#just ignore the historically inaccurate fashion

[stellar-constellations]

Heart on the Market (ONGOING SERIES) Chapter 4

WARNING: This series will include; NSFW, dead dove, reader is a serial killer, black market possible inaccurate historical slang and fashion, gore, alcohol, toxic relationships that should NOT be replicated in real life, murder, yanderes, cursing, guns, mafia family, implications of misandry (male misogyny), perversive thoughts, nonconsensual drugging, gaslighting, harm to children possibly more to add.

I do not condone ANY illegal acts, immoral acts, or toxic relationships portrayed in my fictional writing.

Inaccurate canon-timeline and setting (Ashley doesn't exist). Modern AU.

Incest is not Wincest.

Andrew Graves x Old school! Serial killer! Fem! Reader

Wordcount: 7,000+ words

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Current chapter, Chapter 5 (in the works)

        Sometimes, you had nightmares. You always forget them by morning, but you always dream of being chased.

        Sometimes you’re chased by Judah; whether it was the guilt of murdering him or the fear of another impure engagement. A gun in his hands, the same one you used to splatter his blood on your white wedding tablecloths. 

        Sometimes, you’re chased by your mother; a powerful woman chasing a less-powerful woman, a single point of her finger before soldiers swarmed you in all directions. 

        Sometimes, you’re chased by yourself—but you never have a weapon, only your bare hands. Sometimes, you felt like someone else, someone bad.

        Bad is just a word. There’s no true definition, and it changes based on the word, but if you had to describe it; it would be blood freezing over fresh snow.

        You can pick up the soiled snow and let it melt on your fingers, but then you’d be soiled too. You can let it rest there, a trail of evidence to show what happened in that very spot. 

        Either way, you never question whose blood it is, because it doesn’t matter who’s hurt or dead—you just wonder what happened. 

        You end up being stabbed in the heart; that’s always how the dream ends. You wake up with a pain in your chest, something throbbing and stabbing.

        Fear.

        But you always wake up, snapping back to reality, but that fear chases you. Whether it’s the fear of being caught. The fear of being something more than you can control. The fear of being stabbed right back. 

        It’ll always follow you, in and out of sleep, always lingering in your consciousness, bringing back that familiar pain.

        You jolted awake, a stabbing in your chest. You don’t know who chased you last night, but you can only assume it was one of your family members, maybe even one of the soldiers.

        That’s how you woke up this morning, a pain in your chest and a lack of oxygen in your lungs. You didn’t want to get up, but you knew you needed to get your blood pumping.

        You got up from bed, clutching your chest as it throbbed, like an icepick repeatedly stabbing into it, the pain stealing the air out of your lungs. 

        You gasped for air, falling onto the ground. You held your legs up to your chest to help elevate them, taking in some painful breaths, before the pain retreated.

        There was a small sting, but it’ll go away in a few minutes. This isn't the first time it's happened before. With that in mind, you got up and walked to the bathroom, grabbing your bloody clothes from yesterday since you have no other clothes.

        You got dressed, having no hairbrush in the room, you resorted to using one of your socks as a hair tie to make a messy bun (hey, desperate times call for desperate measures). 

        You put on your shoes (ignoring the weird feeling of having one of your feet sockless, which you knew you’d get a friction burn later on your heel), and set your attention to waking Andrew up.

        “Andrew…” you muttered, gently waking him up. Upon noticing he wasn’t waking, you got annoyed, “I said wake up!” you hissed, shaking him rougher.

        “H-hey, damn! Okay!” Andrew groaned, sifting up from the bed. “Shaking me like an earthquake is happening…”

        “You need to work on your sleeping habits. Being a deep sleeper in our situation isn’t good, we could've been cornered!” you spoke.

        “And I told you that I’d sleep closest to the door, so you’re fine…” Andrew rolled his eyes.

        You were always nagging him.

        He got up out of bed, grabbing his bloodied flannel and putting it on.

        “It’s a good thing our alarm didn’t go off. It only means we’re early, hopefully we’re early enough for breakfast so we can quickly eat with nobody there. I don’t want anyone to see our clothes.” You spoke, wiping down your dress.

        “I hope there’s some damn pancakes…” Andrew muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting on his shoes.

        “Maybe,” you hummed, patting down his hair and trying to brush it out with your fingers. “We’ll see.”

        You made sure Andrew took the guns out of the hotel safe, hiding them in his pants. You grabbed your suitcase of money and your keycard, walking out of the hotel room. You took the elevator down to the lobby, seeing the hotel workers taking out some breakfast dishes to the dining area.

        Some people were already there as you stuck to Andrew, awkwardly facing the wall so nobody could see your bloody dress. You grabbed some waffles, fruit, and apple juice, sitting down at a table in the back.

        “No fucking pancakes, all god damn waffles.” Andrew grimaced, annoyed as he sat down with you.

        He had a plate with some bagels, a blueberry muffin, cereal, and orange juice.

        “You’re gross…” you cringed. “Orange juice? With the pulp?”

        “Says the girl that takes the veins out of eyes.” Andrew scoffed.

        “First, they’re optical nerves—“ you huffed, bickering with him.

        Your attention was taken by a loud couple entering the dining area, grabbing their own plates of food. They fed each other strawberries and other fruits—you couldn’t help but grimace as their display of PDA.

        “When you gonna do that to me?” Andrew teased, smirking. “Isn’t some PDA necessary for our relationship, my wife?”

        “PDA? Oh, you mean Psycho Desperate Attention? Where you act abnormal with someone to help feed your delusions in public for attention?” you hummed, shoving a strawberry in your mouth—without the help of Andrew.

        “You guys must be past your honeymoon phase.” 

        You jumped, hitting your knee on the table. You smiled through the pain, glaring at the woman talking. 

        It was that stupid PDA couple. You have no idea why grown-ass adults act like teenagers with a case of puppy love, but you find it repulsive. You didn’t even act like that with Judah! 

        “Oh… I wouldn’t say that…” you smiled, looking at the woman. “We just had a rough night sleep.”

        “An animal; she was.” Andrew leaned back in his chair, smirking, proud of what he said.

        You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, keeping up your smile, “Totally…” you muttered.

        “So? What are you guys doing here in Pennsylvania? You have accents, so I assume you’re not from here.” The male spoke.

        “Quite personal, is it not?” you frowned.

        “What’s your name?” the female questioned.

        “Jane,” you lied, “And this is Hank.” You spoke, placing your hand on Andrew’s chest to look like a couple.

        “I’m Ivy and this is Xane.” The female, Ivy, smiled.

        She had pretty red hair; Xane had brown hair. They both looked like a cute couple, but you didn’t see a ring on their fingers. 

        “How long have you been married?” you questioned. 

        “Two years now.” Xane spoke.

        “And 5 months. He always forgets that. Always forgets our anniversary too.” Ivy frowned.

        “Right.” You smiled. “Best be on our way.” You grabbed your waffle, shoving it in your mouth.

        You turned your back so they couldn’t see the blood on your chest, quickly grabbing Andrew and spinning him around so they couldn’t see the blood on him either.

        “Hey. I wasn’t done eating.” Andrew whispered.

        “Go. Go start the car. Hurry.” You hissed, quickly walking to the lobby’s desk, checking out while he started the car.        

        You saw the couple stand up from the table, so you threw the keycards on the table, unbothered if they would check you out or not (it’s not your money, after all). 

        You rushed out with your briefcase of money in hand, hopping into the car with Andrew.

        “Where to?” Andrew questioned. 

        “Just go!” you hissed, locking the car doors quickly.

        You opened the window just a crack, throwing Hank’s phone onto the ground, abandoning it. 

        Andrew pulled out of the parking lot, driving off as you directed him to the interstate, telling him to maintain a natural speed so you wouldn’t look suspicious. 

        “That couple wasn’t a couple.” You sighed. “Mercenaries. They were waiting for us. It was stupid to try and befriend us, but perhaps they were confirming their targets.”

        They must’ve known the second she introduced Andrew as Hank instead. They didn’t recognize her, probably because of how damn long she’s last seen her parents. They didn’t have no pictures of her, only when she was a baby, so it makes sense they didn’t recognize her instantly. She didn’t introduce herself with her name either, only making it harder to identify her.

        But because of her own slip up, they were able to piece it together. With Hank being a now dead soldier, her introducing Andrew as him definitely raised red flags. Not only that, but they had his phone, if anything, they might’ve went as far as to tracking Hank’s phone and his spending history, finding them at that very hotel. 

        “We need to find a new car to steal. They might recognize this one belonging to one of the soldiers.” You spoke, crossing your arms as you looked out the window. “First, we need to get clothes. Clothes, some food, and essentials like blankets, hygiene, etc. We might as well steal a car too.”

        Andrew nodded, keeping to the slow lane of the interstate, following the speed limit so he wouldn’t attract any unnecessary attention as he looked for a sign for any cheap clothing store.         .         .         .         “See? I knew you’d look good in that.” Andrew smiled, admiring you.

        You wore an oversized light grey sweater, blue jeans and brown heeled boots, a white bow in your hair. You wore red lipstick to cover up the swelling bruises on your lips, but nothing could hide your broken nose as you had an amateur nose cast to try and fix it.

        “I don’t like it…” you muttered, looking at yourself in the car mirror.

        Yeah? You changed in the car? You don’t have an apartment anymore. You can't judge yourself. 

        You didn’t like the clothes, you didn’t like the situation you were in, you didn’t like how un-pretty your face was.

        You worked so hard on your appearance, your alibis and way of life, your personalities to portray, all so that you could keep your family secret and make them proud; and for them to cast you aside like this? To break your pretty face you worked so hard for? You never thought you’d prey on your own family, but the times have changed, and you’re growing hungry.

        “I’ll paint canvas with their blood…” you muttered, your hand tracing the cast on your nose, frowning at the black bruises that made way under your eyes. 

        “It’s not bad, baby.” Andrew smiled. “You should see my wound.”

        “Well at least yours is hidden! Mine is right there! If I go out with you in public, they’d consider you a wife-beater and call the cops on us!” you snapped.

        “It will attract attention, but I don’t think it’ll be that serious.” Andrew sighed. 

        “Well it makes me look ugly.” You huffed, crossing your arms. 

        You couldn’t force your eyes away from the mirror. Your pale skin, your sulking eyes, your frizzy hair, the suffocating collar of your sweater despite it being oversized. It was so not like you.

        Honestly, you don’t remember what was you. Who was Ms. (L/N) without the (L/N)’s?

        Andrew frowned, looking at you before sighing. 

        “Hey, I know the clothes is hard for you—it’s out of your element—but it’s only temporary until we’re safe. You can’t draw attention with your vintage dresses, and we need to act like good citizens.” Andrew spoke.

        “It’s not the damn clothes!” you snapped, irritated. “Well, it’s the clothes too, but it’s my face! It’s ugly!” 

        “I may not agree with you on a lot of things, but I can confidently say you’re attractive.” Andrew frowned, “I think you’re just fine.”

        Not pretty? Not beautiful? Not gorgeous? Not stellar? Not extravagant? Not perfect?

        Just fine? Fine? 

        What about her was fine? What about her broken nose and busted lip and sullen eyes and aching body was fine? What about the situation was fine?

        “Are you fucking kidding me, Andrew?” you scoffed. “This is the opposite of fine! I’m in trouble with my family out to kill me and the police no doubt looking for me as a missing person and the city of Manson will connect the dots if me and the murders suddenly vanish! All of my dresses and soft things are gone forever, I can’t go back! And my stupid,fucking ugly face!” you snapped, hitting your fists on the dashboard.

        “Jesus, stop! You’re going to attract any bystanders!” Andrew hissed, anxious as he looked outside the windows to make sure nobody was looking.

        “I’ll kill them all, I might as well since everything is gone!” you blabbered, waving your hands around. “We only have so much time before they’ll—“

        A harsh sting snapped you out of it, a wasp sting blossoming across your cheek as your head was tilted at an angle. Your speech was cut off, replaced with silence, one Andrew wasn’t sure if it was better or worse.

        “You need to cut your shit out and get it together. We’re both in danger now.” Andrew grimaced, rolling his wrist, his own wasp sting on his palm from delivering yours.

        “You do you think you are, Graves?” you questioned rhetorically, anger burning you alive as you reached for your knife, before realizing you didn’t have a knife, or even a purse for it. “Do you want to end up in a grave, Graves? I could always use extra money from your organs.” 

        “It’s just been complaining and complaining from you, and I think I’m starting to understand now.” Andrew rolled his eyes, not afraid or even taking you seriously, which only angered you more, “Get in the backseat.”

        “How about you leave the fucking car so I can run you over and drop your body in a ditch!” you snapped, “Are you really gonna make me sit in the back so you can have the front seat? So you can’t see my ugly face? Are you serious right now?”

        “(Y/N).” Andrew hissed, unlocking the car doors. “Now.”

        You opened the door, slamming it shut as you hopped into the backseat. Andrew followed, getting in the backseat and locking the car doors once in the back.

        “No! Go away!” you huffed, trying to kick him with your heel.

        He grabbed your ankle, dragging you over till you were under him. Your back rested on the backseats as Andrew towered over you, his neck leaned down so he wouldn’t hit his head on the car’s ceiling. 

        Your hands fixed to dig your thumbs into his wound again—expecting another fight—but he surprised you.

        His hand let go of your ankle, both of them trailing up to your thighs, before going to your waistband. He hooked his fingers on it, pulling your jeans towards him.

        “H-hey!” you gasped, hitting his hands, trying to get him off of you.

        A feeling of embarrassment overtook you, feeling bare and exposed. You’ve never had someone look at you in this angle, and you were worried he was going to take your virginity from your future husband. 

        “You’re always so rude and bossy, and I think that’s cause you’re so pent up.” Andrew hummed, unbothered as your hands tried to push his hands away.

        His hand went to your pussy while the other kept your legs open, a thumb rubbing circles on your clit, manually arousing you. 

        A whimper escaped your lips. Surprised at the noise, you tugged his hair for him to move away.

        “Just calm down…” Andrew groaned, a groan that sounded almost pleasant, like he enjoyed his hair being pulled. “I’m not going to do anything serious.”

    ��   Once you were deemed wet enough by Andrew, he bullied two fingers into your pussy, carefully moving them in and out of you so you could adjust, before going knuckle-deep as he started curling his fingers.

        “S-shit! Oh!” you gasped, your lips trembled as your grip on Andrew’s hair tightened. “Y-you didn’t have my permission for this!”

        “But you’re not stopping me.” Andrew smirked, “you like it. I can tell by how wet you’re getting.”

        “From stimulation, not arousal!” you whimpered, panting as he kept hitting a spot in you that made you see stars. “This isn’t right.” 

        You never let Judah touch you like this, not even when you were engaged. And yet, here you are, sprawled out beneath Andrew as he worked his way around the cramped space of the backseat to thrust his fingers as deep into your pussy as he can. 

        You didn’t know what was suffocating you more: the eyes of your late fiancé in a jar around your neck, bouncing under your shirt with the slightest thrust of Andrew’s fingers—or the feeling of Andrew’s thick fingers reaching inside you so deep it felt like it was crawling up your throat. 

        His fingers are so much more bigger than yours, filling you up better can you can yourself (not that you did it frequently, you were a single lady waiting for a husband to do the work for you, after all). 

        But the feeling of his fingers drilling into your cunt had you second-guessing whether this was really not okay. I mean, how can it be wrong if it feels so good? 

        It felt intimate. Nobody’s ever made you feel like this before. It made you feel like only Andrew could make you feel like this.

        You felt something strange, a warm sensation in your stomach, a need to burst as you started shaking, burning up and panting and moaning, waiting for something to happen.

        It wasn’t until Andrew’s second hand made way to your clit, drawing quick circles around it until you saw stars, a mix between a moan and a gurgle escaping your throat no matter how hard you tried to silence it.

        Even though you came, he still kept going, fingers pumping in and out of you with no sign of stopping. It wasn’t until he removed his fingers and licked them, that you let out a sigh of relief, glad that the torture (although somehow pleasant) was over.

        At least you thought. When he grabbed your thighs and pulled your ankles up to over his shoulders did you realize how sorely mistaken you were. 

        His hands went to your ass so he could push you against his mouth, his tongue licking your sore pussy, lapping up your orgasm like it was water from a sacred springs. 

        You never thought you’d see Andrew so desperate for you, but it really should’ve been a sign. Of course he would be into you, watching porn videos of actresses that looked like you even after you hurt him and threatened to murder him. Of course he’d be desperate for you, his cute neighbor next door who is showering just an apartment away, the water in his own shower cold as yours was hot from using it first.

But he was eager, wanting this possibly even longer than you’ve known. He wasn’t running away from you every chance he got because he disliked you; no, it was because he liked you! He liked the way you made his cock stir in his pants upon saying his name and offering to have lunch with him so you could keep your good social image. He liked being able to smell your cooking next door, wishing he could have you on his cock, spoon-feeding him a meal you made with your love. 

        His tongue lapped at your pussy ferociously, as if it was a meal made with your love. You couldn’t escape the abuse on your pussy, not with your legs above his shoulders—not with how your back was trapped between him and the car seat.

        You couldn’t stop him. Your hands grabbing his hair—trying to pull him off with force—trying to escape the painful pleasure, but he just moaned and shoved his face deeper into your pussy, the vibrations from his moans causing you to cry out with ecstasy. 

        He caught onto this, making humming noises on your clit as he sucked on it, his hands grabbing your love handles so he could manually grind you onto his mouth like a pathetic animal in heat would. 

        You came again with a sharp wail, begging and pleading for you don’t even know what as he slurped your slick and cum like it was honey on a spoon. 

        He pulled your shaky legs off his shoulders, straightening his back to the best he can in the cramped space of the backseat. He smiled, admiring your heaving chest, your shaking legs, your mouth opening and closing as you caught your breath.

        There was silence, silence as he enjoyed the sound of your exhausted form—enjoying the sound of your nonexistent whining and bickering.

        “Much better.” Andrew hummed, licking his lips.

        He found unused fast food napkins in the middle console, using them to wipe away his saliva and your arousal from your thighs and pussy, throwing it out the window.

        Litterbug… you couldn’t help but scorn him as he pulled your panties and jeans back up to your hips.

        He picked you up and put you back in the passenger seat, getting in the drivers seat and smiling. 

        “So? What next?” Andrew questioned, smiling, as if he didn’t spend the last 15 minutes between your thighs.

        You glared at him, panting as you caught your breath.

        “A new car…” You breathed out. 

        “And how are we gonna do that?” Andrew questioned, crossing his arms and leaning back. “Just go up to someone and say, ‘Excuse me, sir? Can I borrow your car? My wife and I have a reservation to get to?’” he questioned sarcastically.

        “We steal one.” You rolled your eyes. 

        “Good luck, with this modern tech? Just try to steal a Tesla and cameras all over it.” Andrew scoffed.

        “I need a car that’s younger than the 2000’s.” You sighed. “Everybody likes retro. There’s some beat-up Hyundai somewhere around here.” 

        “If you say so.” He shrugged. 

        You rolled your eyes, opening the car door and staggering out of the car. 

        “You watch our stuff in here. Once I get the car, I’ll have to pull it aside. I can’t turn the car off, otherwise I’ll have to restart all over again.” You explained. 

        “Okay.” Andrew nodded. 

        You surveyed the convenience store’s parking lot, grabbing a sharp rock along your way. The damn place was filled with family cars and blue collared cars, some of these cars would’ve been fine if they weren’t so flashy. 

        You finally found a bad-looking Ford explorer. It was white with the paint job peeling, spending too many summers out in the sun. It was covered in dirt, typical for an off-road vehicle. 

        You grabbed two hairpins from your hair, shoving them into the lock. After a few minutes of individually unlocking each other lock, muttering curses under your breath and resisting the urge to hit your head against the door and set the alarm off, you heard that angelic pop of the lock.

        You quickly hopped in, locking the doors as you used your pins to unscrew the under the steering wheel’s cover. You grabbed three bundles of wires, finding the one that connected to the battery. Using the sharp rock from earlier, you scraped away the cable’s protective outwear so you could reveal the copper wiring, twisting the red and blue battery wires together.

        The car’s radio and lights came off, prompting you to quickly turn them off. You grabbed the starter wires removed the outwear to show the copper wires, tapping them together until they sparked, the engine roaring to life. You revved it a few times to make sure the engine wouldn’t stall or fail. You broke the steering lock by turning it left until it popped.

        Finally, you made your grand escape—at least you wished. You picked up Andrew, transporting all your new clothes, food, bathing essentials, and blankets into the Explorer.

        You handed the car to Andrew, letting him drive. 

        “We’re going to Georgia.” You spoke, crossing your arms. “My older sister lives there, Kimberly. But she’s currently under the alias Jordan.” 

        “So what’s she do? Does she hate us just as much as your brother did?” Andrew questioned.

        “She’s a spy for us. She watches over the Gallo family, a rivaling family of ours; obviously, they’re unaware of her relations with us.” You explained. 

        “Like, the spies that are super strong and agile?” Andrew questioned. “How do you plan to kill her?”

        “No.” You scoffed, smiling. “She was chosen to be a spy because she’s weak. She’s better for intel, not fighting.” 

        “Well, okay.” Andrew nodded. “You gonna tell me where this place is at?” 

        “Just take the interstate, I’ll guide you.” You smiled.

        .         .         .                  Honestly, you would’ve never found this place if it wasn’t for your family’s map. You remembered it was located somewhere by Driftwood Beach. 

        A couple miles away from the salty sea, you could see a small house. It didn’t look nothing like a mobster’s house, but the shine of a gun in the window proved otherwise. 

        You couldn’t just walk up to the house, you’d be shot. Breaking into the house wasn’t even a chance. But what caught your interest was the cars parking by the side of the road.

        These cars didn’t belong to tourist parking for the beach, there were people who would hop out of their cars, walking up to the door and flashing a badge, before entering. 

        They wore casual dresses and button up shirts; judging by the women wearing heels, it looked to be a party. Perhaps one for social connections.

        “How is your formal etiquette?” you questioned, a smile on your face as you looked out the car window.

        “I was an English major.” Andrew shrugged. 

        “Here’s the plan.” You spoke, shifting your body to look at him. “We park at the edge of the road, down the line. When a couple comes, we sneak up and shoot them, take their badges they have that’s letting them in, find my sister, kill her.”

        “You make it sound easier than it is.” Andrew sighed, crossing his arms.

        “It is easy, so long as we choose someone of low-class. Someone not popular enough to have made their debut in the underground.” You spoke.

        You stepped out of the car, observing the place as you looked around. 

        “Give me one of the guns,” you spoke, “I need it. You need to stay with the car. If you turn it off, I’d have to wire it again, and that’s tedious. I’ll kill them and steal their clothes and car, then we’ll put all of our stuff into it.”

        Andrew didn’t hesitate this time with giving you a gun from his waistband. Perhaps you’ve earned more of his trust, or perhaps he thinks you don’t have the tits to kill him. Whatever it was, you got one of the guns. 

        You placed the gun in your waistband, pulling down your sweater to hide it. You walked to the line of cars, sitting behind a tree and waiting for a good target.

        Some were too rich, some were too popular in the underground to where you’d be discovered if you took their identity. Some had too flashy cars that would attract attention. Some were just perfect…

        Such as the blonde and the brunette walking elbow-to-elbow. You looked around to make sure nobody was around, before walking up to them. 

        Immediately, they were cautious. Of course they would be, some of these families must be rivals for their business. 

        “Excuse me?” you smiled. “I’m a tourist. Do you know where—“ 

        BANG!

        Yes, they were amateurs, just as you expected. They never even bothered to remove their arms from each other’s. Someone experienced would have at least tried to make it look like they were reaching for their partner’s waist when they were going for their weapon.

        You robbed their dead bodies of their keys, ID’s, money, and party invitations. You dragged their dead bodies, kicking them underneath a car to hide them for now. 

        You unlocked their car and hopped in, starting the car and driving to Andrew. Andrew threw all your stuff into your new stolen car, meanwhile you swapped the license plates with each other; that way, even if you had the same model as a mobster, you wouldn’t have the same license plate, which can help other mobsters from discovering you. 

        The only downside is if a cop scans your license and finds the license belongs to a different model and owner, but hopefully a cop wouldn’t do that randomly on the interstate. 

        After getting the car situation sorted, you gave Andrew his party invitation.

        “I’m Seven Flint, huh?” Andrew hummed. “Seven? Really? A number? His parents really didn’t love him.”

        “And I’m Holly Flint.” You spoke, reading your invitation. “And I bet her mother’s name is Jolly.” You smiled, before reading the letter’s description. “A proposition for stocks, proposals, and business deals—how intriguing.”

        “Well? Shall we?” Andrew smiled.

        “Of course.” You nodded, walking next to him and smiling. 

        Andrew locked the car doors, wrapping his arm around your waist. He guided you to the door, "your" invitations in hand as you knocked on the door.

        The door opened, a man taller than Andrew, a clean bald head and face as he opened the door.

        “Da invites?” he had a thick Russian accent, his voice deep and serious that you almost took out your gun and shot him from surprise. 

        “Of course. For Mr. and Mrs. Flint.” Andrew smiled, taking your invitations and handing them over.

        The Russian male looked at the invitation, before shoving them in the trash, “Go.” 

        You smiled, entering the house. “The nerve.” You whispered. “If he is the butler, he is  a terribly un-jauntily one.” 

        Andrew chuckled, his hand patting your waist. “You shouldn’t be expecting princess treatment around here, honey.”

        “Don’t.” You rolled your eyes.

        “I’m only playing the role as your husband.” Andrew hummed. “Hey, we seem to play House a lot. It’s almost like the universe is trying to tell us something…”

        “That I should bury your body and leave you for Raquelle because I’m Barbie and nothing speaks more empowering than a 10 year old girl playing with Barbies and reflecting her female interest of her best friend?” you hummed.

        “I… Well that was specific. Do you swing that way?” Andrew inquired, now unsure if he should be making a move or not. 

        “Oh please, it’s just every girl’s plotline. Ken cheats with some broad, Barbie finds out, so she murders Ken and dates her best friend.” You smiled. “Well, at least every normal girl did. Personally, I performed ventriloquist shows with the dead bodies of our victims in my living room. My mother always said I had an eye for the arts.”

        Andrew peeked over at you, disturbed, a bit pale in the face. “Could you not?”

        “Sorry.” You giggled. “I reminisce about my childhood.”

        “You shouldn’t be doing that; it’ll make you think twice about killing your family, getting hungover on the past and all…” Andrew muttered.

        “Oh, no. It only makes me angrier. To think they’d betray me like this despite all I’ve done…” You smiled.

        As you entered the living room, there was a woman, a thick European accent as she spoke. “Allow me to assist you.” 

        She guided you to a room, opening the door for you. What awaited you was another woman, one who was standing by an elevator that lead down. 

        “Allow me.” She spoke, pressing a button that opened the elevator.

        You both entered the elevator, the woman pressing a button that led you two down and down. 

        The doors opened, showing a hallway with red carpeting and pale yellow walls that led to two arched oak doors. You pushed the doors open to be greeted with fancy chandeliers, tables upon tables of white tablecloths with silver dishes of foods and desserts.

        “So much for a casual party…” Andrew whispered in your ear, grimacing at the sight of so many people. “This is all the people involved in mafia activity here in Georgia?” Andrew questioned, almost surprised.

        “No,” you spoke, “This is the world of the mafia ranks—the hierarchies and those below. That’s why there were so many different accents the guides above us had.” 

        “And they all came for a party? It’s like the royals from the 1600’s.” Andrew scoffed. 

        “In this case, yes.” You nodded. “A party like this isn’t simply for business affairs; this is a underground debut.” 

        “You said that earlier… What is it?” Andrew questioned.

        “It’s optional depending on the family, but it’s typically an introduction to the underground organization once you reach age, typically 18 to 20 depending on the family.” You explained, making your way to the dessert table as Andrew unknowingly followed. “It’s a time for potential suitors and business proposals to introduce themselves. It’s typically popular considering it doesn’t only apply to just the family hosting. Other organizations can network and exchange information or services. It’s usually how they find their forever workers such as their consigliere or underboss.

        You never had a debut yourself since your family didn’t like the idea of your faces plastered in the underground, nor did they care for you or any of your siblings marrying into businesses. To a normal family, it might be like a sweet 16, a quinceañera, or a Philippine debut; but to the mafias, it was a debut into their life of organizing crime. 

        You grabbed a plate, stuffing it with raspberry macaroons, fudge, chocolate covered strawberries, anything sweet for your sweet tooth.

        “You like sweets?” Andrew smiled.

        “Oh, don’t tell me you’re a ‘I like my coffee black’ type of guy.” You rolled your eyes. “Every woman knows you do that to seem mysterious and self-disciplined.” 

        “…Well, I guess I like sweets every now.” Andrew muttered, stealing a chocolate strawberry from your plate, earning a glare from you. “Maybe it’s cause I don’t want cavities either.”

        “Oh fuck off and—“ you were cut off by a woman walking up to you. 

        “Jane!” the woman smiled, her red hair in a neat braid over her shoulder.

        “Oh… hey… you.” You smiled, internally cringing at not only forgetting her name, but remembering her from the hotel. “What are you doing here?”

        “I’m on a business trip, I didn’t know we were in the same business!” she smiled. “So, what family do you belong to?” 

        “Flints…” you muttered, stuffing your face with desserts so you couldn’t talk to her.

        “Hm. Never heard of them.” She smiled.

        “They’re working their way up.” You politely smiled back.

        “So? What’s your role?” she questioned.

        “Soldier.” You spoke shortly, wanting this to be over with.

        Might as well seem unimportant and not too unimportant as possible. You had more important things to attend to. 

        “Oh. Nice.” She smiled, before waving over a man, the same man from the hotel earlier. “Xane, come!”

        “It’s nice to see you guys again. Strange me and Ivy would meet you guys here out of all places.” Xane smiled, charming and withdrawn but not much so—much alike in Andrew, you could see.

        “Yeah… Small world.” Andrew muttered, placing his hand on your waist, grabbing another strawberry to keep his own mouth occupied.

        “So? What family do you work for?” you smiled.

        “The Gallo's.” Xane spoke. 

        Internally, you almost died, but you smiled on the outside. 

        “Wow, I’ve heard about you!” you smiled.

        “Mr. Gallo really is the best. It’s thanks to Mrs. Gallo too. They really make a wonderful duo.” Ivy boasted, proud of who she worked under like a dog would their owner. 

        “Speaking of me?” a soft female’s voice drew out, appearing behind Ivy out of thin air.

        “Oh, Mrs. Gallo. Yes, we were just talking of you.” Ivy smiled. 

        The woman had long, curly black hair and onyx eyes, smiling as she looked at you. “Oh, my dear. I see.” She hummed, tilting her head.

        “Hello—“ 

        “Bell. You can call me Bell.” She smiled, her dark skin and thick lips shining. “And you?”

        “Jane,” you spoke, “And this is my husband, Hank.” You introduced Andrew.

        “Ah, I see.” She smiled. “Are you enjoying the party so far?”

        “Of course.” You nodded, smiling. “It’s an honor for you to invite us.” 

        “Yes, well, I only aim for my daughter to be well-versed in our family’s antics.” Bell hummed, a hand on her hip. “Say, do you enjoy shows?” 

        “Depends on what is it.” You frowned, confused on the sudden topic change.

        “I ask because my daughter will be hosting a show for us. You see, she’s a singer and entertainer. Her way of expression is through music—it’s how she hopes to find a suitor with an eye for auditory arts.” Bell explained.

        “Intriguing.” You smiled, looking at Andrew. 

        “Stay a bit longer? Her voice is quite melodic.” Bell smiled. “I have to go greet other guests now. It was lovely meeting you, Jane.”

        “To you as well.” You hummed, watching as Ivy and Xane followed her, like bodyguards. 

        “Well?” Andrew questioned. “That was her, right?”

        “You’re starting to get a hang of this. Are we spiritually connected?” you smiled. “Yes, that was her. Her real name is Amara. It seems she understands we’re undercover; however, I’m unsure if that means she’s up to date with my status as a runaway, or if she’s simply playing the part as a spy.” You frowned.

        “She could be pretending, just like spies do.” Andrew hummed, his hand subconsciously rubbing up and down your hip.

        “Well, it could be plausible.” You hummed. “But… I believe our biggest worry here are my parents being present here. A big underground meeting such as this would have them attracted like moths to a light.” You spoke.

        “You don’t think they’d have the balls to kill us here, right?” Andrew questioned. 

        “No. It’d draw too much attention. Everyone would take out their weapons and kill the person nearest to them out of panic and confusion.” You spoke, sighing. “This is so complicated. Out of all the days, they chose today for a debut.”

        “We could always come back tomorrow?” Andrew suggested.

        “No. They could be hot on our trail for all we know. We’re in the same city, same town, same house, and same party right now. Surely this wasn’t a coincidence.” You frowned.

        “You know, I’m starting to think you like the challenge. The thrill of all this.” Andrew gruffed. “It’s like everything is hard cause it gives you a lady hard-on.” 

        “Why don’t you shut your mouth before I punch you hard?” you scoffed.

        “Oh, like they did to your nose?” Andrew retorted.

        “Shut up! You know that makes me feel insecure!” you hissed, the attention to your nose dragging your own focus back to the cast on your face, how stupid and ugly you must look with your broken nose and puffed up eyes.

        “… I’m sorry.” Andrew muttered. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

        “I don’t want your pity fucks.” You scoffed. “I did not enjoy today’s as it was.”

        “Oh, sorry. You orgasming on my tongue and moaning really made it seem like you didn’t enjoy it.” Andrew spoke sarcastically. 

        “Not in public!” you whispered, glaring at him.

        Andrew smirked smugly at you, proud to have you angry and flustered. You spent your time at the dessert table, wanting to hug the wall there so you could survey the crowd and do your best to avoid your parents. 

        If your mother and father were here, they would have your little sister too, along with some bodyguards hidden in the crowd, who would be on the lookout for you two—if not already stalking you in the disguise of the crowd.

        You watched as those socialized, hearing terrible business proposals, the flirting of two people who would no doubt take occupy a motel room later tonight, the complaining of an elder; normal stuff at parties such as these. 

        It wasn’t until a man in a suit came to the table, grabbing a glass and a spoon, hitting them to draw people’s attention. It was quiet as those used their indoor voices, so he was able to gain their attention quick.

        “Good evening. Thank you for coming to my daughter Viven’s debut. If you all could please follow me to the stage, my daughter would love to perform her original pieces for you.” He, Mr. Gallo, spoke.

        You watched as those followed. You and Andrew stayed in the back of the crowd, following the end of the line, entering a new room. It was like an auditorium, rows of seats for your convenience, and a stage with red curtains closed.

        Once everyone was seated, you watched as the curtains opened. 

        “Hello, everyone. It is so good to see all of your faces, familiar and unfamiliar.” Bell spoke, introducing herself. “I am Bell. Thank you for coming to my daughter’s first debut. It was my pleasure hosting to you all.”

        You grabbed Andrew’s hand and stood up, walking to the doors “in search of a bathroom,” you whispered so nobody could be suspicious of you as you planned your move. 

        “My daughter Viven is going to play the harp and sing her first piece titled ‘Eighteen Petals’.” Bell spoke. “We ask of you to sit back, respect your neighbors, and enjoy the show—“

        BANG! 

        Bell’s body fell on the stage, her form lifeless. You stared, surprised.

        “Wow. What a dramatic scene.” You muttered.

        “It must be a play too. Such as the mother being a wilted petal?” Andrew theorized.

        It wasn’t until you saw blood seeping onto your older sister’s yellow gown did you realize that it wasn’t apart of the show. 

        It was a murder, and you didn’t pull the trigger.

        There was an uproar, people standing up in their seats, some fleeing, others screaming in place. Some pushed and shoved you to the door, Andrew holding you protectively to his chest, cursing at people who carelessly knocked you around. 

        Your eyes met Ivy’s, her partner Xane right by her, and they didn’t look happy. In her hands was a silver dagger, one she gripped with white knuckles as she stalked closer to you.

        You know you’ve been framed, but you don’t know by who. 

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Current chapter, Chapter 5 (in the works)

Want more Andrew Graves content? Check out the Andrew Graves masterlist!

Inbox is OPEN for questions about the story and new plotlines/ideas, not for requests!

[crossnamara]

probably shouldnt be posting this yet but. its a part of a bigger piece im working on and i really like it. we are. ignoring completely historically inaccurate fashion its okay shes just serving cunt

[ruibaozha]

I saw how some people use historical figures from Chinese mythology, folklore and religion for NSFW, literally, turning them into their own OC's, and I was wondering, what do you think of that? Because it seems like they just took them, and didn't do more research asking the question of "is that right?"

As per your second question for me I will leave that unaddressed and instead invite you to discuss those matters properly in private, especially if this answer is dissatisfying.

I personally do not care much if NSFW or suggestive content of such deities exist (except for the child Nezha, leave his child form out of this.) or that it’s being produced in the first place. The numerous Chinese social media sites like LOFTER, Douban (豆瓣) and Xiaohongshu (小红书) feature fan art of Daoist deities like Nezha and Er’lang in these kinds of situations. Fan fiction of these deities are similarly of the same attitude. It has nothing to do with if proper research has been conducted, especially in the case of Er’lang Shen who cannot act on romantic feelings even if he wanted to.

It feels to me that there’s an exception regarding Chinese deities and folk heroes when deities of other religions have been sexualized. This screams of not only hypocrisy but of ignorance in being offended on behalf of the Chinese. In the few months I was active in the LMK fandom I’ve come to realize a majority of the other Chinese in the fandom are either adopted or second generation immigrants with no real cultural background; and as a consequence have severely inaccurate biases on matters like this because they aren’t aware of how insignificant this is.

I’m admittedly not active within the LMK fandom anymore and as such I don’t know what’s happening there unless someone is compelled to talk about what is going on. But it feels to me that as per usual people are holding Journey to the West as the be all end all on numerous fronts when the books really cannot and should not be heralded as such. Moreover, it’s strange that the fandom is completely okay with sexualizing Sun Wukong, the Six Eared Macaque, and the Golden Winged Peng while any other character is unacceptable.

I assure you that numerous derivative works feature Chinese deities in relationships and sexual contexts, even Tang Sanzang is featured in movies or television shows with a romantic partner despite relationships of that nature betray his Buddhist faith.

I’ve been considering making a post about the cultural dissonance that’s happening here and various attitudes or opinions other people have because they lack the cultural context to realize how insignificant and misinformed a lot of this “discourse” actually is.

What is it about Chinese mythology that sets it apart from Nordic or Greco-Roman mythology in these ways? Why is it perfectly acceptable to sexualize Loki or Achilles, but not someone like Muzha (who was a very real person that became deified, in the same fashion as Guan Yu, as who he was studying under was seen as an incarnation of Guanyin)?

I don’t think this type of thinking will ever make sense to me as a true testament to how different the fandom (especially on Twitter) and myself feel about this matter.

[impishglee]

i think the issue w corset warriors is like there is a sort of pervasive and inaccurate narrative around corsets that can portray historical women as stupid/vain/helpless/etc. and that can be misogynistic in it of itself. it’s just also insane to ignore that policing women’s fashion and appearance and (sometimes Legally) enforcing beauty standards that demand women’s time and money and restrict their freedom and comfort have persisted throughout history and continue TODAY!!!!

[flameraven]

Was reading a period* arranged marriage story and had to give up because it was just TOO historically inaccurate.

(*Which period was unclear. I think they were aiming for Victorian but it was so vague it could've been any time from 1800-1915ish)

Like, I am all for hand waving historical accuracy for a good story, especially if you want a queer romance or just don't want to deal with period racism. Bridgerton does this and while I think there are some issues with their approach, overall it works and it's clearly very appealing to a lot of folks.

No, the thing that really got me about this story was that the character was said to be quite wealthy, but lived in a relatively small house with no servants. There was mention of a cook who came in one or two days a week. That is where my suspension of disbelief just gave up.

Because like, even if you're going to ignore the social aspect of this wealthy person not having servants and the gossip that would create, even a small household, without the benefit of modern appliances, involves an enormous amount of labor to keep up. You need servants. Not just A Cook, but a cook and several kitchen maids to assist her to do the hard labor and menial tasks, because you can't just pop into the kitchen and cook something up quickly. There's no just turning the stove or the oven on, you have to build a fire and manage to to get the right temperature and keep it even. Household heating, too. You need people to clean and also to manage fires or your house is going to be freezing. Someone needs to change out the linens and also help you dress! A lady's maid or valet weren't just for prestige, the styles of the time meant you genuinely needed help getting in and out of clothing.

Also the characters' ideas about consent and levels of sex education were all jarringly modern. Again, I don't mind some of this but on top of all the other stuff it was too much.

Overall the story felt like it was a modern setting where people were wearing period fashions. And if you're not going to engage with any of the details of the period... why are you even writing period fiction?

[yaltghoul]

I'm about as unhinged as Colin Bridgerton about this

I just rewatched s3pt1.

The number of times Colin is like, out and about in polite society without a cravat is insane.

Do you know how improper it would have been for an aristocratic man to appear in public or attend any event without wearing a cravat?

We're going to ignore how historically inaccurate the wardrobe and hair choices are in the entire show, because until season 3, Colin has always dressed the part of "well bred English gentry".

During the Regency period, the standards for dress code were strictly adhered to, especially among the aristocracy. The cravat was an essential component of a gentleman's outfit and showed that the wearer belonged to the upper echelons of society. Wearing a cravat was a mark of a proper and respectable upbringing.

For formal events, or really any social gathering, wearing a cravat was non-negotiable. Even in less formal settings, an aristocratic man was expected to maintain a certain level of decorum.

Not wearing a cravat would have been seen as a blatant disregard for fashion norms, and possibly (definitely) seen as a sign of rebellion at best, and ill-refined manners at worst.

So Mr. Colin "I'm gonna fit into society and be the man everyone expects me to be" Bridgerton not wearing a cravat 24/7 would have shown he did not care about the society he was desperately trying to squeeze himself into.

Yet, he does so much to try and make himself seen as the man society expects him to be. Even though part of that act is to pretend to be cavalier about society, his "friends" are never seen without their cravats. Only Colin.

It's almost as though it's symbolic of his innate desire to say fuck it to societal expectations and just be himself.

[thesinglesock]

Heya! Sorry for the random message but I was looking through the bunad tags on tumblr and saw your post on fantastistakk? (I hope I’m spelling that right!!) i was wondering if you had any good resources on learning more about them or could share any more information on them! I’ve always loved norwegian bunads and I’d like to depict them + reference them more in art/writing but with further fantasy themes (hence the even greater fascination with fantastistakk) and have worried about coming across as ignorant when the last thing I want to do is do these wonderful dresses and their history a disservice! (I additionally ask just because when I look up fantastistakk specifically I get a lot of results in norwegian which is fine I just don’t want to end up with inaccurate info putting it through a rough translator online so i thought I’d ask!)

Thank you so much!

Hi and thanks for the ask! Please don't apologize I love talking bunad and fantasistakk :D

I really wish I could paste in a link to the Definitive Guide to Fantasistakk (English Edition), but unfortunately no such thing exists.

Mainly because this is what I would call a Folk Fashion Movement, in the sense that there is no big fashion house or designer* behind it, it consists of regular people digging up their mothers' sewing machines and having fun with learning traditional techniques in a new way. The closest thing you can get to valuable literary resources would be people's personal blog posts and the occasional news article, but they're all written in Norwegian, like you discovered. And while I get that machine translation can be awful, it wouldn't be the end of the world if you used it to research this topic, since most of the time the explaination of a fantasistakk essentially boils down to "I made it like this because I think it looks cool". (*there are a couple of notable fashion houses that do fantasi-stakk, like Eva Lie and Embla Bunader, and while they contribute to the trend, they don't control or own the movement.)

There are several ideals tied to the fantasi-stakk trend, so the reason someone might choose a fantasistakk instead of a bunad can vary. Some people make theirs from thrifted curtains because they're saving up for a "proper" bunad later, while others commision a carefully researched and deeply personal subversive tailor made piece of art based on their local dress tradition. In any case, the fantasistakk wouldn't exist without the traditional bunads, so you might want to look into those as well.

Luckily, you can find a lot of international resources on the traditional bunads, because they've been around for longer and one of the core ideas behind the bunad-movement was to document local dress traditions to prevent them from fading into obscurity. If you want to learn about the history of bunads I highly recommend this video by Kristine Vike, that takes a critical look at the idea of the Bunad. It really digs into the historical and political context that the bunad has and the history of how it evolved into what we know it as today.

I cannot overstate how well researched this video is, and also if you want to learn more about Norwegian dress history and textile arts in general, go check out her channel, it's a real gold mine.

But if you want resources for art inspiration, I'd encourage you to look up specific bunads to base your fantasistakk on. Each bunad has its roots in a geographical area and is made with the traditional techniques unique to that place. Some areas have more variety than others, but there's enough to write several books on each and every bunad.

Here's a handy list of pretty much every bunad (with a few Sami gakti as well), sorted by province:

Very few of the costumes in this list have English wikipedia articles attatched, but some of them have Norwegian articles, and I'm sure every single one of them has plenty of pictures to use for reference (pro tip: instagram hashtags. people love to tag their bunad pics with the name of their dress). And if you find one you're interested in, but you can't find any accessible information, I'd be happy to help you learn more about it :D

when it comes to being respectful and coming up with fantasistakk-designs, I'd say try not to worry too much about it, and just have fun! some people get mad when they see a teenager using a "non-traditional" shirt with their family heirloom vest, while others applaud them for showing both their heritage and their individuality. Doing your research is important if you want to depict historical dresses (and to give you more ideas of what a bunad can look like), but in contemporary norwegian culture a lot of us are mixing it up with modern garments and borrowing from other cultures and just making clothes we want to wear (just like our ancestors used to do before the standardized national costumes got popularized)

And on that note, I'll wrap this up with the banner picture from Embla Bunader's home page for inspiration:

(btw I'm officially rescinding the statement I made in the fantasistakk post, that Embla is "less extravagant", cause this past year they've Really been Cooking)

I wasn't really sure where to even begin answering this ask, since it's such a massive topic, but I hope I at least some of this information is useful :P

[marzipanandminutiae]

Been thinking abt that blue silk dress from the met for 2 days. The second pic (w long sleeves) is fine to me, normal day dress, perhaps a bit fancier than most but normal. But. The first pic. With the short sleeves. It’s just… it’s so t-shirt. I can’t stop thinking abt it. I’ve never seen ANYTHING like it before! Tee-shirt navy silk dress…… who made you…………….. who wore you…..

there are three stages of one's relationship to dress history:

You know very little about dress history. You live in blissful ignorance that Br*dgerton is not a documentary on Regency fashion. You have inner peace.

You know enough to know when something is Historically Inaccurate. Um, excuse me! Corset-looking garments on the outside? A young debutante in all black outside of mourning? Earrings on men? A WOMAN with SHORT HAIR before 1920, and she's NOT EVEN ILL?!?!? What is this nonsense?!

You know enough to know that history is constantly trolling you and it needs to Fucking Stop. You've seen Edwardian cold-shoulder evening gowns. You've seen the 18th century Jrock Coat(TM). You've seen 1920s dresses with literal actual panniers underneath. Sure, there are nuances- or Big Glaring Anachronisms -that clearly make something modern vs. [insert time period here], but with sufficient documentation, you'd believe pretty much anything of extant garments at this point. the Tiffany Problem is your drinking buddy

the 1850s t-shirt bodice is squarely Category 4 Fuel

[star-anise]

The costumes on Bridgerton are postmodern masterpieces. This and Enola Holmes have broken my allegiance to the cause of strict historical accuracy forever. They’re very deliberately playing with our ideas of history, how we remember history, and they’re in active conversation with the Internet communities of historical costumers, makeup and hair artists. This ain’t your momma’s historically inaccurate costumes back from when we didn’t know better. These costumers KNOW.

Like, when Bridgerton opens with a mother standing over her daughter demanding her stays be laced tighter, this isn’t a sign that Corsets are Evil and Oppress Women. The show KNOWS that women didn’t really tightlace during the Regency. Frankly, it’s relying on either its audience’s ignorance (this is totally what the past was like) or outrage (they’re being historically inaccurate!) to keep them from thinking too hard about what it means that these characters in particular are doing it, and the loaded freight of that tiny moment, in terms of character and theme and plot, isn’t going to pay off for AGES.

But I won’t get into everything tonight. I’ll just look at one aspect in depth right now (and stick it behind a readmore because this got LONG) which is how amazing these costumes are at expressing character:

Like, here’s Violet Bridgerton and Lady Danbury:

Violet is a warm and loving mother, but needs to waffle around for a bit before finding strength or decision; she’s in a pale, polite, wan colour, though with a bit of panache in the ornamentation. Lady Danbury, meanwhile, is formidable, independent and opinionated. Before this, she’s tended to wear the fashion’s simple silhouette in dark, dramatic colours (usually red or purple) that echo her to-the-point, indomitable personality; but as she’s seeing her protégé begin to thrive, she’s softened a bit with lace embellishments (though the costume is still unified with a theme of regal purple and set off with a grand-looking ruff that rather reminds one of Queen Elizabeth I)

Even their hair reflects their personalities; Lady Danbury’s hair is severely swept up into a regal braided coronet with a tiny spray of flowers, while Violet’s head is covered with a froth of curls and feathers.

Or the Featheringtons. Like, Lady Featherington’s dresses are so weird and disturbing that you can just TELL what she’s like:

She is the LIVING EMBODIMENT of Trying Too Hard. While everyone else’s skirts drape and sway loosely from their high waistlines, her dresses all hug her from bust to hip, and lo indeed, she has Control Problems. When the fashion calls for relatively plain, unembellished gowns, small patterns, and cohesive colour schemes, her dresses are way too overdecorated, in large, loud prints. While everyone else has a nice square Regency neckline, her dresses have a high Queen Anne back that comes over her shoulders and looks like it’s trying to strangle her. Her hair is twice as tall as anybody wearing the current fashion, but half the height of anybody still wearing the previous generation’s hairstyles. She just looks OFF.

Her daughters wear her colour scheme and their dresses are so delicate and over-embellished that you know that they are that bad ON PURPOSE. Someone (read: their mother and every servant she can wring work out of) has put HUNDREDS OF HOURS into making them look as bad as they do!

God, what a family.

When Miss Thompson finally gets dressed “in the family colours”, her gowns are obviously crafted much more quickly, and she benefits so much from the lack of over-attention; she might be in fabric pulled out of Lady Featherington’s stash, but she rocks the clean, classic lines the style was known for.

These costumes are doing SO MUCH WORK. I love them so much.

[thenightlymartini]

Special Headcanon Week! (#70) APHRarePairWeek

@aphrarepairweek2021​

Day 6: Traditional Outfit

I’m not fully versed in traditional clothes, and based the pictures off of details I was seeing in general, so if they are inaccurate or something, feel free to let me know.

Headcanon #70

Kimchiburger: America had been on a historical K-drama kick for a bit and decided to ask South Korea how accurate the clothes were for their time periods. South Korea regaled him with various stories of how often he pushed so many social norms by his clothing and hairstyle choices, such as trying to put his hair in styles signifying he was married when he wasn’t or always being on top of the latest fashion trends, no matter how obscure or weird. At one point, America asked him if he still had the old outfits and if he could see them. Luckily, SK managed to find one or two still in good condition that he somehow managed to keep, and did a little fashion show. America loved how unique the clothes looked, since he knew more about kimonos (Japan) and cheongsams (China), and liked how they seemed a nice in-between; not overly complicated, but still regal and each part holding meaning.

Plus, he thought SK looked really handsome and mature. Like, he’s reminded of how SK is actually a lot older than he lets on, and the clothes bring out the intelligence only centuries of living as a nation can provide.

RusNK: When they first saw each other’s traditional clothing, they were shocked at how both of them seem to go the colorful and patterned route.

Like look at these Russian clothes:

Then Korea:

Seeing each other in their respective traditional outfits? NK really liked how simple yet formal Russia looks in his clothes. Like the colors just really suit him and he hardly ever sees him in anything that isn’t huge or extra padded due to the cold. Russia loves how regal looking NK is in his clothes. Like, the patterns and colors, can be both simple yet loud but balance so well, and NK looks so divine according to Russia himself and almost dignified, which was a big reason why he fell for him in the first place. Like, he loved how NK could be so dignified and refined yet approachable at the same time when wearing his traditional clothes.

Commieburger: America had become really curious as to what NK wore way back when, as he seen South Korean clothes. NK didn’t really understand why America was interested in such a thing and merely gave vague details, like he worse mostly plain clothing that still looked presentable and had braided hair. America vaguely remembered that NK had longer hair when they first met, and questioned why he cut it. NK simply put it as “needing to cut ties with the past” and refused to answer more.

America later found a picture in South Korea’s possession of the two Koreas in their traditional attire dating years back. He was shocked at how different NK looked, but more so at how genuinely happy the older twin was. It made him question what NK meant by “needing to cut ties with the past”, and got depressed thinking NK was forcing himself to forget because he may have believed that there was no way to go back to those times.

Later, NK questioned him on his traditional attire, since he was “trying to reciprocate”. America explained that he didn’t really have a traditional dress. Sure, some of the more typical styles were influenced by Europe, but he technically didn’t have a style that was uniquely his own. He explained that it was due to him technically being a nation set up by ideals and beliefs rather than a nationalistic identity like most other nations. His people were so diverse that he really couldn’t say something represented his people without effectively ignoring a part of the population. He admitted that he kind of felt lonely and different from everyone else due to that, since he couldn’t really connect on that level. Like, he sees everyone have these unique, meaningful clothing and he has nothing and feels like a leech when he borrows certain elements or traditions from others.

That’s when NK goes and fetches a measuring tape and starts taking America’s measurements, much to the absolute confusion of America. Few weeks later and America receives a package from NK that contained a custom tailored joseon-oth (called a hanbok in South Korea), and a note. The note basically stated how NK decided to get him a hanbok that represented him and how America should try making a collection of different traditional attire but with elements that represented the American ideals and people. What was unsaid was what truly made America emotional. The joseon-oth was white with a blue jacket, white meaning purity and blue more associated with the moon and the heavens (often more feminine), kind of like a dreamer, with a pattern more closely related to the idea of unity. This, seemingly what NK was trying to get at, was America as an idealist country where the dream was to live in unity despite all differences. This was NK’s way of showing America he can have a traditional attire and it still represent himself.

He later wore it the next time NK came to see him (he mostly got it right with only a minor detail or two out of place), and was shocked to see NK had brought his old joseon-oth for him to see (he didn’t actually wear it, but the thought counted). He also blushed when NK whispered that he looked really good.

[scripttorture]

Do you have advice on portraying mental disorders to the public in a way that makes sense? How does one portray multiple disorders at once while making it clear they’re the result of torture? Do you usually name them in the story? I can portray disorders + symptoms that come with mental health problems resulting from torture, but I feel like I’m battling public ignorance before even getting to debunking myths about torture. I have the information, but I don’t know how to portray it organically.

I can tell you what I do, but I think that whether that will work for you or not partly depends on how you approach writing.

 If what I say doesn’t fit with your writing style that isn’t a failing and it doesn’t mean you’re ‘doing it wrong’. I don’t think there is one sure fire way to write a complex topic well. And honestly the fact that you’re putting in the time to research and practice is probably more important then any advice I have to give.

 I don’t always name mental health problems in my stories. I appreciate that some people think you always should. Usually because they say if you name a disorder the readers can’t deny it or pretend it’s something else.

 I have a friend in one of my writing groups. He’s writing a wonderful adventure story with a Deaf protagonist. He repeatedly describes the character as Deaf and all of her communication is in sign language.

 He has still had feedback from people six chapters into the story saying they did not realise the character was Deaf.

 Here’s my take away from this: While it is important to try your best with anything you portray it is also important to accept that some people just Will Not Get It despite your best efforts.

 Shout out to the person who thought I was discussing trans people when I spoke about historical pre-pubertal eunuchs.

 Start by thinking about who you’re writing for. What does your ideal reader look like? Whose feedback do you hope for?

 Because I think there’s a big difference in how we approach the story/conversation when we’re expecting to talk to people with experience vs people without.

 Most of the time I’m writing for trauma survivors. I hope I’m writing stories that other people will enjoy. But I accept in the writing that a lot of people without experience of these things might not… quite connect the dots.

 It sounds like you want to write for people who aren’t survivors. To educate. That is just as valid and valuable. It’s a very different approach though.

 When I think about naming a mental health problem I think about how that name fits into the story. The main character in my current story is about 11-13. She’s spent a fair amount of time with two adult survivors. But I’m not sure if she has the knowledge or vocabulary to label what she’s seeing and I’m not sure if anyone else would say it to her.

 So I put those mental health problems in to the way these characters behave and the way their daughter talks to her friend about her parents.

 That approach may not work if the majority of your intended audience have no knowledge about mental health.

 And for me in this story that’s part of the point. I expect that a lot of readers will be taken aback when they find out what these characters have lived through and realise that what they’ve seen up to now are symptoms not ‘quirky character flaws’. I expect that to prompt some thought and questioning*.

 Linking these illnesses to torture was easy in this particular set of stories because the readers will (eventually) see the characters before and after torture. The change happens in front of them.

 Generally I think that’s a good way of establishing the link: explicitly showing the character before and after trauma and highlighting the changes. That can be directly as part of the story, but it can also be done through other characters talking about the past (which can help establish relationships and characters) and by having the survivors themselves reminisce about ‘before’.

 It’s also important to remember that you can show symptoms developing without showing torture itself. There’s nothing wrong with choosing to show quiet moments with the character in a cell, even if we’re told they’re cliché. Use every moment that you can make powerful.

 There’s also nothing wrong with jumping around in the time line and telling a story in a non-linear fashion. My general point here is that there are a lot of ways you can bring up the character’s past and how they’ve changed.

 You can also have a character explicitly state that these symptoms are expected, normal responses to a horrendous situation. Any characters who are doctors, mental health professionals or some types of social workers would be good fits for that. Depending on how you structure the story religious figures (who may be involved in anti-torture work or helping survivors) could work.

 If there are other survivor characters then having a discussion between them about what it changed could be a good organic way to bring that up while bringing the characters closer together.

 Circling back to writing mental health problems- I do think sometimes a lack of an explicit label can help communicate the experience. I think sometimes people get so caught up on the diagnosis and what they think it means that they don’t engage with anything that goes against that preconceived notion. But… whenever you don’t make something explicit in the text you’re leaving it up to the reader to decide how to interpret it. You’re taking a risk to trust this stranger who picked up your story.

 I get the feeling the main thing here is writing it all organically and the fear of messing up.

 That’s understandable. Any writing already asks that we juggle. Adding in torture and mental health problems and committing to doing them well adds a lot more implements into the air.

 And I guarantee that practice will help. It always does.

 Personally I’ve been writing mental health problems for so long that a lot of it has become instinctual. It’s an ingrained part of how I write (for better or worse). Making symptoms an organic part of the character is about making them a part of every aspect of a character’s life.

 Which sounds harder then it is. It’s about thinking things through and filtering them through the character’s personality/motivations.

 Because as much as we can hope to get a message across primarily we are telling stories. And everything needs to serve that.

 Let’s have some examples. I’m going to use two characters from two different stories, Kibwe and Ilāra. Kibwe made a full physical recover from torture. Ilāra ended up with a single below knee amputation. And while there is some overlap in the symptoms I chose for them they’re very different people.

 Kibwe’s long term symptoms are memory loss, intrusive memories, hypervigilance and chronic pain and I’m toying with the idea of adding in inaccurate memories as well.

 His memory problems are an integral part of his character arc and motivation through the stories he’s in. Despite knowing intellectually that they are a normal response to trauma Kibwe sees them as a personal failing. They made it impossible for him to bring charges and that fed into feelings of guilt and self-blame.

 Which is what drives him to stand up for other people.

 Every heroic action he takes in the story, every time he puts himself between someone else and harm, is coming out of his own experience of memory loss and possibly inaccurate memories. It’s all because trying to do the sensible thing and report what happened to the police left him feeling useless, powerless.

 His intrusive memories feed into this as well. They serve as constant reminders that strengthen his resolve.

 In the parts of the story from his perspective all of these memory problems and the effect they have are obvious and there inclusion is natural. Because they colour every single thing he does.

 In the parts of the story that are from other perspectives it’s less obvious what the problem is but there is still clearly A Problem.

 His intrusive memories are pauses in the middle of doing or saying something. They’re the moments when he screws his eyes shut and breathes deep and has to ask the other characters to repeat themselves. They’re the way he flinches at ordinary things and the way he flies off the handle anytime someone brings beer into his workplace.

 His chronic pain is in the days when he can’t do his job. When his hands shake and he snaps. When he takes his frustrations out with the wrong words to the wrong people. And in the distant, awkward way he tries to make amends afterwards.

 Internally he barely acknowledges his hypervigilance. But externally he always positions himself so that he can clearly see anyone else in the room. He can always see the exits. He twitches, he turns his head a lot to keep other people in view. And if he can’t see everyone, can’t see a way out then his speech starts to get biting, his anger leaks through.

 In contrast Ilāra is very very aware of their own hypervigilance.

 They track the people around them and the terrain and rationalise it as sensible. As a precaution. As keeping themselves and others safe. So a portion of any part of the narrative from their perspective is about that: Ilāra's internal paranoid risk assessments.

 They also have learning difficulties, which are more obvious from outside perspectives. Because Ilāra has a proud streak; they’re not stupid, they can get by just fine. They’re just letting their friends/found-family help out because it makes them happy. Ilāra does not actually need help.

 Contrast with the perspectives of the other characters who are very aware that Ilāra can’t manage a budget. Without help they really can’t manage their own money well enough to keep themselves fed, housed and clothed. Because they never learnt how.

 And again this comes up organically because it’s a big part of Ilāra's relationships. There’s a strange push-pull: Ilāra's hypervigilance internally rationalised as protecting these few valued people and those same people stepping in to do the things Ilāra can’t.

 They also experience chronic pain. Though I’m unsure whether this is primarily because of torture or because they lost a limb. And in a way the distinction doesn’t matter. Regardless of the cause it is there.

 They’re actually a lot better at dealing with it then Kibwe, because they’re much better at lying, acting and disguising their own distress.

 Ilāra's other symptoms are less immediately obvious in the narrative but again, they underpin everything.

 Ilāra struggles to relate to people, to really value them as people and they are incredibly socially isolated. Their entire social circle is essentially their family and their work colleagues and there is a lot of overlap in that Venn diagram.

 They don’t know how to honestly relate to other people. They play parts, putting on masks to get by.

 And this comes into the story with every interaction they have. It’s the contrast between their attempts at calculation around outsiders (and how often they’re rejected/dismissed) and their incredibly intense attachment to this small circle of people.

 I’m not sure what the end point of Ilāra's character arc is yet. But one of the things that keeps coming up is the question of who they are away from this small circle of valued people. And whether they can value their own life when they can’t ‘protect’ the people they love.

 Writing all of this out has made me realise something: it’s a lot easier to bring up symptoms organically when those symptoms become an intrinsic part of the character.

 And that can be difficult to grasp at the first attempt. Or the tenth. Or the hundredth.

 We are taught to assume health, be it mental or physical. That people have two legs and functional pancreases and don’t relive violent attacks every time they smell beer.

 Part of writing these things organically (for me anyway) is breaking that internal image. It’s… building a mind that’s a different shape.

 For both of these characters their symptoms are tied to important parts of the long term plot as well as their everyday experience.

 Kibwe would be a different person without his memory problems. They inform what he values, how he acts and the ethical lines he draws for himself. His intrusive memories impact his daily life and so does his chronic pain and hypervigilance. And this in turn impacts his relationships with the other characters, some of whom are more forgiving/understanding of his ‘moods’ then others.

 Ilāra is driven by their isolation and struggle to connect to others. It leads to them putting incredible weight and value on the few relationships they do have. And that drives them to act, to take risks. Fundamentally they fear loss and however calculating and cunning they can be that fear makes them do some idiotic things. Things that effect the plot and every other character.

 Hypervigilance and learning difficulties are their everyday experience. The tension they feel in crowds. The way they assess unfamiliar environments. The way they’ll hand over their pay check to a daughter-figure with a joke and tell themselves that she’s just fussing. The way they’ll get up in the middle of the night and count every item of food in the house.

 Writing mental health problems in an understandable way is like writing any other disability. It’s making it part of the character without it being the whole of the character. It’s recognising how any condition limits a character and having a clear view of when those limits are internal (ie the condition itself) versus external (societal, behavioural expectations, other people etc.)

 Including these things naturally means constructing scenes that are working at multiple levels. If symptoms impact how the characters relate to each other then they fit naturally into any important relationship moments. If symptoms impact the character’s everyday life then it’s natural for the character to consider them before taking an important action.

 When symptoms are related to a character’s long term motivation then it doesn’t feel jarring that they’d come up over and over again. In the same way that bringing up a character’s big-brother figure feels right when you’ve established they have an important, character defining bond.

 It takes practice. Writing is work and it takes a lot of skill to make it look effortless.

 Right now I think the most important thing to take away is this: keep trying. Write and write and write. Don’t let the fear of getting things wrong stop you from getting better.

 I hope that helps. :)

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

*Yes I expect a lot from my readers.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

I go to a Christian school,and we are discussing something against humanism. Our book reasoned out that everything is so complicated that it cannot just be made at random. It asked that if the DNA is a program, who designed it. It said that we atheists believe that man is supreme. It justified that the Bible is real since some events in it are seen on history. It defended that the bible doesnt support the flat earthers by citing Isiah 40:22. It said that atheists abort, cuss, are gay, etc.

everything is so complicated that it cannot just be made at random.

This is a form of argument from ignorance. Because they don’t understand how cosmology, astrophysics, biology and many other disciplines and natural processes work, it must be literal “magic”. 

https://rationalwiki.org/wiki/Argument_from_fine_tuning

https://rationalwiki.org/wiki/Irreducible_complexity

https://www.logicallyfallacious.com/tools/lp/Bo/LogicalFallacies/195/Appeal-to-Complexity

This argument is a failure instantly, because it has an infinite regress:

If everything is too complicated to exist naturally, then is the Creator more complicated or less complicated than everything else?

Neither answer is satisfactory to the believer. Less complicated, for obvious reasons. But if the Creator is more complicated, then they’ve violated their own premise, as the Creator itself requires a Creator.

If the Creator doesn’t require its own Creator, why does the universe? This, of course, leads directly into Special Pleading, which is another type of fallacy.

By the way, things aren’t the way they are randomly. It’s not “random” that bats have echolocation, or that giraffes have long necks. These adaptations have developed over time and benefited their survival in their respective environments.

It asked that if the DNA is a program, who designed it.

Only reality deniers creationist believers claim DNA is a “program.” It’s a natural material and functions in a natural fashion. We have a very good understanding of it. The idea of it being “information” or a “program” is a convenient analogy to help humans describe it. It’s descriptive, not prescriptive.

we atheists believe that man is supreme.

This is classic Xtian false modesty, given they believe they speak for, and have the ear of, the eternal master and creator of the universe as their concierge, answering their wishes and desiring of their praise. It’s a humble-brag.

Humans are a unique species of animal. There is no atheist ideology or dogma that claims this “supreme” nonsense. We are uniquely positioned to both help and destroy each other and our planet.

On the other hand, Jealous, the Xtian god of the bible, has (supposedly) already committed several waves of genocide. Being “supreme” doesn’t make you good.

the Bible is real since some events in it are seen on history.

Then the movie Titanic is true. And so is Gone With the Wind. And so is The Simpsons. Fictional stories and characters can be, and are, set against the backdrop of historical events. That’s what the entire Historical Fiction genre is all about. What matters is that we verify and substantiate each of the events and characters that are claimed to have been contemporaneous with this established history. Especially the extraordinary ones.

Some bible “events” not seen in history: the bible’s claim of the Jewish enslavement in and exodus from Egypt never happened, the Tower of Babel never happened, the Noahic Flood never happened, the Garden of Eden did not exist, and there’s nothing but urban legends about this “Jesus” character; his supposed crucifixion is historically inaccurate.

It is, of course, theist standard operating procedure to refuse to account for all the evidence, and instead cherry-pick out the “hits” while ignoring the “misses.” For reference, this is called “confirmation bias,” and its how we know they are neither serious nor genuine about their claims or beliefs. Everything in the bible should be a “hit.” It’s not.

What’s interesting about the bible is that the New Testament stories were stolen and invented to fulfil Jewish prophesies parsed from the Tanakh, in order to fabricate a prophet that fulfils them. It’s like if I take a couple of handy Nostradamus prophesies and then write a movie where Iron Man fulfils those prophesies. By biblical logic, it must be true!

the bible doesnt support the flat earthers by citing Isiah 40:22

The bible is explicitly clear that the Earth is flat.

Psalm 33:14-15

From the place of his habitation he looketh upon all the inhabitants of the earth.

He fashioneth their hearts alike; he considereth all their works.

Psalm 75:3

The earth and all the inhabitants thereof are dissolved: I bear up the pillars of it. Selah.

1 Samuel 2:8

He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth up the beggar from the dunghill, to set them among princes, and to make them inherit the throne of glory: for the pillars of the earth are the Lord’s, and he hath set the world upon them.

Job 9:6

Which shaketh the earth out of her place, and the pillars thereof tremble.

Isaiah 5:26

And he will lift up an ensign to the nations from far, and will hiss unto them from the end of the earth: and, behold, they shall come with speed swiftly:

Daniel 2:35

Then was the iron, the clay, the brass, the silver, and the gold, broken to pieces together, and became like the chaff of the summer threshingfloors; and the wind carried them away, that no place was found for them: and the stone that smote the image became a great mountain, and filled the whole earth.

Daniel 4:10-

4:10: Thus were the visions of mine head in my bed; I saw, and behold a tree in the midst of the earth, and the height thereof was great.

4:11: The tree grew, and was strong, and the height thereof reached unto heaven, and the sight thereof to the end of all the earth:

4:20: The tree that thou sawest, which grew, and was strong, whose height reached unto the heaven, and the sight thereof to all the earth;

Matthew 4:8

Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them;

Luke 4:5

And the devil, taking him up into an high mountain, shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time.

Revelation 1:7

Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him: and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him. Even so, Amen.

Revelation 7:1

And after these things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth, holding the four winds of the earth, that the wind should not blow on the earth, nor on the sea, nor on any tree.

A spheroid has no corners, and there is no place on or above it where you can see the entire surface at the same time, or where everyone on it can see the same thing. Anything that “fills” the Earth would have to reside inside it, not on it. And it certainly doesn’t rest on pillars. And it just gets worse:

The model of the Earth depicted in the bible is exactly what you would expect of ancient superstitious humans who lived in the desert - well away from the learned scholars and scientists of the time who already knew differently - rather than information conveyed from an all-knowing entity who created it all in the first place. The bible is devoid of scientific accuracy (it’s okay, so is the quran).

But the most flawed thing of all this fallacious “reasoning” is that literally NONE of it gets to their specific god. At best, at absolute best, they can argue - but not prove or demonstrate - that an uninvolved creature of some sort kicked stuff off. They can’t demonstrate it still exists, which one it is, that it is still involved or even interested in us, or that it gives a damn what we do with our genitals.

It said that atheists abort, cuss, are gay, etc.

That’s a really weird thing to say considering the world is getting more secular, religiosity is decreasing in the west, and it’s this mentality of demonizing people that is helping to feed it. I say good on ‘em. Demonstrate that venomous, spiteful, hateful Xtian “love” and “kindness” and let’s see what happens, how many more generations will put up with being treated like dirt for daring to be human.

Cussing is just words and doesn’t invalidate someone’s point, regardless of how fragile the listener’s feelings might be - offence is taken, not given. As the spread of marriage equality and the societal decrease in giving a shit how grown adults pair up demonstrates, this attitude will only work against them if they’re trying to recruit.

Abort, cussing and gay, huh? Well, atheists are humans, so you would expect us to do these things too. Just as Xtians do:

https://www.salon.com/2015/11/30/our_protesters_came_in_for_abortions_fear_slut_shaming_planned_parenthood_and_the_truth_about_right_wing_religious_hypocrisy/

https://www.americamagazine.org/politics-society/2018/01/24/catholics-are-just-likely-get-abortion-other-us-women-why

https://www.gaychurch.org

http://www.gaychristians.org

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Christian_denominations_affirming_LGBT

On the other hand, atheists are less likely to conduct worldwide institutionalised pedophilia rings without remorse or guilt than the Catholics, less likely to conduct institutionalised sexual assault coverups than Evangelical Xtians, and don’t have the luxury of an imaginary friend to both authorize and absolve any deed imaginable, no questions asked.

I don’t feel any obligation to justify my life or my choices to humans who have sold out their humanity to tacitly defend these atrocities by their continued employment in the organisations that conduct them. That is, I might swear, but they still work for Child Rape, Incorporated, and Sexual Predators ‘R’ Us.

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/nation/3-big-us-churches-in-turmoil-over-sex-abuse-lgbt-policy

I’m pretty comfortable about holding the moral upper hand here, and that any existent god who was not a supervillain needing to be hunted down and destroyed by humanity, would side with me on this, and care significantly less about my honest skepticism and disbelief than about the monsters perpetrating, supporting and excusing these abominable acts in its name.

[lilnasxvevo]

You are not a soldier in the war against historical inaccuracy if you just lash out randomly at things that you assume are historically inaccurate. Some people spend a really really really really long time learning about stuff like fashion history and THEN they start making posts about it on the internet and other people are like IM PRETTY SURE PINK WAS INVENTED IN 1953 ACTUALLY, CANT BELIEVE THIS IDIOT THOUGHT THEY HAD THE COLOR PINK IN THE 1770S.

And those two people are not doing the same thing. One is correcting misinformation in a subject they’re well-versed in and passionate about, the other is being arrogant and presumptuous and ignorant.

[hexiva]

                                   S p i d e r s                            

                          a legion fanmix

Sydney Barrett | Ptonomy Wallace | Lenny Busker | Amahl Farouk | Oliver Bird | Melanie Bird | David Haller | Whole fanmix                                                        Click the read more for lyrics!

Syd Barrett

I Am Her, Shea Diamond - There's an outcast in everybody's life / And I am her. I Keep Myself to Myself, The Boy Least Likely To - I'll never be lonely when I am alone / and I keep myself to myself / I live in a little world of my own. Don’t Be Afraid to Sing, Stars - And too afraid, you're too afraid to fall for anything / And too afraid, much too afraid to sing. How Much More, Stars - You asked for time, and time takes you away. Hallelujah, Rufus Wainright - There was a time you'd let me know / What's real and going on below / But now you never show it to me do you? Believe, Mumford & Sons - I had the strangest feeling / Your world's not all it seems / So tired of misconceiving / What else this could've been. Mad Girl, Emilie Autumn - Mad girl / Can you believe / What they've done to you? / Wouldn't they stop / When you asked them to leave you alone / In all your faerie tales / How did the prince say he loved you? Hero, Regina Spektor - I'm the hero of the story / Don't need to be saved.

Ptonomy Wallace

Photographic Memory, Emilie Autumn - But I'm relying / On my photographic memory / While painfully realizing / It's not all that it's cracked up to be. Mind, Sleeping at Last - First, the ground rules get established / Memory is historically inaccurate. Kerouac, Morphine - His memories pull shades up and down. Always in the Past, Tears for Fears - And I can't stop thinking / Always in the past. Brass Buttons, Gram Parsons - My mind was young until she grew / My secret thoughts known only by the few / It was a dream much too real / To be leaned against too long / All the time I think she knew. In the Mausoleum, Beirut - Time travels to know / Your secret life / In your mausoleum. Time Travel, Daley - I can get back to a feeling / That existed in the past / Find somebody with some meaning / Try to equal what we had. Switched On, Vaux - Try, tried everything but it's all been wrong / Got, got all the circuits, but all the circuits are blown / So now all the pieces, all the pieces fit / Become the machine and the scales will tip.

Lenny Busker

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Cyndi Lauper - They just wanna, they just wanna / They just wanna, they just wanna, oh girl / Girls, they wanna have fun. Girls Like Girls, Hayley Kiyoko - I've been crossing all the lines, all the lines / Kissed your girls and made you cry, boys.Take it Off, Kesha - There's a place downtown where the freaks all come around / It's a hole in the wall, it's a dirty free for all.  Smoke Weed Eat Pussy, Ängie - I smoke weed, eat pussy everyday / And everyday is kind of the same / I have fun and I feel no shame. Theory of Relativity, Stars - Now that you’ve grown so wise / Use that head and stop to think a little / Just cause you’re crazy doesn’t mean that you’re free. Girl Anachronism, The Dresden Dolls - And you can tell / From the state of my room / That they let me out too soon / And the pills that I ate / Came a couple years too late. Spiders, The Vapors - She's got spiders inside her head / She's in danger she's easily led. Hey Sister, Simian Mobile Disco - Hey sister / Hey sister / Could you come a little closer? / Feel like my brain is spilling over / Do I seem a little strange to you?

Amahl Farouk

Pet, A Perfect Circle - Pay no mind what other voices say / They don't care about you, like I do, like I do / Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils / See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do / Just stay with me, safe and ignorant. Le Roi Des Ombres, -M- - All alone in the arena, I am the King of Shadows / All alone in the arena, master of the carnage / I am the shadow of your shadow. Plastic Soul, This World Fair - Consuming space and time, you welcome it / And drawing side by side the lines you see fit / To truth or consequence you yield and go / Take control and take control and take control. Das Böse, E Nomine - Ravenous monster / Evil comes to pass / Unclean monster / Forever tormenting. Spiders, Ozzy Osbourne - You think he's gone / You think he's dead / There's no escape / The spider’s in your head. Behind Blue Eyes, Navid Negahban & Dan Stevens - But my dreams, they aren’t as empty, as my conscience seems to be / I have hours, only lonely / My love is vengeance / That’s never free. Emperor’s New Clothes, Panic at the Disco - Welcome to the end of eras / Ice has melted back to life / Done my time and served my sentence / Dress me up and watch me die / If it feels good, tastes good / It must be mine. آینه‌ها, Farhad Mehrad - I see my face in the mirror / I rest my eyes for a moment / And I tell myself that it’s a mask / I can take it off my face.

Oliver Bird

Is That All There Is, Peggy Lee - Is that all there is / If that's all there is, my friends / Then let's keep dancing / Let's break out the booze and have a ball / If that's all there is. My Brain Is Like a Sieve, Thomas Dolby - Oh! My brain is like a sieve / Sometimes it's easier to forget / All the bad things you did to me. Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd - The child is grown / The dream is gone / I have become comfortably numb. Strawberry Fields Forever, The Beatles - Always, no, sometimes . . . think it's me . . . / But you know I know when it's a dream / I think a "no" will mean a "yes" but it's all wrong / That is I think I disagree. Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall, Simon & Garfunkel - Through the corridors of sleep / Past the shadows dark and deep / My mind dances and leaps in confusion / I don't know what is real / I can't touch what I feel / And I hide behind the shield of my illusion. Feelin’ Groovy, Simon & Garfunkel - Doot-in doo-doo, feelin' groovy / Ba da da da, da da, da da, feelin' groovy. Dedicated Follower of Fashion, The Kinks - There's one thing that he loves and that is flattery / One week he's in polka-dots, the next week he is in stripes / 'Cause he's a dedicated follower of fashion. Turn, Turn, Turn, The Byrds - To everything (turn, turn, turn) / There is a season (turn, turn, turn) / And a time to every purpose, under heaven.

Melanie Bird

Oblivion, Bastille - When you fall asleep with your head upon my shoulder / When you're in my arms / But you've gone somewhere deeper. Go Where You Wanna Go, The Mamas and the Papas - You don't understand / That a girl like me can love just one man / You've been gone a week, and I tried so hard / Not to be the cryin' kind / Not to be the girl you left behind. I Won’t Be Your Yoko Ono, Dar Williams - But I won't be your Yoko Ono / If you're not good enough for me. Landslide, Fleetwood Mac - Well, I've been afraid of changing / 'Cause I've built my life around you / But time makes you bolder / Even children get older / And I'm getting older too. Heaven Forbid, The Fray - Twenty years, it's breaking you down / Now that you understand there's no one around / Take a breath, just take a seat / You're falling apart and tearing at the seams. A Hazy Shade of Winter, Simon & Garfunkel - Time, time time / see what's become of me / While I looked around for my possibilities. Battle Born, The Killers - You lost faith in the human spirit / You walk around like a ghost. Weight of Living pt. II, Bastille - All that you desired, when you were a child / Was to be old, was to be old / Now that you are here, suddenly you fear / You've lost control (lost control) / Do you like the person you've become.

David Haller

Villains pt I, Emma Blackery - I'll tell them that the villains on my list / They're what turned me into this / So I'll go / I'm better off alone. Dear Wormwood, The Oh Hellos - I have always known you, you have always been there in my mind / But now I understand you, and I will not be part of your designs / I know who I am now / And all that you've made of me / I know who you are now / And I name you my enemy. Spiderhead, Cage the Elephant - Either I'm in heaven, or I'm in hell / Am I losing my mind here? / ('Cause I can't tell) / I've been waiting for answers for way too long / Seems I'm always waiting around. The Villain I Appear to Be, Connor Spiotto - I don't have the time to tell you / Why I do the things that I do / Just please hold on and soon you'll see / That I'm not the villain I appear to be. Are You Out There, Dar Williams - Perhaps I am a miscreation / All I know’s the truth there is no future here / And you're the DJ speaks to my insomnia / And laughs at all I have to fear. Meds, Placebo - Baby . . . did you forget to take your meds? / And the sex, and the drugs, and the complications . . . Puppet Theatre, Thomas Dolby - One more night in the puppet theater / And I'm dancing on a string / One more pawn for the puppet master / The lines are drawn the hook is in. Brain Damage, Pink Floyd - The lunatic is on the grass / Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs / Got to keep the loonies on the path / The lunatic is in the hall. Life 2: The Unhappy Ending, Stars -  Life was supposed to be a film, was supposed to be a thriller, was supposed to end in tears / But life, could be nothing but a joke, could be nothing but a con / Where's my unhappy ending gone? Villains pt II, Emma Blackery - How foolish of me / To try and divide people into categories / I found it so easy / But what can I do / When I've got nothing else / Not even myself.

[butchladymaria]

not sure if you’re referring to my analysis essay, but at the risk of nudging into “make your own post” territory i do want to address your points here just for fun! this got long, so under the cut it goes —

Firstly, I do agree with the interpretation that he wouldn’t dress Doll in hunting attire. The thing is, there’s a vast ocean of nuance between “dressing doll in hunting clothes” and “dressing doll in hyperfeminine gender conforming clothes”, and Maria’s taste isn’t as mysterious as many make it out to be if you look closer at her attire. Maria’s homeland of Cainhurst allowed its citizens to be knights regardless of gender, but gave visually distinct uniforms for men and women. As you can see below, despite of the fact that she could have modeled her attire on either a masculine or feminine outfit, Maria’s hunting clothes far more closely resemble the masculine knight’s set.

I can’t speak for everyone, but when I point out how Gerhman feminizes Maria through Doll, it doesn’t really have anything to do with hunting attire vs civilian attire. I’m talking about how Maria’s garb shows that she was gender nonconforming by her own cultural standards, yet Gerhman omitted that in making Doll. Regardless of his presumed motivations, it’s inaccurate to just ignore that completely. In any case — just because we only see her hunting attire in-game, why should we assume that her masculine taste in fashion was solely the result of the hunt? I don’t think most folks imagine that other characters who dress masculine such as Gascoigne would be dolled up in a dress if not for the hunt (although it’s a great concept lol, good for him if true). It’s also not as if masculine civilian clothing doesn’t exist — plenty of corpses wear button-up shirts, waistcoats, and coats that fit the bill.

I don’t know how much canonical basis there is to prove that Gerhman “did love/care for Maria because of who she was and not what she looked like”, as in all my research there was nothing which points to that decisively one way or another. If that’s your headcanon, that’s totally cool! However, I will say this: people, especially parental/guardian figures as Gerhman was, as far as we know, to Maria, can care about a deceased loved one and still erase their GNC identities after death — and for a whole host of reasons. The specifics are a very complex issue for another day, but suffice it to say that those things aren’t mutually exclusive. The existence and memory of gnc people is complicated by a society that doesn’t want their memories preserved accurately — just look at any lgbt+ historical figure for that one.

On your point of mourning dolls — if you do look them up, you’ll actually find that they were only made for very small children, usually infants or toddlers at the oldest, and Maria was obviously well out of that age range. What’s more, other forms of mourning art were used for adults. post-mortem photography, hair art, etc were all common (and its actually a super interesting rabbit hole to go down, highly recommend). If you’re still going to claim that Doll was made as a mourning doll, it implies that Gerhman saw Maria as his daughter (which is decently in line with canon), but it also brings a whole lot of somewhat unsavory baggage along with it. To summarize: the mourning doll represents the culmination of the Victorian obsession with the inherent innocence of white children, and their emphasis on those children as paragons of untainted purity. I highly recommend you check out Eternal Innocence: the Victorian Cult of the Dead Child if you’re interested in learning more — you’ll see what I mean about that baggage being unsavory.

Either way, it directly implies that Gerhman was trying to make Maria in effigy as pure, innocent, and untainted. Maybe that’s okay on paper when it’s a baby we’re talking about, but Maria was a grown adult. Unlike an infant, she did have thoughts and opinions. It also puts the attire he chose for her in even more unflattering light — possibly implying he saw her gender nonconformity as impurity to be expunged…? Rather historically accurate, if nothing else. It gets even more uncomfortable when you consider that purity was heavily connected with obedience, dependence, and lack of personhood in this time period. The obsession with preserving purity seem in mourning dolls was the same variety that argued women did not belong in politics or the workplace lest they become “tainted” by the outside world (and protest being considered the wards and property of their husbands the same way children were of their fathers, among many other things). In other words, the infantilization of women was a key part of Victorian era misogyny that equated their “purity” to that of children — which must be preserved at any cost, even after death. Making a mourning doll of Maria would have been out of place even in Victorian times, but it only gets worse if you do follow that line of reasoning to its logical conclusion in the historical context mourning dolls come from.

To conclude, my larger point that I develop more in the essay is that it’s a bit of a lapse in logic to point to the historical existence of, for example, mourning dolls while overlooking the historical context of possession when it came to women and children that contributed immensely to their existence in the first place, and the deep prejudice that existed against GNC people at that time period as well. It isn’t accurate or logical to take a cultural and historical artifact like mourning dolls and completely remove the complex web of contextual meanings they were bound up in. I’m 100% in favor of acknowledging the historical influences of the Victorian Era on Bloodborne — in fact, I think it’s crucial to a complete understanding — but that’s a lot more complex than face-value comparisons. More broadly, I think we do Bloodborne a disservice by ignoring that broader historical context and womanhood, especially given how the themes of the game focuses on women, motherhood, and childbirth.

I saw this post the other day that I can't seem to refind, but it mentioned that when Gehrman created the doll, he makes her in the image of Maria but strips her of a lot of her non-gender conforming appearance. But if you think about it for a while, it makes a lot of sense why Gehrman wouldn't put the Doll in a hunter outfit. Because Maria being a hunter is what led to her experiencing the awful Fishing Hamlet, and eventually dying. Gehrman probably regrets ever teaching her, or letting her come along on that mission. It's also worth mentioning that he did love/care for Maria because of who she was and not what she looked like. When the Moon Presence brought the Doll to life, it didn't act or think like Maria because the Moon Presence can't just take her out of the Nightmare (or doesn't want to, but trying to analyse the actions of Great Ones will give you a headache). Also the whole Mourning Doll thing. Seriously, just look them up.

TLDR: Gehrman was a Personality man.

[katacombzimmerman]

OML he’s even hallucinating his dead wife to see if she would approve of him choosing not to help the people and his younger brother (I can’t tell yet if he’s an actual younger brother by blood or if he’s just his bro younger brother. I’m thinking he’s just a younger bro cause if our ML’s family was all killed then in typical chinese historical fashion a younger brother by blood probs wouldn’t have survived the family annihilation or get such a high rank job.)

Despite the obvious wallowing in misery due to her death, I can already tell from this scene how much he loved her. 

And she seemed to be a lovely person too!!

But of course no one can ignore the world forever. Especially not a ML in a robin hood themed drama. But I like that they show us he can’t ignore it. He doesn’t just up and change his mind and run to his bro all righteous like. He’s still very much the broken man.

I couldn’t get good scene shots cause they passed so fast but we see him seeing the injustice around him. A girl and her seemingly disabled father forced to beg on the streets. A girl most likely sold into a brothel having to smile at the vile man she’s saying goodbye too. A man who’s family is most likely gonna get killed or sold into slavery cause the husband can’t pay back his gambling debts.

And finally an old woman who has her only source of food, some rice, stolen from her.

Finally we see our ML ready to step in and catch the thief. Only to find out that this thief is a refugee who hasn’t seen food in days.

It’s still a bad thing to steal from someone, let alone an old lady, but this man did it out of desperation. He’s not an evil intentioned person. Just trying to survive. So our ML ends up having to let him go.

And of course his bro is right there to hammer the point home that our ML has already figured out.

I like that he doesn’t come back to his senses. He’s still broken and miserable and would rather be dead but at the very least he’s taken back a little of himself and decided that while he’s here he might as well help the people he can. 

So often characters that suffer and fall into the depths of despair are portrayed as suddenly finding salvation and they revert back to some noble citizen who puts the past behind them and is suddenly healed from that trauma. (Which is so very inaccurate to how grief and being dragged down into misery actually works)

BUT, not here and I am loving that they’re keeping him this broken man.

In other news tho, this guy could rival WKX with his stalking habits. Twice in the first episode this guy manages to show up unannounced to wherever his bro is. You bet he’s been following him this whole time, waiting for LGX to change his mind.