#i just wanted to kvetch for a little bit ��

[bi-bats]

hello!! i was just wondering, since the damitim fic is ongoing, does this mean know yourself updates are slowed/paused? (not a complaint i’m loving both!!)

Hiya!! Sorry that I never give easy answers 😂

So yes, Know Yourself updates are slower (not paused or on hiatus!! I am working on it still), but it's not because of the DamiTim fic.

I've been writing Know Yourself for over a year now (even though I haven't been posting it that long) and I'm just struggling with getting the words on the page to be what I want them to be. The plot is sorted out and I'm content with what I'm going to make happen, but also when I think about the fic my brain starts to feel the way my eyes do when I stare at a screen too long 😂 so I'm trying to be patient with myself and let myself take my time with it instead of pushing something out that I'm really not happy with, because 1) I think it'll show, 2) I'll just burn myself out, and 3) if I treat it like a chore it'll never get finished.

Also I've realized (post-jaytimweek) that I prefer writing in present tense, it makes everything feel more natural to me and I can control some writing things like timing and flow a little better and I WROTE OVER 100K WORDS IN PAST TENSE FOR THAT FIC AND I'M NOT FUCKING SWITCHING NOW!!!! SO I GUESS I GOTTA FINISH IT IN PAST TENSE!!!!

And also we're at the point in the plot of Know Yourself where I'm really stepping on the gas on the number of things happening per chapter, and the chapters are overwhelmingly long. And I would love to simply be more brief, but everything happening is relevant to the plot, so. Sigh.

Now, the DamiTim fic.

That one is just going up because that fic is happening to me. I can't prevent that fic from occurring. I would love to think about something else, actually! That boy is so unwell! But that's what I'm feeling inspired about and lately I've only been able to write when something worms into my brain and I have to put it on the page immediately no matter where I am or what I'm doing (I have a newish manager who doesn't know how to write a schedule, so I'm currently on day 7 of a ten day stretch of work where I only had one day off, which I had to spend doing all my chores and then hosting D&D. So basically, gone are the days off where I could just sit at my computer and write for a day 😭😭😭).

Also, Ive been having problems with Know Yourself since May, but the DamiTim fic is just fucking pouring out of me fugue state style. My brain hasn't latched onto DamiTim and released Know Yourself in favor of it, it's that the claws of Know Yourself began to unsink from my flesh like, 2 months ago and DamiTim saw its chance. Like, this isn't about to be a cute analogy, but I feel like I'm vomiting out the DamiTim fic because it's a virus. It can't be in my brain anymore okay? I need it out. And it feels like a shame to have like, almost 40k words of it written and just sitting in my drafts when I could be updating it (which I'm sure you appreciate if you're loving that one too 😂), and it has the added benefit of yall knowing I haven't abandoned the fandom/preventing yall from thinking that something horrible has happened to me!

Tldr/to reiterate: yes I'm slowing down on Know Yourself, but it's not because of any of the other chaptered fics I'm working on.

Anyways, sorry this got long and ranty, I think I needed to vent all this out anyways so thank you for giving me a chance to do that!! And also thank you for phrasing your ask the way you did, I really appreciate you specifying that you're not complaining 😂 this is a valid question (that did not upset me but could've if the phrasing was different) and I didn't feel pressured so thank you!!! Ily anon 💕💖💚

[thedeafprophet]

There is some kind of irony in how mask of the rose put effort in to have npc character of different religions in it, yet somehow became an even more christanity centric game then all the previous ones from a players' actions perspective

Is there some sort of balance that has to be made? can't have one without increasing the others ahdjfkfggllhhj

[selfinflictedgunshotwound]

i do enjoy the recent wave of more mature takes on romance in shoujosei wherein the MCs don't have to actively try to make someone like them, they just like each other and the feelings develop from there; but i will be honest and say i also miss when female leads worked really hard to make the male leads like them. like in a way nowadays is better because nothing is being forced and it's just two people who already Get eachother clicking and starting a relationship but at the same time i think it's kinda boring because no one has to even try to acclimate to the other person anymore really. idk. there was kinda this throughline back then that anyone could have a live story as long as they worked for it and now it kinda just falls into people's laps. it's less of "finding love" and more destiny... i dunnoooo 🤦‍♀️🙄

[honeysuckle-venom]

Yeah okay in chapter 2 the dr literally said that integration "is extremely rare and not medically advised in DID cases." So...yeah I can't fucking read this lol. Like that's just...a lie. It's just not true and it's harmful and annoying. Time to read something else.

Oh the author had been doing so well and then had a line about how supposedly integration can be very bad for people and hasn't been proven effective. Hasn't been proven effective??? What does that even mean??? I absolutely do not think that people need to integrate if they don't want to, but if you do want to it is absolutely a valid and safe and effective approach to healing! As evidenced by yours truly, someone who has mostly fused and really really likes it that way!

[anteroom-of-death]

Teacher's Pet part 8

Synopsis: Truths are revealed, jeopardizing what lies between these two lovers. Why? And how?

A/n: Angst! Angst! And in this chapter, I personally will relinquish a grudge, Sophia I forgive you now, sorta. I swear things may improve! Also, Petronella is a girl's girl and alive. Fuck what the Canon says.

You never expected the tables to turn that quickly. You never wanted to have an affair. You just subconsciously wanted him. Maybe more than subconsciously.

How dumb.

You left his office and went off to your tutoring. Your chest still ringing from beating too hard. Your ears were tingling.

You figured one would have to be deaf, dumb and blind to not notice your obvious puppy dog. (Or how did he put it just now? “A fawn separated from it’s mother too early”…?) Crush you were developing on him.

Was it desperation and he was merely scratching an itch? Something to warm his bones after a dry-spell since his wife died? If not, why not just go see an escort? (You shuddered at an accidental outing.)

You doubted it was a crush, like you held. Do men in their upper fifties (Your best guess at his age…) get crushes? You also doubted that.

And why did it seem like he had twice the amount of pulse in his body. If you didn’t know anatomy, you would swear he had two hearts in his chest.

You shook your head and left silly thoughts and trying to define this experience.

Whatever it was, it began to happen fast. You would meet up between classes in his office for a quick fuck. Or if he saw you on campus he’d guide you to somewhere secluded for a kiss on your cheek and a remark about your latest diatribe in class.

You still met up every Monday for some actual tutoring on his class.

Once he took you out to park at the edge of town for a little coffee date.

He respected your work schedule and always never asked questions.

You were dearly grateful.

The term was coming to an end, and you were in the library. It was late and you covered in highlighter ink and were approaching clinical insanity. You felt a now-familiar set of hands on your shoulders.

“Burning the candle at both ends? I see.”

“Hey.” You broke out of your reverie and statistics-essay informed stupor. It might have been a tad bit louder than you intended.

“Play hooky from work this weekend. I’ve got to go to London for my other job.” First time he ever mentioned a second job. Did the university really pay it’s professors that little? You heard a few, more junior ones kvetching once. But him? He was definitely tenured.

“Another job?” You questioned.

“Yeah, I made a bad choice in the 70’s. It’s followed me around since then. Do come. I’ll do us somewhere special.” So your calculations on his age were wrong. He was maybe just a tad bit older than upper fifties…

Probably lower sixties.

“Sounds fine by me. It’s been slowing up.” You remarked.

He leaned down and kissed your cheek.

“Do ditch the energy drink. They’re ever so bad on human’s guts.”

A weird quirk. He’d always say humans or apes. As if he was above or different. Maybe it was the fact he was an old white guy.

Yeah, that was it. Old white guy brain rot.

“Meet me at that park… Friday, around three PM.” He instructed.

“Okay…”

“I’ll let you go back to your studies. I know how much you value them.” A final kiss and he faded out as quickly as he appeared.

You texted your manager and explained that you weren’t able to do the weekend shift, but definitely Thursday night. If you were to go to London, you’d proceed some mad money to spend on your own if his second job left you hostage for too long to your own devices.

And you canceled on a few regulars.

“Family issues.” Always a surefire way to get out of these things. Vague enough to not garner questions and would gain some sympathy. You hoped some other girl wouldn’t nab them, but you knew how people were. That one girl, Sophia, once stole your biggest tipper who saw you on both Friday nights and Sunday evenings because she’d do oral without a condom.

Damn that stomach flu you had that weekend.

You worked that night, slow but a big tip had materialized. Perfect.

By the time you had gotten home and napped for a few hours, you had a dilemma. Obviously you didn’t want your work knickers and robes mixing in with your real life clothes. Taint the divide you had.

You stared at your open suitcase. It was a little carry-on one. Yet the empty inside could swallow you whole. You threw in the most fancy of your basics in. It seemed the best idea. You pressed your hand to your mouth and let out a nervous scream.

Why was picking out what clothes you’d wear to probably just stay in a hotel all weekend stressful?

And were you entering kept whore territory?

Your situationship was dreadfully unlabeled.

You definitely knew he wasn’t your boyfriend. That word was horribly trite and evoked images of teens and young adults running about to dinner dates and cuddling each other on the bus. Or feeling each other up behind the seats in a cinema.

Not that you had particularly a detailed actual history with long-term or healthy relationships.

That’s life.

Did he even drive? How were you two getting to London? You just sat there on the bench after going to the park. It was nearly three.

You scratched at your eyelid, fighting the urge to tear off your lower lip with your fingernails.

Checking your phone, you didn’t see the big black Range Rover pulling up in front of you. The back passenger side door popped open, startling you a bit. “Hey you, get in. Apparently I’m very late.” You saw him in the back, a few soldiers in it with him. (They looked like soldiers. You decided they were.)

You grabbed your little carry-on suitcase and went in. An anxiety attack was bubbling up. What was his other job? You slid in and clenched your suitcase and purse between your legs.

You were going to London, so you chose a classy, sleek, small black number. You made the right choice. It was positively crowded in here.

There was a cute, disgruntled looking girl with an oversized knit scarf and some hipster glasses on in the front passenger seat.

“Hi! I’m Osgood!” She stretched back and offered you her hand. “You’re his...assistant?” She seemed confused by your general existence, but pleased you were another girl in this car of men. You couldn’t blame her! You took it and shook.

“She’s my companion.” The bastard finally labeled your situationship. Companion, very old timey. He let out of beaming smile, and continued on, “Petronella Osgood, (y/n's full name). (Y/n’s full name), Petronella Osgood. The new lead scientific advisor and assistant to the Head of UNIT!” His hand nearly swiped one of the soldier’s faces. “You’re both clever and don’t think like a normal human. You’ll be friends by Sunday night…”

If you could have balled yourself up and rolled away like a pill bug of you could.

“Do you like Costa? I’m trying to convince these people to stop by on our way home! Usually he just shows up, you know how he is with that TARDIS of his. But the Doctor said this would be best for him to do today…” She battered you with information and words.

You’d discuss this all with him further in private. Right now, you had to play a role.

“Yeah, I could go for…a Cortado.” You choked out. Coffee would help this all be absorbed a lot quicker.

She began fiddling with the vehicle’s GPS.

They all began talking about whatever techno-babble and such. It was over your head. You felt yourself getting heart burn and a migraine.

Petronella asked you something. And like a baby with dribble on it’s shirt, you said sluggishly: “What?”

“Do you think that we should do a frontal advance?”

“Maybe not?” You just started making things up on the fly. Filling it in ad-lib style!

You wanted to kill yourself.

“I mean, if… you go… from the front…all in. They’ll be…able to see you?” You heaved. “If you go from the…sides…and like, guerilla style…whatever is happening will…be a surprise …you remember like, the Germans against Rome or Boudicca, also against Rome…yeah.” You ended. You deserved a little chewing on the inside of your cheek, as a treat.

Soon enough, you pulled up to a Costa, Petronella seemed very eager to order in-shop. And to drag you in.

You collected the soldier’s and Professor Smith (Oh! Yeah, they called him Doctor…you’d demand the truth later.) Orders.

You were so eager to leave the car for a breath of fresh air.

“Hey, mind if I smoke real quick?” You had quit, but there was a lose one in the purses pocket, and the situation called for one. If ever there was a time to start smoking, it’d be now.

“I have asthma! But sure! I can wait.” She went into the weird little room that’s neither inside nor outside that commercial spaces tend to have. She got a phone call.

You could use this as an opportunity to get information about the man who you had been fucking. She’d be more helpful here. She clearly knew him better. Sure you had seen him naked. But she knew him on a more intimate level it seemed.

You finished up your cigarette and crushed it under the heel of your shoe. You got a bottle of perfume out and began dusting it on a heavy layer. You took one big inhale and rolled your neck around. It cracked and you relaxed a bit.

Entering the Costa, she hung up her phone and smiled.

You both ordered. You got yourself one of their fruit biscuits and went to get out your cash.

“Oh no! I got it! All of it.” She whipped out a black card and tapped it to the reader. “Perks of the job.”

You nodded your head. You had heard of UNIT, but couldn’t be arsed to care.

“So, the Doctor.” The name sounded foreign coming out of your mouth. “How long have you worked with him?”

“Oh! Five years now!”

You placed a hand on your throat and rested your jaw on it.

“What’s his deal?”

“Wish I knew, but we should all be glad he exists, he’s the best we got.”

Oh!

You let out a little “mmhmm.”

Before you could get your next question, the drinks and your snack came.

She grabbed her milk babyccino and handed you your Cortado as you left the Costa. You didn’t want to get back in the Range Rover. This all seemed like a very bad idea. You should have never agreed to this.

But here you were, so you had to deal with it.

You got back in the back, the solider driving said they’d have to speed along, no stops.

You shrunk in the seat. You felt his one hand stroke your upper arm. He was trying to comfort you. You wish you could recoil, but you had grown too addicted to his touch. Against all instinct, you leaned into him and sipped your coffee. Just sat an observed, chiming in when people would outright ask you for your input. More sipping your coffee and staring glumly out the front windshield. You felt like a caged beast.

Soon enough you were in London and you could get out of the car. Sadly, it pulled into an underground military-style bunker.

You were very proud of yourself for keeping your cool and now having a major breakdown in there.

You entered a lift, still carrying your suitcase.

It went all the way to the top.

Some woman in a very impressive suit and a silk scarf met you all there.

More introductions.

The Doctor – Professor Smith- whatever his real title or honorific was, took your suitcase and told someone to take it to a place. You didn’t retain or hear. You were positively swimming. You hated how good this artificial, florescent lighting made the hollows of his face looked. He was a bit more formal in his dress than he ever was at the university. In this moment you hated how you were reacting to him. Obviously he had to confess things to you.

Obviously, there was a bit of a double standard, but this outweighed your little evasions and white lies.

There was a meeting and grand plans were drawn. Choices were made.

And you had to make choices for yourself.

It was close to midnight when you finally got out of the meeting. Tomorrow apparently they’d denote a device, after it was programmed and set up during the night. Apparently that’d save the Earth.

He was swanning along like he owned the place. Everyone was reverent. His word was law and his advice was the loudest.

Maybe you shouldn’t have smoked that cigarette beforehand. Maybe you needed several shots of vodka. Maybe you just were way out of your depth.

Soon enough you had an escort of two soldiers for him and you to a suite with the bare essentials of comfort. Your stupid suitcase was there. Like a fancy barracks.

The door locked and you were alone with him.

“It’s time I tell you some truths.” He said, sitting in a chair at the desk.

You threw your hands up, “You fucking think so?” It came out as a screech. You clapped your hand to your mouth.

“What the fuck?” You clapped your hands together as you leaned over and down to face him. “What the fuck was all that?” You crouched into a squat.

“Let me tell you.” His tone was silencing. Like you were in the wrong for this reaction.

“Fine!”

“Firstly, this changes nothing about the past months. But I am an alien from a planet far away and long since gone. I am over two-thousand years old. My name, my title, is the Doctor. Well the closest translation to any Earthling's language.”

You leaned back, gesturing with your hands in the “okay” position.

“I may be a little fucking slow, I may have a few learning disabilities, but I’m not fucking stupid. Are you…aware…of how incredibly far-fetched that sounds?” Your body swaying with the position of your hands. The hands quickly moved to press into the center of your forehead.

He undid a few buttons on his shirt.

You groaned.

He grabbed at your hands and you tried to escape. He flattened the palm of one and pressed it against his chest. You felt two hearts pumping. Your little observation after the first time you hooked up on how it seemed like he had two pulses wasn’t so stupid suddenly...

“Two hearts, fawn.” He said, using his pet name for you. “I’m alien.”

Your lower lip quivered.

No wonder he felt different than any other man you’d fucked previously. His body was different. He was.

Hot tears burned at the corners of your eyes, starting to splash out. You pulled yourself free and slunk onto the closest wall.

Figures that your first big infatuation that actually seemed to value your life was a fucking ancient alien. You felt like a total freak, were you really that screwed up that the only way you’d get anything resembling a healthy relationship was with an alien!

Your head found its way between your thighs.

“Nothing changes.” He repeated.

“How many others have you done this to?” You spat out. Pure venom.

“Rarely like you.”

“Oh, so I’m just the latest and greatest girl you’ve lured into submission! How kind! I was chosen! I feel special!” You raged out. Giving a little sarcastic bow from your sat position.

He joined you against the wall. You skittered yourself away from him.

“You’re special. Trust me. I had stopped. You met me in a different way. No danger, no trauma-bonding. No Nothing. If not for duties I neglected here for too long, I would have keep you safe. Continued to be your Professor John Smith. Existed…but I couldn’t bear not seeing you for as long as this will take here. Separate. Not my traveling assistant, not anything. Just my little fawn and our perfect microcosm of the universe.” He slid forward and looked you dead in the eye.

He cocked his head, “Remember when I was talking about what the universe owed us? I figured this was my long-awaited, pleaded for reward. To have you, for as long as this little life of yours could allow this fling to last.”

He was very good with words and you could feel them echoing pure and true in your head. Something made you relax and let your guard down.

You hoped it wasn’t some alien superpower he had.

You began openly weeping. Loud, a total cacophony. You started choking on your tears and having a hard time breathing.

He wiped the tears.

You let our a hiccup. He started rubbing small circles on the middle of your back.

“I planned on seeing a West End play with you, a proper date, like a human man would take a human woman to. If you don’t want to, I can order a car and you can go back to Bristol.” He offered.

You started crying even harder.

“Can I shower first? Before I can make a choice. On anything. Even you...” You admitted, needing to revise on your end if you even wanted to be with him in any capacity anymore.

“Understandable, (y/n).” The Doctor helped you up, and gave you your suitcase. You found your toiletries bag and shuffled in. You swore you heard him mutter, “Well, don’t overthink.” But you left that be. You had enough to think about, just add that to the list.

After getting undressed, you turned the water on the hottest it could go.

You began to wash away the day…

So much to think about…so little time to do so.

[starkraivennemad]

Attitude

Greg found himself in an unexpected fit of giggles when a phrase innocently fell from Mycroft’s lips.

“Oh, that is your puerile thoughts giggle…”

“Sorry! Sorry!” Greg brought a serviette to his lips. “It was an inside joke with my family.”

“Oh?” Mycroft brows furrowed trying to fathom how what he said while semi-jokingly kvetching about a colleague could cause such.

“It started with Mum fussing with my dad. Went over my head at first because I was too young. Took a bit to get the correlation.” Greg turned a little pink. “Once I did? It was weeks before I could keep a straight face when heard.”

Greg knew Mycroft knew him well, he understood Mycroft was aware he was stalling by the indulgent little smile that played at his lips as he made a go on gesture.

“When Mum was in a… let’s say flirtatious mood and didn’t want me to know she would comment on Papa’s attitude. How Papa had a lot of attitude. Or if Papa was in a mood that was reciprocated, she’d tease ‘not with that attitude!’”

“Ah…” Mycroft nodded, getting the correlation as he had just said the words himself. “Not that it was meant the same when said to you, I gather.”

“Goodness no!” Greg shuddered with a laugh. “I eventually cottoned on. I was using it myself for a while, calling it my attitude, but like most jokes told too often, it eventually lost its humor. With some notable exceptions.”

Because he knew Mycroft well, Greg watched as Mycroft studied him.

“You have commented on my attitude several times of late, Gregory.”

“I know...”

Greg saw the surprise as those mental wheels spun.

He saw when the conclusion was reached.

And he saw Mycroft’s understandably wary, but definite happiness of that conclusion.

“Are you saying you meant it in the same context as your female progenitor?”

“I am…”

“You want…”

“All of your attitude…? I do.”

“So, you’ve realized that thought is…reciprocated?”

“Oh yes, I have…”

They sat acknowledging the screaming unsaid.

“Shall we… check our attitudes then?”

“Oh, lets.”

Greg smiled taking Mycroft’s hand.

Signaling for the check, Mycroft grinned.

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

[stelly38]

I thought Cambridge Spies was *the* most British thing I’d ever seen, until I watched Maurice shortly after. I’m still on my Toby Stephens kick, which explains Cambridge Spies, and lord, is he pretty in it. But I also wanted to ogle the very young, stunningly beautiful Hugh Grant in Maurice, so I watched both.

I nursed a bit of a crush on Grant back in his Four Weddings days, around the same time as Maurice, but I’d honestly forgotten how incredibly, ethereally gorgeous he was, like some androgynous nymph out of a Waterhouse painting, smooth and luscious, too perfect to be real. For the record, I do love today's older, rougher Hugh, who has managed, over time, to turn ass-hole-ish curmudgeonliness into a charming brand all his own.

My overall impression of Merchant Ivory flicks is that they are much like paintings: pretty to look at, and if you stare long enough, something in your field of view eventually moves, but it takes, like, days.��Days. I don’t know if my attention span has been worn down over the decades like everyone else’s, or if these movies need some tighter editing, but good lord, at two hours and twenty minutes, not much happens in Maurice. Or is it EM Forster?  Maurice is a Forster adaptation; and similarly, so is A Room with a View, which also flows like molasses. I’ll never know if it’s the writing or the editing, because I’ve never read anything of Forster’s except for Room, which I attempted when I was a teenager and quit halfway through, because what in the fuck was he going onnnnn about? And I even had a better attention span back then, in the nineties. I said to my husband after Maurice ended, perhaps he and I needed a course on Forster to truly appreciate the literature and the movie adaptations. It’s unlikely to happen, but there it is.

Maurice follows the lead character, played by James Wilby, as he discovers and wrestles with his latent homosexuality. Hugh Grant plays Clive Durham, Maurice’s good school friend and first (unconsummated) love. The two men pal around London and the countryside as they age well into their twenties, spending time together and apart, both grappling with their sexual identities in different ways. The movie also casts a very cute Rupert Graves as Maurice’s first lover, and Ben Kingsley (with hair and a weird American accent—what a hoot) appears in a cameo as a shrink who attempts to hypnotize Maurice into heterosexuality.

My bitching isn’t a condemnation of Forster or Merchant Ivory; the film was a rather pretty little trifle to look at. I thought the story was good, and I love that a major film studio was tackling the horrors of being gay in Edwardian England so long ago (1987, when AIDS was still considered “the gay cancer.” —Hats off to them.) And I’m always game to watch pretty boys cavorting about. There was a good deal of that, one scene with full frontal nudity (gasp!)

Speaking of pretty boys, several feature in Cambridge Spies, which takes place about thirty years after Maurice, shortly before WWII. The prettiest of them is Toby Stephens, who is just dashing dressed in wide leg trousers, fedoras, and the well-tailored suits of the era. He plays Kim Philby, one of the notorious Soviet spies that comprised the group known in real life as the Cambridge Five. Rupert Penry Jones plays Donald Maclean; Samuel West is Anthony Blunt, and Tom Hollander is Guy Burgess. Since American public-school curriculum doesn’t teach any history but its own, (much of which is white-washed lies, but that’s a kvetch for another day), I never knew about the British turncoats until I watched this, which was last week. Yay for me.

Spies is a four-part miniseries, the last two episodes of which are far, far more entertaining and engaging than the first two. It’s good they decided to balance the episodes thusly, as I was ready to throw in the towel after the second one. The only reason I continued on was because I’d already invested time in watching the first 50 percent—in for a penny, in for a pound. I think the writers wanted the first two episodes for back-story and character development, but there is little that reveals the principals’ various motivations for spying other than that they were all friends at Cambridge, and they shared a deep hatred of fascism. Weird that that was all it took, right? I dunno, maybe I missed something—these were the two most boring episodes.

The entire series really belongs to Tom Hollander. He steals every scene he’s in; he has the best lines, the most cuttingly funny remarks, and he’s the craziest and loosest cannon of the bunch, hence, the most entertaining. Previously, I’d only known his work from 2005’s Pride and Prejudice (the boiled potatoes), and from his creepily-repressed turn as art critic John Ruskin in Desperate Romantics. He’s great and memorable in those, but he is phenomenal in Spies.

Hollander’s Burgess, as well as West’s Anthony Blunt, are gay men, compelling because they'd opted into an overwhelmingly straight-male power structure: espionage. Spies doesn’t really speak to this much, rather than to have Hollander portray Burgess as an out and proud gay man, I suppose as much as one could be on the brink of WWII in England. But it is striking to see the difference just three decades made in how gays were perceived by English society (or not) when you compare the attitudes on display in Maurice to those in Spies. Homosexuality was the worst sin one could commit in the world of Maurice; but by the time we get to Spies, it’s barely an issue. I suspect that homosexuality was still offensive to many in England at the time, as that country’s decriminalization law only took effect in 1967, but for some reason unknown to me, the writers and producers of Spies made it mostly a non-issue.

Overall, Spies was a good series, educational for me, at least, and I got to stare at Toby Stephens for four hours, including a couple safe-for-granny sex scenes. Would I write home about the show? —probably not, but it was not wasted time.

Tom Hollander’s best scene (and they’re all good) is a tantrum he throws during a trip to the States, where he drives across suburban lawns, destroying several white picket fences, then stands atop his car screaming “God Bless America” (in a good American accent), and decries this country’s never-acknowledged social and political hypocrisy.

Brilliant. And funny.

[starfish-comics]

SO I'm gonna ramble about a thing, I guess.

I love this game so much! But I feel like if there's one big complaint I have about it, it's that I have never felt like it gave me a genuine reason to feel motivated towards the goal of becoming Divine. I mean as a disclaimer, I tend to lean really heavily into the roleplay aspect of any game I play, and I get really invested in playing my characters authentically and having them do what they would really do, and obviously that approach is ultimately better suited to TTRPGs than video games where you often just have to accept that the game's goals are your goals whether you relate to them or not. Which is fine and that's why I also play dnd.

And also, I've been told that if you play an origin character this is a little bit less of an issue, because their backstories give them personal reasons for wanting to be Divine. And I can't speak to that because I've only played as my gal Artemisia.

But it feels to me like Divinity is essentially a position that gives you a godlike amount of power, and if absolute power is something that feels appealing to you or your character, then it works, but if it doesn't, then it kind of falls flat and feels like you are just doing all these things because the game told you to.

Like when I started, I had the idea of Artemisia as being this sort of dopey hedge-witch who got dropped into all this larger political stuff and was in a bit over her head with it. In Fort Joy she was mostly motivated to escape. By the time she got to Reaper's Coast her experiences had radicalized her, so she was more actively motivated to work against the Magisters, but if anything seeing all these power players in the world being so evil in pursuit of absolute power made her all the more convinced that no one should really have the level of power that Divinity entailed.

Like I don't know, maybe I should have just made a character who would want that kind of power more? But when so much of the game is focused on the enormous amounts of harm done by people with too much power who are convinced that they deserve even more, it feels weird to then have the highest goal of the game be to acquire absolute power more or less for its own sake. Idk, I just feel like they could have done a better job setting up the story so any type of character would have some plausible reason to think Divinity was a thing they should want.

And boy oh boy am I gradually getting more and more consumed by anxiety that the game is going to railroad me into fighting Sebille and Lohse. All the other stuff I just said is really just me kvetching because I want every game I play to be all roleplay all the time, and ultimately I know this is a video game and not dnd and having your choices limited is part of that and it's fine. But if I get forced to fight these gals after spending untold hours of gameplay befriending them and flirting with them and getting super attached to them and emotionally invested in their relationships, I am Actually Going to Be Very Upset.

Like oh my gosh it's dropping so many hints that that's what's going to end up happening and I just really really really really hope there's a way around it because no one wants to see me cry while playing this game.

[rel312]

What I loved about WWDITS S5 Episode 4 (SPOILERS!!!):

Sean has over 9 DUIs

“Robby Robinson”

The high five/fist bump combo

Nandor wanting Guillermo to ogle him at the gym

Nandor saying “very cool” to Alexander being Jewish

(Also having a Jewish character in general)

“Meshugas - that means stuff” (ps to gentiles, this is not a correct statement)

“Kibitzing” I love Nandor so much but he’s getting it so wrong

Was not expecting to talk about this but fair warning I will be talking about every Jewish mention in this episode I’m starved for content

“We are mishpocha”

Nice to know someone thought positively of us back then

“I had no idea there were Jews in New York City” I can’t

“Kvelling” Nandor please

“Quit your kvetching” that’s- that’s actually correct

Collin Robinson not caring about being comptroller but just wanting to drain everyone

Evie!

Colin Robinson quoting romantic movies

Nadja’s actually working!

Laszlo trying so hard to get on the antipaxon’s good side but being terrible at it

“He seemed harmless and kinda lonely” lmao

Colin Robinsons feeding off people by dropping his cards

The fact that the livestream of the debate is 5 and a half hours

Colin Robinson letting Evie come in and feast with him

The two of them still annoying/feeding while being kidnapped

There’s a supreme council of energy vampires???

Said council being just as horrible as them

Colin Robinson and Evie being in awe at how good they are

“Does this fill me with a crippling sense of self doubt? Sometimes” poor guy just wanted a friend now that Guillermo’s not spending all his time with him

Is- is Nandor trying to convert???

“All hail bureaucracy”

Colin Robinson still having to sabotage himself because he just can’t do it

“Twins”

The fact that apparently Nandor’s foreskin grew back very fast

“Now he thinks I’m meshugana, which means he thinks I’m a little bit of a putz”

“I can speak 14 languages, as long as they are English”

The fact that the antipaxons all think Laszlo is the reincarnation of some oaf that brings “good luck and good fortune to everyone”

Evie running for comptroller instead

Nandor telling Guillermo to “shut the fuck up” during the movie when he couldn’t shut up earlier

[artazura]

Heya! You probably don't know me, but if you do then hey! So I've been working on a Homestuck Lineup for a few months now and I'm happy to announce that it's finally done! This is a huge project for me and I've definitely struggled on certain parts and though it may not all be perfect in certain parts, it's the fact that I managed to finish this. So I hope you guys enjoy looking at my silly Homestuck OCs lmao

I'll be posting these in 3 posts, The Kids and then the 2 halves of the trolls

Temi Temira

She could probably tell you what's poisonous or not just by looking at it

Well this ere' thing is lookin'like a true diamond in th' rough!

Surprisingly good at Tetris

Ankr Kvetch

He smells of Angst, EDGE and Axe body spray

Clearly you don't have what it takes to comprehend my superior speech.

He doesn't need friends, they disappoint him (Lies.)

Alex Forzan

Absolutely will play Staircase to Heaven on command

IN THE NAME OF THE HOLY SPIRIT YOURE ABOUT TO GET ROCKED!!!

She owns at least 50+ guitar picks

Casy Mattyr

He's trying his best

today i got to eat a proper sandwich! it uh, was a bit moldy though

He's read so many books he could put a library to shame

Saii Acumen

Gonna beat you with her shovel and dig your grave in the same swing

Staying comfy is basically the meaning of life if you think about it.

She'd probably get lost and show up when needed the most

Other posts here!

[sl-walker]

Preview...

...from the next chapter of Stardust, which will go out at some point after I finish it. Until then, please enjoy this opener to an already wildly self-indulgent chapter.

--

“I maintain that this would be easier in a pool,” Ted said, though given his tone, he was kvetching to kvetch -- his term -- and was perfectly content with where they were.

Booster had never been in any body of water larger than a hot tub or a cold water post-game bath before, so obviously he’d wanted to jump into Lake Michigan.  It was upwards of 90 out and it wasn’t the dry heat of El Paso; this heat clung to the body, making clothes stick in wildly uncomfortable ways and in insanely uncomfortable places, and so naturally he wanted to wear as little as possible and the best place to get away with wearing very little was the beach.  The incredible amount of blue and water was just a bonus.

And that wasn’t even taking into account a Ted wearing nothing but swim goggles and trunks.  Which meant this could well be either Booster’s very personal heaven or his very personal hell.  Unless there was a weird personal purgatory where you were being tortured with the appealing sight of the unaware object of your affections?

Hell if he knew.  There was a reason he body-swerved religion like it was a wharf rat hissing from the storm drain.

He'd thought about going out to some of the Long Island beaches before, maybe as an afternoon trip, but the ocean intimidated him every bit as much as he was fascinated by it.  By his time, the oceans were very barren; mostly, they existed as giant vats to grow specialized algae, which in turn became the building blocks of most food sources.  Storms could rage, but the vast bumpers and floats and dividers kept the surface anywhere near shore fairly smooth; to let it get wild would be to risk starving some large portion of the roughly two billion people inhabiting Earth at any given time.

In this time, waves roared ashore and smashed against rocks and the first time he’d stood on an unsheltered walk next to an unfettered ocean had left him so awed that he didn’t even remember the walk back to the motel.  His face was windburned and he was cold enough that he took the warmest shower he could coax out of the motel’s hot-water heaters, and then sat shivering wrapped in the cheap blankets after.

But even as he did, he was still reliving the reverberation of water pounding the shore, a low and bone-shaking boom that felt like it changed the very rhythm of his heart right through the soles of his shoes.  He was still tasting salt, flecks of seawater spray flung by the wind, long after it had to have been impossible to.

Lake Michigan was cheerful by comparison to that; the waves were nonexistent today, and given the rental Ted had chosen, the largely private beach was likewise quiet.  Down the way, one of the various public beaches that lined the North Shore was busier -- Jaime, Brenda and Paco had abandoned them to go investigate the more social scene, in fact -- but there had been no talk of Booster and Ted going with.

If one was going to half-ass some swimming lessons, then it couldn’t be a better day for it, or a better location.  And, ulterior motives about getting to see the man in trunks aside, Booster wouldn’t have wanted them from anyone but Ted anyway.

Booster shrugged, drawing his hands through the water in a wide arc around himself, feeling the resistance against his palms. “Easier, sure, but way less pretty,” he said, as he pretended with award-winning composure that he was referring to the lake and not his oblivious instructor.  Though the lake was also pretty.

“Yeah, but with a pool you can practice kicking by holding onto the side.  For an example.”  Ted looked around; he had so much sunscreen on his face and shoulders that there was a glaze of it left on his skin.  Not enough to hide the birthmark on the back of one shoulder.  He smelled like artificial coconut, which was definitely not Booster’s favorite scent, and Booster still would have happily buried his face in Ted’s neck for a snootful.  “I mean, out here all you have to hold onto is me,” Ted added.

Booster stared at him for a second or two, then swallowed down a groan and just let himself slide below the surface because it was that or die right there.

He was laying sort-of on the floor of Lake Michigan in a speedo and goggles and the guy he was absolutely head over heels for was mostly naked and this was the single worst idea he’d ever had in his life.

But, he had to allow as he stared up through the water at the distorted image of his best friend looking down at him in what was undoubtedly a bemused fashion, there were definitely worse ways to go.

[most-likely-shadowhisker]

The Hypocrisy of the Spacians (or, why worries about Kessler Syndrome are bullshit)

So, a number of things happened in the latest episode of G-Witch. A number of them were, uh, traumatizing. For both the cast and the viewers. To keep myself distracted, I'm going to focus on a little detail mentioned in episode 12. (Spoilers under cut!)

Specifically, this line. Now, a lot of people have pointed out it's perfectly reasonable to ban kinetic space weaponry in favor of lasers; lasers don't leave behind any bullets or casings that can drift through space until they hit something and cause a Kessler Syndrome. And this is reasonable- until you look deeper.

Norea here immediately points out the first layer of hypocrisy (the Spacian military-industrial complex being more than happy to pollute Earth while at the same time worrying about the pollution of space). But there's something more that undermines the kinetic weapons ban and it's stated reasoning entirely, that being that guns aren't the only thing that leaves behind space debris.

Every laser that misses and hits a building or asteroid or whatever, every limb of an enemy MS that's sheared off, all that sends little shards and particulates of material flying off into space, where they'll keep flying until they hit something, normally at high velocity.

For an example, let's look at the Vim/Bob fight in they very same episode:

The elder Jeturk is more than happy to shear off limbs and leave them drifting, not to mention his using very fucking physical cluster munitions. (How are ordinary guns banned but cluster bombs aren't?! Or is this a case of Vim's money allowing him to get away with flaunting the rules? Either way, more Spacian hypocrisy.)

And that's before we get into what happens to defeated combants; the mandatory post-kill explosion. That explosion doesn't atomize the defeated mobile suit to take care of resulting space debris, it just sends that space debris flying in every direction, making it all the harder to clean up. Here's a couple shots of Vim's MS blowing up:

Look at how the Dilanza Sol visibly bulges outwards before the explosion completes, and the debris field left behind afterwards. A few weeks, years, decades, I dunno how long, but one day those little Dilanza Sol bits are going to drift into just the right position to ruin some freighter's day.

Now, one could argue that all this is just Vim's flaunting of the rules, or a result of Benerit Group being confronted with someone who doesn't obey the laws of war anyway. Problem is, they left behind plenty of space debris in other conflicts. Look at the aftermath of the Vanadis Incident:

Or, hell, the duel between Suletta and El4n, may he rest in peace.

Benerit Group and it's subsidiaries are more than okay with leaving behind fields of space debris from all sorts of sources, as long as those sources aren't guns. Even fore something as petty as a duel among students.

In conclusion, the ban on physical weaponry in the Ad Stella timeline isn't out of any genuine sense of care for the cleanliness of space, or worries about a Kessler Syndrome. The true reason is most likely moral grandstanding, similar to Imperial Germany kvetching about American shotguns in WW1. Alternatively, it could be as simple was wanting to deny what I assume are cheap, easy to manufacture weapons that could prove comparable to lasers to the poors/revolutionaries/poor revolutionaries most likely to buy and/or make them. Either way, the hypocrisy of the Spacian military-industrial complex is on full display here. The solar system of the Ad Stella timeline won't see someone fully dedicated to keep space clean and safe until the military industrial complex is dismantled- preferably in favor of a dictatorship of the proletariat that incentivized to care about the safety of freighter crews and so forth, instead of the corporatocracy incentivized to care about profit, damn everything else.

[golvio]

I’m taking a look at the actual interview where I assume that bit about Calamity Ganon everyone on Twitter was kvetching about came from, and it’s not a handwave so much as an extremely noncommittal shrug.

Interviewer: When I was playing Tears of the Kingdom, I was struggling a little to connect Ganondorf to Calamity Ganon, to Breath of the Wild, to the rest of the series. And the way that I've come to understand Zelda is that it is a series of legends maybe being told. It's myth, it's stories. And so it doesn't necessarily need to connect together. It feels like an oral tradition. And I'm wondering how that fits into your understanding of Zelda's storytelling?

Aonuma: I think just as you say. This is a series that really lends itself well to each person playing, then thinking back and interpreting the story elements in their own way. We have these major players in each game, with Zelda, and Ganon, and Link, and they each surface and play their roles in potentially slightly different ways in each title.

But personally, I don't like to put too much stock in the chronology of the series, because from the design perspective, that can kind of box us in and limit where we're able to take the story as we continue making games in the series. And so I do think it's something that is best for people to interpret on their own. And yeah, I was kind of agreeing with many of the things you said.

I totally understand not wanting to get bogged down by The Lore, because getting too pedantic about The Timeline and the exact chronological order of events in the franchise as a whole can stifle creativity, prevent development of alternate takes or reinventions of established characters because of an obsessive insistence upon making everything fit into the existing canon, and cause the fandom to ossify into a purely curative experience. However, I don’t think this is the sort of approach you should take to the direct sequel of your previous game, particularly for a character who’s so important to the story as a whole.

[handspunyarns]

Day Fourteen point Five (Marathel).

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C��

word count: 6K 

chapter summary: Marathel throws another mug, takes her first shower, and gets a little tipsy 

warnings:  violence to pottery, mention of stomach illness, allusion to sexual/physical abuse and rape, alcohol use, English cursing 

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***      

You Were Marked: Masterlist   

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Marathel started to wake up, but she was quite confused.  She felt very warm and very comfortable, curled upon her side as she was on a soft tick, under a soft blanket, but something was not right … or was something missing?  Her ear was covered, her feet were covered with the blanket securely tucked underneath (so they can’t see me, if they can’t see me then they can’t hurt me) but something was different.  She was wearing soft pants and a shirt, not her usual nightwear, but that wasn’t quite it.  Marathel shifted a bit but still couldn’t put her finger on what she was confused about, or why, so she flipped back the blanket so she could get up. 

“Oh, finally waking up then …?” 

Marathel shrieked and grabbed the closest thing to her, which happened to be a heavy mug that was easy for her splinted hands to hold as it was square-shaped — and identical to the one she had thrown at the droid yesterday — but she was unaware that her hands were now in new minimalist metal splints, had forgotten that her hands were in splints to begin with — and she launched the mug in the direction where the strange voice had come from.  Cobb ducked with a yelp, quickly sliding off the padded chair to the floor to escape the missile hurled at his head, and the mug exploded against the wall behind him.   

“Okay, no more mugs for you, lady!” bellowed Cobb as he jumped up, pointing a finger in Marathel’s direction.  “Dank ferrik!” he shouted at no one in particular as he stomped out of her room. 

Marathel was frozen, her arm still extended, and then she drew a quick breath in surprise, her hand going to her mouth.  She couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry or laugh, and the only noise she could make was a squeaky snort through her nose.  After getting some control of herself, Marathel noticed for the first time that her hand was not in the wooden splint, but in a cunning and strange metal arrangement that allowed her to flex her fingers while still getting support for her full hand.  Marathel was also surprised to find that her hands did not hurt quite as much.  There was pain, yes, but the sort of pain that came with long healing, bones knitting together, tendons reattaching.  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, noticing that her knee seemed to be better as well.  She gingerly stood up, testing her weight, and decided that while it seemed better, she really needed to stay off it, so she sat back down. 

Fennec came in then, asking, “What the kriff is going on?” 

“I threw a mug at Cobb’s head.” 

“Yes, I heard.  Have you considered not throwing mugs at things that startle you?  It’s a good thing you don’t use a blaster.  I couldn’t begin to guess what you’ve thrown at Mando.” Fennec bent down and picked up some of the larger shards. 

“Just some rocks.  And a couple of eggs.”  Oh, and yourself, you stupid woman. 

“Eggs?” 

Marathel shrugged.  “He deserved it.” 

Fennec smiled.  “That, I do not doubt.” 

Marathel looked down at her hands in her lap.  “I’m sorry I keep breaking mugs.  And I’ll apologize to Cobb when I see him.” 

“Please, what’s a couple of mugs?  You should have seen some of the things that have happened in this damn palace.  Two mugs are small change in comparison.”  Fennec looked at Marathel, sitting primly with her hands in her lap.  She appeared to be making herself as small as possible.  “You know, not everything new is terrifying.” 

Easy for you to say, thought Marathel.  I can’t even manage to sleep on a raised bed.  She lifted her hands to eye level.  “I’m not scared of my new splints.  I like them.  They are very clever.” 

“They are.  They should allow you to do more things now.  Are you in pain?” 

Marathel shook her head.  “Not so much.  Not like before.” 

“Your bleeding has slowed significantly, too,” said Fennec.  Marathel turned back to look at the rumpled bed: the absorbent pad she slept on had a few light lines of blood, whereas before she would soak through the pad completely.   

“Does that mean it’s working?” 

“It looks that way.  How does that make you feel?” 

Marathel wasn’t sure, exactly, but she knew what Fennec wanted to hear.  “Hopeful.”  Perhaps I’ll eventually believe it. 

“I’m glad to hear it.  I brought you some new clothes.  I was thinking you might want to take a shower and wash your hair.” 

Marathel looked at Fennec, puzzled.  “Take a shower?  Like a rain shower?  There’s no rain.” 

Fennec blinked.  “No … I meant in the fresher,” she said, waving her hand towards the room where the vac tube was. Marathel still looked confused.  “I’ll show you.”  Fennec led Marathel to the fresher, opened the door, and then turned on the water.  “See?  A shower.  And in here …” Fennec popped open the storage bin within.  “Shampoo, soap, body moisturizer, facial moisturizer …” 

“Shampoo?” 

“Soap for your hair.” 

Marathel frowned.  “Why do I need a different soap for my hair?” 

Fennec laughed.  “Because your hair is different than your skin.  Just go with it, Marathel, enjoy it.”  Fennec set out fluffy towels and pointed out a small contraption called a hair dryer and opened a drawer that held combs and other toiletries.“By the way, you should probably close and lock the door while you’re in here.”  She left, and Marathel followed her advice and locked the door to her room so that she could have privacy.   

Undressing — amazed she could do so herself, with her new finger splints — she stepped under the spray and was immediately delighted.  It was like being under a warm waterfall, but without the occasional fish and branch landing on her head.  Marathel opened the tube that Fennec told her was soap for her hair, and the scent of sweet fruit filled her nose.  She rubbed a small amount through her hair, and she watched as dirt and dried blood left her hair and swirled away down the grate in the floor.  She used the shampoo again — a more generous amount this time — and then applied the soap with a cloth as gently as possible around her wounds.  The soap had a scent that she couldn’t place but reminded her of fresh grass.  Marathel laughed, wondering why people wanted to smell like fruit and plants, when eating fruit and walking on grass was more enjoyable. 

Marathel could have stayed under the water spray for hours, but she remembered that this was a dry place where the water was scarce, so she reluctantly turned off the water and stepped out.  She began to scrub her hair with one of the towels when her eye caught the large mirror that took up a big section of the wall.  Marathel had never seen a mirror so large before, and she’d been largely avoiding it since coming here.  She lowered the towel and assessed her reflection. 

The first thing she saw was the huge gash down the center of her face.  Marathel’s breath caught with the memory of the Bishop carving her face, the horrible words he said to her as he did so, and she closed her eyes tight to quiet her mind.   

Opening her eyes, Marathel looked at the line of little bottles and tubes Fennec had left her.  Moisturizers, that’s what she said.  The face one was allegedly different than the one for the body, for some reason, but   the bottles had pictures of fruit or plants on them, or a flower, or just colored squiggles, and not a picture of a face or body, so Marathel just picked out the one she liked best, which reminded her of the clean water from the rocky stream and the yellow cup-shaped flowers she liked so much.  She slathered this on her skin — which felt wonderful — everywhere she could reach, and then worried about how she was going to get the stuff out from under all the metal bits now wrapped around her fingers.  Carefully using the corner of the towel seemed to work. 

Marathel then turned her attention to her hair, which seemed to behave differently here than back on Unmanarall.  There, her hair hung straight and heavy, and only had to be tucked behind her ears or into a loose knot and it would stay there; here, her hair took on a mind of its own and was fluffy, wavy, crackling around her head even before using the hair dryer.  The hair dryer thing was loud and blew air hot as fire directly at her in an uncomfortable way.  The top was mostly dry anyway, so she combed the top part into sections and twisted it into a loose braid.  She found a little stretchy round band that secured the end.  Looking in the mirror again — ignoring the red wound down her forehead and nose — she liked what she saw: a pale face surrounded by tendrils of wavy silver hair that floated away from her face. 

Her eyes then skimmed down her bare body and she saw little to recommend it: doughy flesh of a color like fish skin, sagging breasts, a roll on her belly, and hips and thighs that jiggled when she walked.  Then there were the slashes, bite-marks, and bruises.  A small flare of rage ignited inside her.  Her flesh, plump and unfirm though it was, should be hers and hers alone.  Wasn’t that what Din said?  She hadn’t consented when the Dahls overpowered her with their mating impulses, he had told her.  He had made such a point of that when he begged her permission to touch her once the Dahls had finished their mating cycle. No man had ever asked permission from her, ever, not once in her life.  Take, that’s all they’ve ever done to me. 

Marathel shivered; she could not think about that right now.  Too much had happened today, and her mind was tired.  Marathel left the fresher room and went to the little pile of clothing Fennec had brought her.  There was a pair of dark pants, a light woven shirt in a deep purple, and a long vest as green as the summer grass.  She also found a soft brace for her knee and what appeared to be undergarments; they were like her shifts but in two parts.  They also seemed to be like compression garments, supportive.  The bottoms were easy enough, but the top garment was awkward to put on with its hooks and strange shoulder straps.  She assumed it was on correctly; she couldn’t think of a different way to wear it and was surprised to find that her breasts were lifted somehow by the garment, a new sensation for her.   She pulled on the compressive brace for her knee, and then the pants, which were very soft and very form-fitting.  The shirt fit well but felt low-cut to Marathel.  She looked down at herself at the unaccustomed amount of exposed skin above the neckline, considering the undergarment that lifted her bosom, and pulled on the vest, which gave her some modesty.  All she had for footwear were her soft slippers, so she put those on as well. The stone floors here were not kind to bare feet. 

There was a knock on her door.  Pulling on a veil over her hair and forehead, Marathel opened it slightly to see Cobb Vanth on the other side, holding another mug identical to the one she’d hurled at him.  Smiling hopefully, Cobb offered the mug and asked, “Truce?” 

Marathel chuckled and fully opened the door, taking the mug.  “I’m sorry I threw a mug at you.” 

“And I’m sorry I blew up at you, but, damn, woman, you’re dangerous.”  His eyes flicked downward and back up, making Marathel flush again.   “I do wish you wouldn’t cover your face and hair like that …  a face like yours shouldn’t be spoiled by a veil.”  He took a moment longer to gaze at her, and then belatedly said, “I’m also here to find out if you’re hungry.”  Marathel blinked, because it turned out she was hungry.  She nodded.  “Well, then, I get to accompany you.”  He turned and held out his elbow. 

Marathel frowned.  “What are you doing?” 

Cobb pulled a face at her, then sighed and took her hand, placing it in the crook of his arm.  Marathel closed her door and let Cobb slowly escort her down the corridor.  Marathel shyly looked up at him and said, “You don’t have to do this.” 

“Too bad, Mar’, my ma raised a gentleman who treats a lady like a lady … whether she is one or not.” 

Marathel smiled blandly.  “I wouldn’t know how a lady should be treated.”   

She had meant it as a joke, some light-hearted statement to be thrown away and forgotten, but Cobb frowned down at her with a thoughtful look on his face, putting his other hand over hers on his arm. “Well, Marathel, I think that’s a damn shame.” Marathel couldn’t tell anymore if her face was flushing again or now just permanently flushed: this Cobb Vanth had a way of unnerving her. 

After a few moments of silence, she asked, “Would you please tell me … what is a marshall and a freetown?” 

“Well, as Marshall I’m the person in charge of law and order in Freetown, a little mining town out in the desert.  One of those places where you blink, and you miss it.” 

“Law and order?” 

He shrugged.  “I’m in charge of telling people doing wrong to cut it out.” 

“What happens when you’re not there?  Do people just … run roughshod everywhere?” 

Cobb grimaced.  “I kriffing hope not.”  He laughed.  “No, I have a deputy keeping tabs on things.  The town is fine; it’s mostly other people coming in from the outside that cause most of the problems.” 

“Why are you here, then?” 

“You’re holding on to it.”  She looked down at his metal arm.  “It’s a big modification that needs fine tuning.  It’s not quite right yet.” 

Marathel ran the fingertips of her other hand down Cobb’s cybermodded limb, making him wish he could feel it.  “I was so afraid that I would end up with something like this.” She frowned. “But then, I never knew such a thing could be done.  I now wonder why … some will do things like build a new arm, when others do things … like where I came from.”  

Cobb’s heart ached for her, a victim of a hellish place.  “I don’t know.  I wish people didn’t have to come from a planet like yours.” 

“I never knew there was a planet to come from. Not until Din told me where to see Nevarro.  I’m sure he thought …” Marathel looked around her.  “Where are we going?” 

“Din thought what now?” 

“No, I mean — we passed the kitchen long ago.” 

“Oh, no, we are heading to the far courtyard.  This way.” They passed through an archway and into a open outdoor area with many plants and succulents.  At the far end, under a pergola covered in flowered vines, were Boba and Fennec, seated at a table.  They were laughing while Boba poured something from a large flagon for Fennec.  “Finally here,” Cobb called to them. 

“Oh, good,” said Fennec.  “The kitchen went mad again; they keep forgetting that Jabba is still dead, and they don’t have to make as much food.” 

“Frith in heaven,” muttered Marathel upon seeing the table.  There was enough food on it to feed all the Hold’s children.  Cobb pulled out a chair for her, but Marathel looked at him blankly until he whispered to her to sit.  Boba filled a delicate glass from the flagon and called it spotchka, warning Marathel to sip it very slowly and in only tiny amounts.  “Oh!” said Marathel.  “Does this make you feel warm and fuzzy if you drink it too fast?” 

Fennec giggled; she was already a glass or two in.  “I take it you have something similar on your planet?” 

“Yes, dreamberries.  The fruit can be made into a drink, but I like it better as a cooked sauce.  We had some … that is, Din and I, on roasted gorujellys.”  Marathel looked down at her hands.  She remembered that was also the night Din had touched her most intimately, and she had slept in his arms; for the briefest of moments, they were each other’s and that was all that mattered. 

Cobb watched the high color creep back in on Marathel’s cheekbones.  Her face is so luminous; you can almost tell what she’s thinking.  Din had told him how he had come so close to kissing her that day, almost willing to expose his face to her, even before eating dreamberry sauce; if she’d asked him then if he’d take off his helmet, he would have gladly done so and never put it back on.  He’d been so overwhelmed when she allowed him to touch her that he declared his love for her — but in Mando’a (how chickenshit of you, Din) — and she’d said something in return in her own language, but neither of them had provided a translation for what they’d said.  Din was half-afraid that she’d rejected him (unlikely), or she had said something completely opposite to him (even more unlikely).  These two, Cobb thought.  They are going to dance around each other like dewbacks in rutting season.  He would have found it amusing if he wasn’t half-smitten with her himself.   

Marathel, meanwhile, had been struggling with utensils as she tried to eat.  Her fingers were still clumsy, and the metal fork was too heavy for her to hold.  After dropping it half-a-dozen times, she finally gave up and used the flat bread to scoop up the tender meat and grains off her plate.  She had been successful so far at getting food into her mouth and not on her lap, when Cobb said, “Marathel, tell me … how did you and Din meet again?”   

Boba and Fennec snickered, but Cobb knew that Marathel had a complete lack of guile and would simply answer truthfully.  Marathel looked at him, her hand still holding the meat and flat bread halfway to her mouth.  “I …” She put the food back on her plate and dropped her hands and eyes to her lap.  “I saw him coming towards my hut, and I didn’t know who he was.  I had never seen anyone like him before.”  All gleaming metal, as if he’d been created from the wall on the first floor of the Hold.  No face, just a head covered in metal.  The brown clothing underneath the metal, the heavy boots, the ragged grey cape.  There was no clothing of those colors in the Hold: only Captain red, Duke green, Bishop blue, and Hunter green.  Brown was for bedding.  Grey was for cleaning.  No such heavy boots, with straps and belts everywhere, covered with bits of metal. 

“What did you throw at him?” asked Fennec.  “Was it a rock or an egg? Or a frying pan?” 

Cobb scowled at Fennec, but a smile curled Marathel’s lip.  “A rock.  Actually, two rocks.  I missed on the first throw.” Marathel carefully clasped her glass of spotchka with both hands and took a sip.  “Oh my, that’s lovely.  Got him right on the helmet with the second one, though.” 

“So, when did you throw the eggs?” 

“Oh, that was a couple days later.” 

Cobb sighed.  “You’re jumping ahead, Fennec …” 

Marathel took another sip. “When he said that he was a bounty hunter, I had no idea what he meant.  He said he would put down his blaster if I put down my rocks.  I didn’t know what a blaster was, so I got a sharp stick instead.”  Fennec chortled.  Marathel went on with her story, describing her fear of the Bishop’s voice in the tracking fob, her fear that Mando would hurt the Dahls, and her initial fear of Grogu.   

“You cannot tell me you were frightened of that little child,” said Boba. 

“That little child is green and has giant ears!” retorted Fennec.  

Fennec and Boba began a colorful argument about what could or could not be terrifying to someone like Marathel, and Cobb finally just turned his chair to face her.  He crossed his ankle over his knee and draped his arm on her chair back.  Leaning in close to Marathel, he said, “You just don’t fit the, uh, usual profile of the type of bounty Mando tends to go after.” 

Marathel shrugged.  “I wouldn’t know.” 

“I think he was just as surprised by you as you were by him.  What bounty invites the hunter into her home?” 

Marathel sipped at her glass again; Cobb noticed that she had nearly drained the glass.  “I suppose one that doesn’t know the rules of a bounty hunter. One … that is sad.  And lonely.  And curious about a little green child with large ears that is fiercely protected by a large man of metal when he encounters creatures like the Dahls, or a woman throwing rocks.” 

“So, it was the child that you fell in love with first.” 

“Oh yes, Grogu was so charming immediately.  Children are easy to love.  I’ve cared for many, hoped I would have many of my own to raise and love.”  Cobb smiled behind his hand; a thimbleful of spotchka could set her tongue wagging.  He poured her another half-glass.  “But then, watching the Bounty Hunter feed Grogu, even just the act of moving a mug away from him because it wasn’t good for him to drink … that spoke to me in a way that’s … so hard to explain.” 

Marathel was leaning back in her chair, looking at the night sky above her, her face thoughtful, and for once, not afraid.  Boba and Fennec had stopped their mild bickering and were now listening, Fennec with her head against Boba’s shoulder.  Cobb slowly leaned forward, putting his hand on her knee.  “Give it a try,” he said quietly. 

“Men don’t … I’ve never known a man who cared about a child.  Men as I know them, a child is just … just a thing.  A product of fucking a Whyn.”  Cobb, Boba, and Fennec exchanged glances; they had not heard her say the word fucking before now.  Marathel seemed to not notice.  “Men care nothing for a child or woman except for what use they can get from them.”  Marathel sighed.  She looked down at her glass and looked confused as to why it was full again.  She took a long sip and went back to looking at the sky.  “The Bounty Hunter …  the gentleness he showed in his care of Grogu … I thought his name was Bounty Hunter and I thought his helmet was his face.  But, for the first time in my life, I saw a father.  And I wanted so much to know a man like that, because I didn’t know a father, not a sire, but a father, could exist.” 

They were all quiet for a while.  Marathel took another sip from her glass.  Cobb was gently stroking her knee, gazing at her with a knitted brow, but she didn’t seem to notice.  Frowning at the sky, Marathel asked, “Which one is Nevarro?” 

Boba looked up.  “You can’t see it from here.  Nevarro is too close to the horizon to be seen.” 

“Oh,” said Marathel quietly.  “I hope … I wonder if they … if Grogu is all right.” 

Boba said, “You could message them.  I think it’s late night there, but Mando doesn’t live by clocks.”  He held out a holopad in her direction.  “Here.” 

Marathel put her glass on the table and carefully took the proffered holopad, asking, “Message?” 

“Just tap it in, Cobb can show you how to send,” said Fennec. 

Marathel turned the holopad over and over in her hands.  “I don’t understand.” 

Cobb scooted his chair closer.  “Here …” he said, turning the pad over the correct way, and bringing up the keyboard.  “There you go.”  He continued to hold it up for her. 

Marathel stared at the screen.  It was half-filled in tiny, illuminated squares, each one with an unintelligible squiggle inside.  “I don’t know how …” 

Boba frowned. “Did I leave it on Huttese instead of Aurebesh?” 

Marathel continued to stare at the screen.  “No, I …” 

A few moments passed, and then it finally clicked for Fennec.  “You can’t read or write, can you, Marathel?”   

Marathel’s head dropped, and her hands went immediately up her sleeves. “I don’t know what you mean.  I don’t know read or write. I don’t know those words,” Marathel stammered, and her throat felt thick and tight with tears and shame at yet another thing she had no knowledge of.  

“Those are letters on the screen,” said Fennec.  “They form the words we say, so we can communicate without talking.  Does that make sense?”  Marathel nodded, frowning.  “I know of other places where girls aren’t allowed to learn to read.”  Marathel looked up at Fennec.  While she was glad to learn that she was not alone in this fault of hers, it saddened her more that there were others on these planets she had just now learned about where people suffered as she did. Perhaps more. Fennec asked, “Did any of the girls at the Hold learn to read?” 

“I don’t think so.”  She dashed the few tears that had fallen with the side of her hand.   “Maybe the boys did in the Round Building.  We weren’t supposed to know what else they did in there.  There were some walls that had squiggles like those,” she said, pointing at the screen, “painted on them.  Girls didn’t learn in the Round Building.  We only went in there to clean, and to … be of service.”  Marathel fell silent. 

Cobb cleared his throat.  “Well, we can still send a message, anyway … here,” he said. 

BF: Marathel wants to know if Grogu is okay  

“What did you say?” asked Marathel. 

“That you wanted to know if Grogu is okay.  Here, look …” Cobb put his finger on the screen under the sentence he had entered.  “These letters here, that spells Grogu, and those here, that spells Marathel.” 

“That’s my name?” 

Cobb reached into a pocket, pulling out a tiny notepad and a stub of pencil he always carried with him.  “I’ll do you one better.”  As large as he could fit it, he wrote her name in Aurebesh, drawing a line under it so she knew which way was up.  He gave it to her, watching as she traced the letters with her finger, a small smile of wonder on her face. 

That’s my name.  That’s me.  Just this simple act of knowing her name existed in a somehow permanent fashion cheered her heart.  It made her feel … as if she were real, recognizable by others. Marathel looked at Cobb.  “Now what happens?” 

“We wait for Din to answer.  It may take a while.  He might not be near his holopad.”  Within a few moments, however, the holopad pinged with an incoming message.  “Or he will answer right away.” 

Marathel gasped with surprise.  From so far away, he can answer this quickly?  “What … what did he say?” 

Cobb smiled.  “He says that Grogu has an upset stomach.” 

“Grogu?  An upset stomach?” Marathel giggled into her hand.  “What happened to his stomach of beskar?” 

Cobb grinned.  “Let’s find out.”  He tapped in Marathel’s question.  Almost immediately the holopad pinged again.  Cobb chuckled.  “He says ‘compromised by fruit’.”  

Marathel leaned back in her chair, laughing now in earnest, pushing her veil off her face and head. Cobb suddenly felt jealous of Din, who obviously had her heart in the palm of his leather-clad hand.  “Oh, too much fruit goes right through a child!  He should know better.”  She chuckled again.  “Cachu o lwyc, ni asth’mabh.” 

Cobb smirked.  “I have no clue how to spell that, so I need a translation.” 

Marathel took her glass back off the table and drank the remaining spotchka, earning her a raised eyebrow from Fennec.  Marathel whispered loudly, “I said, ‘you’re shit out of luck, you son of a bitch’.”  She giggled. 

“Yeah, I’m not sending that.”  Cobb tapped out a message, and after a moment, there was a return message.   “I told him you wished him luck, and he says, ‘thank you’.”  Cobb handed the holopad back to Boba.  “And no more spotchka for you.”  Marathel burped daintily in response.  “You better eat some more, or you’ll be cursing my name tomorrow, and I don’t know the Mandalorian punishment for letting his lady get toasted.” 

Marathel’s smile faded.  No, I’m not his lady.  Not like that.    “I can’t hold the fork.  My hands don’t work right.” 

Cobb laughed and grabbed a plate of meat-wrapped castan nuts.  “Here,” he said, popping one into her mouth.   

Marathel hummed with delight.  “Mmm, tasty.” 

Cobb put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned her head back on his arm as he continued to feed her the nuts.  After some time, Fennec poked Boba in his thigh.  He looked down as she used the sign language of the Sand People to ask him: 

Should we be worried about this? 

Boba watched Cobb and Marathel for a while across the table.  Finally, he signed back: 

Let’s just write this off on the spotchka.  For now. 

Fennec nodded.  “Marathel …” Marathel looked over at her.  “If you’d like to learn to read, we can get you a holopad with some teaching primers.  A lot of people can’t read, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn.”  

Marathel thought about that for a moment, and then said, “I’d like that.”  Fennec smiled back at her.   

The Modifier approached, asking if Marathel was ready to repeat the series of injections.  Marathel looked at her glass, her brow furrowed with worry.  “No, a bit of spotchka isn’t going to affect the treatment.  It might even help, since you’re now … tranquilized a bit,” said the Modifier. 

Cobb gently took her hand, and whispered, “I’ll stay with you, if you want.”  Marathel nodded.  He stood up, assisted her to stand, and escorted her back to the palace, his hand gently placed on the small of her back. 

Boba noticed that the message prompt was still open on his holopad.  He tapped out: 

BF: The Modifier’s contact came through; treatment seems to be working  

Boba watched the return message dots blink for a while, as if Din was tapping out a long message. A short time later, a message pinged through: 

DD: good to hear 

Boba smirked.  That took a long time to come up with, Djarin.   Warmed by the spotchka, and now by themselves, Boba put his arm around Fennec’s shoulders.  She smiled and snuggled against him, and they watched the stars. 

The Modifier suggested that they do the injections in Marathel’s room, so that she could go to sleep comfortably after.  She left the men in the corridor while she changed back into the soft clothing she’d woken up in earlier and got into her bed.  As she let the men in, she carefully moved the mug Cobb had brought her as far out of reach as possible, which he found amusing.  The Modifier suggested she lay on her other side for the injections; he was concerned about damage to her skin.  Marathel complied, but now she had her back to Cobb. 

Cobb cleared his throat and said, “If you don’t object … I could sit on the bed next to you.” 

Marathel thought she might object; the idea made her stomach flutter, and it wasn’t just the spotchka making it do so.  She thought about it and decided that Cobb certainly meant no harm to her; he might be a bit too handsy with her, but he wasn’t about to harm her.  She agreed, and Cobb kicked off his boots and settled on the bed next to her — on top of the blankets — sitting up against the headboard as she lay on her side.  The Modifier administered the first injection, and Marathel felt the instant cold sensation, and then the nervous-twitchy feeling through her limbs as the injection coursed through her system.  She whimpered; Cobb sought out her hand and held it gently, his large thumb stroking the back of her hand.   

“Doing okay?” he asked. 

“It stings more this time.”  She drew in her breath with a hiss; it did sting much more, as if the spiky pebbles from before had transformed into long-spined sea urchins.  Marathel thought if she stared at her arm long enough, she would be able to see the spines distend and pierce through her flesh.   

Cobb was watching her face and grew concerned, as her breathing grew shallow and fast.  “Marathel?  Honey?  You still there?”  Marathel did not answer, and he could see she had broken out in a cold sweat.  The Modifier did not seem too concerned, but Cobb moved down on the bed, so he was lying on his side next to her, much like Din on her bed tick in her open-sided hut.   

He held both of her hands in his, and her eyes looked unfocused and confused.  “Bounty Hunter?” 

Cobb reached out and pushed a lock of hair off her face.  “No, honey, sorry, it’s just me.” 

Marathel took a deep breath.  “Sorry, I lost myself for a moment.”  She looked into his eyes.  “It’s better now.” 

Cobb smiled at her.  “Good.  Just keep breathing, hang in there.” 

Marathel smiled wanly.  The next two injections were given with little to no reaction at all from Marathel.  The Modifier, pleased by her lack of reaction, said, “You’ll probably feel like sleeping for the next couple of days, Marathel.  If you could leave your door unlocked, I’d like to check on you a few times while you rest.” 

Marathel nodded.  “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” she said, and Cobb laughed. 

The Modifier left, but Cobb remained where he was, gently stroking her knuckles with his thumbs.  “I’ll just stay until you’re fully asleep, Marathel, then I’ll leave you alone.”  Marathel, her eyes closed, nodded again.  “But you can always shout if you need something, right?  Just no mug-throwing, that’s all I ask.”  Marathel smiled slightly; she was already almost fully asleep.  He leaned over and lightly kissed her cheek.  “That’s from Grogu,” he said.  Marathel did not respond, but carried on her soft breathing.  Before he could lose his nerve, Cobb leaned in and kissed her gently on the mouth; he thought he detected the slightest of response from her lips kissing him back.  “That’s from the Bounty Hunter,” he whispered, telling himself it wasn’t a lie.  Cobb watched her sleep until his own eyelids grew heavy, and then he carefully climbed out of her bed.  He grabbed his boots, and gently pulled the blanket over her ear, as he’d seen her in her sleep earlier, and left her room. 

Next chapter ->

[hazel2468]

Ok I gotta bitch about something real quick here.

So, good news first- got a diagnosis. PCOS. I had a feeling (and several of my friend are now correct), but it's good to have a solid "Yeah, this is what's going on here".

But anyway. Kvetch time.

So, my endo is pretty great. She offered to hook me up with their gender specialist, so I might be getting the ball rolling on that soon, which is exciting and terrifying. But we had a call and went over everything. More good news- my levels look great. Everything is normal and my thyroid levels are, quote, "beautiful". But we started talking about PCOS, talked a little bit about HRT. And then she brought up diet stuff, which I imagine is standard.

But what annoyed me was that she was talking about how to adjust what I eat because of "health risks". And so I asked her to clarify for me- is there anything in my labs of concern? And she said no- everything looks fine and dandy. I asked if there is any indication that I should be making any kind of serious changes based on my labs. Again, no. Everything looks good.

So... The only "issue" there is my weight.

My levels are good. I've been in a bit of an experimental "what can I eat that won't upset the void where my gallbladder used to be?" phase, but overall I've been eating the same as I have for years. I did tell her I wanted to work out more and, now that I'm fucking finally fixing my sleep schedule I might actually be able to make time to lift in the mornings.

But what annoyed me was that all of that stuff- good stuff- eating in a way that doesn't upset my intestines, working out more because fuck it I wanna be a strong theydy, the fact that my labs are not only normal but look great... All of it just falls before the fact that I am fat. All of it.

And to be clear, I'm not pissed at my doctor, specifically. I'm pissed because all of it seems so standard. It's the "this is the PCOS spiel" kind of thing- the general stuff that you say. And the annoying thing is that, apparently (and I was already well aware of this but it always sucks to be reminded), it doesn't actually matter what my habits are, what I eat, if I work out or not, how my labs look, at least in the eyes of the general medical standards.

No, what matters is that I am fat, and therefore I am unhealthy and need to change everything- even though literally everything else speaks to the contrary.

And what's even MORE annoying is that... I have PCOS. I have hypothyroid. Those are BOTH conditions that cause weight gain. Those are both conditions that make losing weight even harder than it already fucking is for most people.

So the fact that the medical standards for diagnosing someone with PCOS involve looking at their BMI and determining that they need to change their whole lifestyle solely based on how they look- not on their actual habits, not on their ACTUAL LAB RESULTS, but their weight?

IDK that just annoys me. It pisses me off. It put a damper on the whole "You have an answer finally AND also you're doing really well health wise.... OH but you're fat and so we need to lecture you about your diet and exercise and imply that the reason you should do those things is to lose weight."

[the-force-awakens]

Hey, Nym, are you okay? I'm so sorry someone was ableist with one of your (amazing) hcs 🥺 I'm here if you wanna talk about what happened. But no pressure ♡

I debated answering this one publicly. Debated answering this one at all. Because sure, for all my playful kvetching, my passionate rants about why the things I like are cool and people shouldn't be dicks about it, and my occasional relatable depression text post reblog, I don't get negative on here. It's kind of my thing, or at least I like to think it is. I love to think my brand on here is that weird, positive autistic girl who is completely obsessed with Poe Dameron, and I also like to think it's a well earned brand. You don't stay on this bullshit for three years if you're normal.

So yeah, debated answering it because I didn't want to post the honest answer, but honestly this is a shitty situation, and it's important, so I am: I'm not okay.

I won't go into details, because contrary to what some clowns may believe I don't vague post (oh, oops, guess I just did a little), or at least if I kind of do, it's usually vaguing behaviors I see spread across multiple parts of a fandom, but I will talk about what it's like to be disabled and in fandom. What it is like to be autistic and in fandom.

I'm on Tumblr because it's a space where I can have a little dragon hoard of my special interest. It's where I can infodump about it. It's a space where I don't have to mask (much). In 2020, I jumped feet first into a certain special interest because life was shit and it made me happy. For every shitty take, every negative opinion I was hit with, I threw out more positive creations. I wrote. I giffed. I meta-ed to my heart's content and I was so fucking happy.

Then it....became a thing. I don't mind, as previously mentioned, my brand being that girl weirdly obsessed with a fictional pilot who isn't that popular outside of his fanon ships from a trilogy that this website loathes with as many burning suns as I hate - I don't even know something I hate that much. Anyway, I didn't mind that. But suddenly I became a wikipedia search bar. And....for the first little while, I didn't mind. Because I got to infodump about him, and I don't get to infodump irl, and my friends had heard plenty. And besides, I liked helping people! I like pointing people in the right direction of things.

But like I said. It became a thing. People were comfortable dm-ing me questions, getting mad about the answers I had, and sending back their own headcanons to contradict them. I got praised a lot for....having a special interest and being passionate about that subject. It started to feel a little bit...weird. But then I started realizing that people mostly only talked to me when they needed information from me, and that felt. Awful. It made me feel used just a little bit, and I took a step back from fandom because of it and some other mental health issues I was having.

(apparently if you're autistic this means you're 'distant')

But I wanted to keep creating, because making stuff makes me happy, and I'm autistic and I want a space to be autistic, and don't always want to (I know it does not bother you, but still) bother my friends with it, because there's loads of other conversations to have.

Fandom is more isolated now, but I feel that more keenly as someone who is disabled and audhd. Characters I relate to are seen as villains and monsters in the fandom, or manipulators that pressure people into doing what they want, or arrogant assholes who really just need to be put in their place. I try my best to ignore it.

It's harder to ignore when a not-super popular headcanon you made out of comfort after dissing your abled a bit more and living through a fairly traumatic job experience (and ergo losing out on a job because no one believed you were disabled), gets taken and written in an explicitly ableist way that mimicks precisely the trauma you were seeking comfort from.

I don't know who fandom is for anymore, but it's certainly not for me.