approved) steps of 'recovery'; instead what we get is literally a timeskip after which she tells us she's been 'eating normally' for some weeks. like lol ok. her restriction itself is given a singular and hackneyed explanation---mommy issues---and miriam literally only exists as a fat lampshade for rachel to temporarily transfer her feelings onto instead. we don't even get any suggestion that miriam had, idk, any kind of erotic or sexual interest in rachel's eating behaviours, which would have been the obvious place to go imo. there's just not any new ground being tread here---anorexia makes rachel('s life) smaller because it's how she controls herself to try to gain maternal approval. wow where could i possibly have heard that one before.

i tjink a fundamental problem with a lot of anorexia in fiction is that people think anorexia is more interesting than eating, but they also think they have some kind of social responsibility to make their characters 'recover' out of anorexia, which means essentially that they've trapped themselves into writing a story that ends boringly. 'milk fed' opens with passages that do a decent job of capturing the repetitive and compulsive nature of rachel's anorexia, but still hold reader attention. there's no corresponding passage for her 'recovery' or refeeding or weight restoration process, because broder is uninterested in these or perhaps squeamish about portraying them as being at all unpleasant (see again: assumptions about social responsibility). so, as 'milk fed' progresses, we get less and less of rachel's interiority (clichéd as it was) and more and more moments that only make sense on the assumption that the reader already knows the dsm diagnosis and can fill in the gaps themself.

i don't necessarily want to read realist fiction about recovery; it sounds roughly as boring to me as realist fiction about anorexia itself. but the asymmetry in broder's treatment of the two is extremely noticeable and makes the book read like an episode of a medical soap. it's insane to me how much hype this book got as boundary-pushing or what the fuck. make rachel fat or give miriam some opinions or something idk. most people who write about anorexia are the last people who hve anything interesting to say about it because they're attracted to it as a form of writing a personal confessional and then shoehorned into writing a recovery story around the embrace of psychiatric normality. worst possible combination of obvious self-insert ana characters who then undergo a magical transformation conveniently just off-page and return to us Happy™️ and Healthy™️ like some kind of total system re-code of their every desire. which is also why 'milk fed', despite making gestures toward a political situating of eating and body weight, is ultimately unable to conceptualise either of these things through any lens other than (the barest outlines of) rachel's individual erotic desires.