#people that think women are incapable of abuse scare me

[starlight-edith]

Just learned one of my mutuals has an absolutely horrible take and I don’t know what to do about it because I’m pretty sure this is the second time I’ve realized this and I just refollowed because I forgot 😭

[justanisabelakinnie]

Rare smart person on Tumblr: Yk I just think it's wrong to completely and constantly sideline/hate female characters in favor of male ones, I know that female representation in media isn't where it should be right about now, but surely you can find SOME female characters that you like??? More than you can count on both hands and feet, perhaps? Even if you have to reshape them to have actual depth in fanfiction??? I mean we do it all the time for male characters, so why not female ones? There are plenty of already good female characters that you could enjoy and ship together and write fanfics and thinkpieces about too, why don't they get any of the attention that they deserve?

The rest of the idiots on the so-called "SJW" site: HAHAHAAA! Silly rare smart person on Tumblr, don't you know that it's impossible to care about female characters in any capacity??? I mean, I'm a straight woman/gay man, I'm fundamentally incapable of giving a shit about characters that I can't envision myself fucking. Besides, everyone knows that female characters are never anything other than flat cardboard cutouts(unlike the male cardboard cutout that I've fleshed out in fanfiction and made my blorbo) or sex objects for the male gaze, and even if they're not, what if I don't want to engage in media where the female characters are written as fully-fledged people??? Huh??? What about it??? Are you gonna stop me from consuming the media that I love??? I'm not sexist, it's just that women are written so terribly in every single piece of media that I choose to watch out there so obviously the logical conclusion is to give up on female characters altogether and just focus on male ones, because everyone knows the solution to misogyny in media is to remove the women from the equation, hip hip hooray!!! And also jsyk I DO have female characters that I enjoy! Sure they're all canonically dudes who I headcanon as transfem and he/him lesbians, and sure I consider them "like a girl to me" because they're weak and scared of the dark and cry easily, but that's gotta count for something, right??? I just care about girls so much! Anyway giving a shit about girls is too much work, I'd rather just ship these men who don't talk to each other together while claiming the girlfriend is abusive or a mean lesbian bestie, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!!!

[rf-times]

Hello. I saw your post on tradwives and I wanted to ask a question. I am an aspiring tradwife and an ex-feminist. And I'm genuinely curious about what you said. I respect your opinions and understand you want the best for women and yourself too.

Do you believe that what you said applies to most tradwives or just white tradwives in first world countries? Additionally, in my personal experience, I did not have a working mother but I was pushed into university even when I knew I couldn't handle it. Isn't it better for women who cannot handle the competitive job world to become a tradwife? Particularly if they're naturally submissive, like housework and submitting to someone who can make their decisions for them? I have talked to really good traditional men who are good people and their masculinity consists of being strong and protective men instead of the abusive ones feminists think they generally are.

That's not exactly one question so apologies for that. I mean this all in good spirit and I genuinely want to know. Have a good day!

On the contrary, women who feel overwhelmed and scared by the world, who just want a nice protective man to look after them, and who have people pleasing tendencies and feel incapable to handle independence, are the women who are most vulnerable and susceptible to abuse. If your motivation for becoming a tradwife is that are scared of independence then what leverage do you have if the men you rely on to look after you fail you in some way? If you cannot handle independence you will find it so much harder to be able to leave.

What exactly do you think abusive men look like? Do you think they announce themselves to everyone in any given circumstance? You say you've spoken to really good traditional men, how well do you know them really? How well do the women who get abused by their partners know their men? Abusiveness is virtually never obvious and manifests in many ways across a relationship, as does negligence which is how so many women who are supposedly being 'provided for' end up bearing the full brunt of managing a household and finding that if they are ever sick or need anything, their husbands leave them.

I don't believe in 'natural submissiveness', especially in women. I myself am soft-spoken, have trouble asserting myself and often fall into people-pleasing patterns including a lifelong struggle with subconsciously and consciously pleasing and coddling the men around me. Many women are the same, is this a natural fixture of our personalities that we should just fall into and let men decide things for us? Or is it a response to social conditioning and a brutal world designed to undermine women's confidence in ourselves and our ability to participate in society as equals so that we rely on men? I encourage you to look beyond your fears and insecurities to see what you're really capable of.

What I've said about tradwives applies to places where women have more choices and expectations to participate in the external economy/workforce and are told they could potentially succeed in capitalism in their own right. Because it is a different thought process for women who are given no opportunity or expectation to be defined beyond wifehood and motherhood. The very notion of 'tradwife' is western centric, as its all about returning to so called 'traditional' roots.

[22degreehalo]

So. I have a lot of thoughts about that whole poly poll thing. (I looked it up! It was originally posted a few days ago by @spicypolls. The majority of responses to it are reasonable, but I did find a couple of really disturbing ones which weren't in the original post sooooo)

And I really wish I could make a more structured post about this. But. I just really do not like 'I've had bad experiences with a person in this group' as a reason to. hate, express violence towards, or vilify that group.

Because. When we talk about oppression, we're talking about institutional structures, or at the very least repeated patterns of behaviour. We're talking overall trends in how certain people tend to be treated.

But 'I've had a bad experience with [group]' is just one singular person's experience. And it's something that anyone, of any group, can go through.

Like: yes, sure, lots of women have had 'bad experiences' with men. But do you not think that some men have had really messy, tumultuous break-ups as well? Or had abusive mothers? Or have just have repeatedly treated badly by women, in their experience?

And picking out one unfortunate experience, or an unlucky run, absolutely is how bigots justify their discrimination all the time. People joke about how people online get mad about nothing while people IRL are like 'hey how are you going', but sooo often if you talk to a racist for a while it turns out that like 20 years ago someone they knew got mugged or they felt threatened by a Black person at nighttime or something and that was enough for them to paint a whole huge group of people. Because they *personally* feel/felt scared or offended or angry, and that's all that matters to them.

The poly thing is a particular instructive case because, judging by responses to the poll, a lot of people really genuinely see polyamory (at least when not articulated with complete confidence and knowledge prior to any relationship, which is just... not rational to expect everyone to be capable of) as a tool in the belt of Bad Men to justify cheating. Just something new to pressure their girlfriends into accepting, but disingenuously because they don't really want their girlfriends with anyone else.

And in that framing, it must be okay, right? If you've had a 'bad experience' with gross men, or this kind of treatment, it's totally okay to threaten violence as wildly as you wish, because blah blah 'punching up' 'bad experience' et cetera.

Except that... polyamory is indeed an alternative relationship structure. That is discriminated against. Some people really do seem to be sort of innately poly, in the sense that they'll never be able to be really happy in a monogamous relationship. Mentioning polyamory to a partner really is comparable to coming out to your partner as bi.

Yet, if someone justified their hatred of bi people because 'my bi partner cheated on me'... well. Okay, yeah, we do know that some segments of this website would say that's reasonable. But wow uhhh it's not.

This is what I mean when I say that talks about oppression MUST be rooted in some sort of actual statistical data: because these sorts of anecdotal stories just cannot add up to truth. They simply don't. For a long time it was 'common sense' that bi people weren't really oppressed compared to gay people, or that lesbians weren't really oppressed compared to gay men, and look how that all turned out!!

And, going even deeper: when a group of people are oppressed, they become increasingly incapable of expressing themselves or their preferences except by 'sneaky' or 'violent' ways. People in the notes claimed that polyamory should only ever be ventured day 1 of a relationship, but where is that option for people who married young because it seemed like their only option? Or who repressed their poly feelings for a long time because they were scared to admit the truth?

And I mentioned muggings above: we know that crime is pretty directly proportional to poverty and hostile discrimination. People who are in desperate circumstances take desperate measures; people excluded from society are more likely to behave 'anti-socially'.

All of this isn't to shame people for their fear or hurt. To be honest, the version of this post that was playing around in my head for a long time was sympathy for men who've been through shitty relationships: that we don't have any good societal outlet for them to express that without forcing them in to the 'misogynist' camp. That if we agree that a certain experience must at least sometimes happen, we should avoid judging every person who claims it as lying about their experiences or really being in the wrong probably. It's the same with poly: some people, regardless of gender, have had really shitty experiences with it. That's really unfortunate, and I don't want to encourage them to just repress everything and never mention it, or try to '''critically examine''' themselves to death about it.

It's just... I think a potential framework of it all is: what is the potential impact of you expressing your feelings? If a group of people have institutional power over another, they should think really carefully about how they talk about the other group or their experiences with them. But... that is such a difficult thing to navigate. In the end, people really are individuals, and it's such a strange thing to say that people shouldn't talk about their own lives because? Of how someone else might interpret that story?!

I don't know. Like I said: I was holding off on posting about this until I reached a 'conclusion'. And I guess the obvious one is just that I don't think that 'I've had a bad experience with [group]' is a good justification for behaviour. Everyone has had a bad experience with some people; there's got to be more to it than just that. The oppressor/oppressed dynamic doesn't immediately make every Bad Experience 1000% Worse; it just means that overall it's more likely to happen and more likely to be bad. When it comes down to an individual's life, there are always going to be some weird cases and exceptions and even reversals. Your own weird medley of experiences just really should not fully influence your politics.

[aswarmofbisexualbees]

Okay I know that this had been said before but it is late and I cannot sleep so bear with me

Anyone who adapts Sherlock Holmes listen the fuck up!

1. Holmes is someone people went to when they were scared of or knew they would be dismissed by the police. That is why there are numerous stories where abused women come to him for help, the speckled band, the copper beeches, the solitary cyclist, and also stories about people from a lower social class coming to him for help because he wouldn't charge them for his investigations and he would treat them with the same respect, if not higher, that he would treat the upper class.

2. Yes he is misogynistic in the beginning but there is literally a story about him unlearning his bigotry because a woman outsmarts him. This is why in adaptations IRENE ADLER HAS TO OUTSMART HIM!!! It is a vital part of his character arc. (Looking at you Moffat) If you make Holmes outsmart her, not only are you incapable of letting a woman be smarter than a man, you would also fail high school English class because you don't understand how character development works.

3. Holmes is not an asshole to everyone! He is purposely an asshole to the police and to rich people. He is an asshole to people that think they are better than him, and sometimes his client, because of their wealth/social standing/gender/perceived intelligence. Yes, he is sometimes accidentally an asshole because he has a difficult time with social cues (also this man is neurodivergent) but he apologizes! Usually right after he says something and if not then, always when Watson calls him out!! There are also times when he gets a case wrong and he asks Watson to remind him of these cases in the future when he becomes too full of himself to remind him that he makes mistakes!!! He wants to be reminded that he is human and makes mistakes, he wants to learn from them!!

Anyway, I am angry at the modern misconceptions of Sherlock Holmes. Thank you for coming to my TedTalk

[lokisprettygirl]

The Night Screams at The Slumber Island (Loki x Female Reader) (Horror Romance) (Dark) (Au) (18+)

Read Chapter 2 here // Series Masterlist

Chapter 3

Summary: Loki sings for you to make you comfortable.

Warning: Mentions of recurring nightmare and trauma, mention of past abuse, trust issues, spooky stuff

As her figure leaped at you, you fell down. The knife was thrown into the corner of the room, you screamed and closed your eyes. And you kept screaming, at that moment you had no idea what was about to happen to you, you just thought you were going to die by the looming presence on top of you. It also reminded you of those when he was on top of you and you were incapable of fighting for yourself.

You only stopped screaming when you heard the knocks on the door and that's when you opened your eyes to find nothing above you, your eyes glanced over the portrait and Minola was in there, you sat up to process what had just happened but you couldn't make any sense of it. It felt real, it didn't seem like something you had just imagined in your head.

You got up, wiped the sweat off your forehead as you heard the knocks on the door again, you were surprised to see your neighbor standing out there, he had a wifebeater on with a black shirt on today. 

"Are you alright darling? I heard you screaming so loud in there " He asked you as he leaned himself against the frame.

"I am..uhhh I ..saw a big rat, hugeee" you lied to him and he hummed. He thought you'd end up closing the door on his face but to his surprise you invited him in instead.

Truth to be told, you didn't want to be alone after what just happened. You didn't know if what you saw was real or just a figment of your imagination but you just didn't want to be alone for a change "Thanks for checking upon me" you smiled as you moved aside to let him enter the door.

"Of course we are neighbors, we're supposed to look after each other" he smiled at you and that made you nervous. You didn't like this, the longing stares, that smile on his face, he seemed the type of guy to break hearts every step on his way. "Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?" You asked him and he nodded, he surveyed the room and didn't miss the bedsheet pooled in front of the fireplace. You walked over and picked it up quickly to keep it on the couch.

"Did you cover her up?" He asked you and you hesitated to answer him for a moment, eventually nodding. You didn't want him to think you were scared of her or anything because that sounded foolish. 

"I don't like how lifelike she looks, it unnerves me a bit" you said to him and he smiled, you stepped inside the kitchen so he followed you. You looked at the knife stand and kept your eyes on it, in case he attacked you or something. 

He leaned himself against the frame of the refrigerator and you could feel his eyes on you, 

"What type of tea you enjoy?" you asked him

"Strong but not too strong that it's bitter, with a dash of milk, a little sweet but not enough to make me feel dizzy" you chuckled as you heard that, that's how you liked your tea as well. 

"Are you from England?" 

"Yes" you nodded as he said that "She was one of the women who owned this house, you knew that?" 

"Sorry?" 

"Minola, that woman in the portrait, she build this little community in the early 1900s on this island, along with four other people" your mouth opened as you processed the information.

"So taking that portrait off that wall would be disrespectful?" You asked him and he smiled again ,

"Do you think it'd be disrespectful?" 

"Yes I guess" 

"Why don't you want her to be here? Are you experiencing something bizarre?" He questioned you and it made you feel uncomfortable.

"Can you pass me the milk from the fridge?" You asked him as you took two steps towards him, still maintaining your distance from him, you didn't want to get too close.

"Of Course madam, I'll do whatever you need" he turned around to take the carton of milk out and you breathed deeply, your eyes wandered over his shapely ass. As far as you knew this island didn't have any gym or fitness center.

He stayed at his spot so you walked towards him and grabbed the carton. Pouring the tea in two cups you walked into the living room again and placed it on the table in front of the couch. He sat down and patted the spot next to him but you stayed two feet away, 

"I'm fine here, please enjoy the tea, it will get cold" you picked your cup from the table and he nodded. It was hard for him to get through you and he wasn't used to ladies being so distant with him. He took a sip and hummed in glee, the tea was perfect.

"Just how I cherish" you smiled as he said that, sometimes you felt that you didn't have to be so cautious around him but then that's how you thought about him and look where that got you. 

"Why did you come here darling? A lady like you doesn't seem fit for this place" you walked towards the couch and sat down in the opposite corner, if worse comes to worse you could smash the coffee cup over his head.

"I just wanted to escape I guess" 

"What about your family? They're fine with you being here?" 

"Are we playing twenty questions?" You chuckled to not come across as rude and he smiled,

"You said your mom used to worship the god Loki, where is she now?" Your eyes teared up immediately at the mention of her. They took everything from you.

"She died a few months ago, and I have no other family, well none that I was close with anyways" he placed the cup down and scooted closer to you but you stood up immediately, he looked up at you and his eyes seemed..not predatory, he seemed safe, why did you feel that way around him? 

"I won't hurt you I promise you that..I know you're scared and wary of me, as you should be considering I'm merely a stranger for you but just allow yourself to open your mind a little, you need a friend darling, especially here and I'm here for you" he mumbled softly and your eyes wailed up.

"You should go" you told him strictly as the anxiety built in your pores, he stood up immediately as he didn't want to offend you any further. He was about to pass by you when you heard the scream of the lady again and jumped in your spot, his eyes teared up as he looked at your terrified shaking form, a stranger in your own space and now you heard the screams of the night, you must be so scared and he just wanted to hold you to calm you down. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He didn't think he'd feel whatever he was starting to feel for you.

"If I crouch down or sit down, would that make you feel safer? Less threatening If I'm not towering over you?" He asked you and you heard the scream again. You didn't want him to leave, you felt scared and you knew he could tell, he noticed your shivering form. If he wanted to hurt you he'd hurt you right? Or maybe he was just looking for a good opportunity like they did. 

"I uhh..I'm so scared loki" your lips trembled as you spoke, he sat down on the couch and looked up at you, another scream and you sat right next to him, but still keeping a distance between you two. 

"Just the wind alright?" He mumbled softly and you nodded, he grabbed your cup of tea and passed it to you so you took it "Can you stay a little longer? Until..the screams ...the wind stops howling?" 

He nodded immediately and you smiled even though all your senses were overloaded at the moment. Every little noise made your heartbeat faster, you were extremely cautious of your surroundings. 

"Can you umm..sing a song for me?" You asked him and he chuckled. Maybe he can do that to distract you.

"Ofcourse, let me just go and bring my guitar, would that be okay?" You nodded as he said that, why wasn't he scared? Even if it was just wind it sounded too eerie to not spook someone. You stayed glued in your spot and when he returned he sat down next to you again, his body tilted towards you and he placed the guitar on his lap 

"Any request darling?" You Chuckled as he asked you and you thought about it.

"Do you like Eric Clapton?" You asked him 

"His music? Definitely" you heard the riff of the song Layla and you immediately recognised it, the thunder outside roared and you scooted a little closer to him.

"What will you do when you get lonely, no one waiting by your side?" His voice was so deep and refined, you felt as if you were listening to a perfectly polished vinyl recording.

"You've been running and hiding much too long, You know it's just your foolish pride"

He smiled and looked into your eyes as he sang the next few lines, making you shiver but not from fear this time.

"Layla, got me on my knees, Layla, I'm begging darling please Layla, Darling won't you ease my worried mind?" The way he looked at you in that moment made you feel like you were on a romantic date somewhere.

"I tried to give you consolation, When your old man had let you down, and like a fool, I fell in love with you, Turned my whole world upside down

Layla, you have got me on my knees

Layla, I'm begging darling please

Layla, darling won't you easeee my worried mind" He finished the song with the guitar solo and for a moment you forgot everything and just allowed yourself to enjoy the moment because it seemed unreal, things like that didn't occur to you, especially not after what had happened because you had sworn to stay away from all of them, your doc said it wasn't healthy but you couldn't trust anyone ever again in your life. Especially not a man. 

After he finished the song you smiled and gave him an applaud.

"You're amazing, very talented Loki, thank you so much" he smiled as he rolled his eyes playfully, he wasn't good with receiving compliments.

You looked at the clock, it was 4 already, the screams had stopped and you felt better, you had to get up early to go to the market so you thanked him and he told you that he would sing for you anytime you want, making those butterflies rage inside you again. 

As you laid down in the bed you thought about him, since that incident you had gotten hyper aware of people's intention and how you saw them, you could always tell if they were trustworthy or just wanted to hurt you and use you. The voices in your head screamed whenever you met a certain type of man, that's how you felt around Phil and Clint this morning, even Steve but with Loki those voices in your head didn't scream as much as you thought they would. When he sang for you and asked you if you'd feel safer around him if he was not towering over you, that alarming voice got silent in your head. 

And you couldn't have that, you can't allow someone to break you again, you didn't think you'd survive it again. Not after him. Not after them.

🤎🖤💚🤎🖤💚🤎🖤💚🤎🖤💚🤎🖤

Taglist @mcufan72  @stupidthoughtsinwriting  @fraoid3  @wheredafandomat  @michelleleewise  @daddylokisqueen  @123forgottherest  @usagishira  @elegantcheesecakecrown  @sashas-recs  @lukira1337  @vickie5446  @spageddyhoes  @witchypandamonium  @javagirl328  @slpnbty2001 @mochi661 @lovingchoices14  @annoyingsweetsstranger  @army24--7  @el-zef  @asgardianprincess1050  @loz-3 @whylokiissocute @holotacopeely @thomase1 @daggers-and-mischief @constablewafflebottom @marvel-love24 @crimson25

[itsclydebitches]

One common defense I see made for Winter, due to her criticizing Ironwood for squeezing Mantle even though she was the one to first suggest martial law was "Oh he was already thinking about it. Winter merely voiced his thoughts to the group." What do you make of that?

That it��s as unpersuasive as this broader, “The group knew things were bad, but it’s okay they went along with it because they were uncomfortable” argument. Even if we were to agree that these were Ironwood’s thoughts and that Winter was merely stating his obvious perspective  — which I don’t, both because Ironwood didn’t enact martial law then and much of Volume 7 is him bending to others’ perspectives  — that doesn’t absolve Winter of suggesting it herself in a manner that conveys her approval. We can’t go, “Ironwood is bad for wanting to enact martial law, but Winter isn’t bad for suggesting they enact martial law.” 

Really, the implied defense in arguments like these is that Winter is being coerced somehow. The only way you can get “It’s okay if Character A does X, but not okay if Character B does X” is if Character A is forced into committing X through some threat, manipulation, or loss of agency. It’s why Penny is not a horrible person for attacking Klein: we understand that in hacking her, Watts and Ironwood took her agency away. It’s why Yang isn’t a horrible person for accusing Ozpin of hurting the Branwens with the bird transformation: we understand that Raven lied to her. (Even though, as I’ve discussed in the past, Yang’s situation is more complicated in that we do hold her accountable for things like, “Why did you trust Raven’s version of events at face value without ever considering that she would lie?”) Part of the assumption that Winter fits this mold is because she does fit it later. Ironwood’s office scene, wherein he very creepily pats her shoulder and discusses torturing Penny’s friends, is meant to convey a, “Holy shit, this guy has gone off the deep end and if I oppose him I might be in trouble” feeling. We understand there why Winter doesn’t just yell her disapproval: it’s not longer safe. It’s the same sort of work we see when the two nameless soldiers appear in Ironwood’s office looking terrified of him and, indeed, we see later that when someone does dare speak up (Marrow) Ironwood immediately attempts to kill them. 

The problem is that none of this work occurred in Volume 7. At no point prior to those scared soldiers, Marrow’s near execution, Winter’s office scene, etc. does the text imply that Ironwood is threatening his people. (And even the above examples are messy af because Ironwood moves from, “Winter betrayed me by releasing the prisoners I needed?? ... Guess I’ll trust her and her alone to have my back when I arrest Penny.” This stuff is not well written.) Rather, we see the exact opposite work, in that Winter goes out of her way to tell people, namely Weiss and Penny, that yes, she’s making her own decisions. She decided to join the military. She decided to become the Winter Maiden. She decided to back Ironwood’s idea to leave with Atlas. And she decided to suggest martial law. 

I’m not going to lie, the fandom’s (and, more recently, the show’s) tendency to erase women agency makes me really uncomfortable. RWBY is a show built around the power of women, particularly young women, and the fandom celebrates that intention... up until the women do something bad, foolish, or even just make a mistake. It’s not that Pyrrha foolishly went off to fight a maiden when Ozpin explicitly told her not to, it’s that Ozpin’s manipulation forced her to take that action (which in turn is built on the belief that it was manipulation to begin with: Pyrrha is incapable of deciding to be the maiden herself). It’s not that Salem planned to enact the eugenics based plan of replacing the world with her magical bloodline and, when Ozma tried to keep that from happening, she killed her children and then burned him alive, Ozma forced her to take that action by daring to leave. It’s not that Raven chose to enter a school with the intention of later killing its inhabitants, gained the trust of the headmaster, received power, entered a war, and then abandoned it to instead spend her days raiding villages that leave them decimated from grimm, Ozpin forced her to go back to that life by revealing horrifying information (don’t think too hard on how, in the next generation, withholding that same information is also bad). It’s not that Winter chose to escape her abusive upbringing by going to the military/huntsmen school next door  — rather than going elsewhere like her little sister did  — and then later chose to support the man she’d come to trust as he navigated situations with no easy solutions, it’s that Ironwood forced her to do everything the viewership doesn’t agree with, despite a lack of evidence for that and Winter’s own claims of, ‘I chose this myself.’ Winter herself becomes a part of that fandom subset when, in Volume 8, she denies having any part in this and instead puts it all on Ironwood’s shoulders. That’s a very sharp contrast to Volume 7 when she acknowledged her own agency. 

It’s a very simplistic form of “feminism” wherein there’s a Bad Man and a Good Woman and if the woman’s actions in any way seem suspect, it must be the fault of that evil, manipulative, male influence in her life. This is not only a terrible way to interpret women characters  — the best thing you can do is portray us as well-rounded and flawed as we actually are, just like any other human being  — and it’s not just a way to ironically talk over these fictional women  — it doesn’t matter what choices we saw Pyrrha make, or what Winter says about her own life, I know what’s really going on  — it’s also just a bad way of reading the text. The ability to make claims like the one you reference, anon, requires ignoring huge swaths of the story and replacing it with headcanons. Ignore what we saw Winter do, what we say her say, what we saw Ironwood choose in Volume 7, and replace it with these ideas that have no basis in the text, but that I feel very strongly about; an interpretation that I’m more comfortable with. Because people do seem to be uncomfortable with the idea of truly flawed women, not just surface stuff like, “Yeah Yang has a little bit of a temper, but she’s still #perfect.” This includes the RWBY writers. Given that girl power focus of the story, few are willing to acknowledge that maybe Ruby is seriously messing up. Maybe Salem was a victim, but is now very much the enemy. Maybe Winter supported Ironwood through the embargo, supplies, martial law, and murdering a councilman, only turning when he threatened to blow up a city. Winter is culpable in all this and that makes her a better, more well-rounded character. Ignoring that depth for a “women good, men bad” take  — especially in 2021 when we’ve adopted a more nuanced, intersectional form of feminism based on gender diversity  — isn’t something I’m personally able to understand. 

[do-not-eat-the-dove]

I need to write this, I need to write this because I am so fucking angry. I am so, so fucking angry, and every problematic shipper I want you to read this. Read it, all the way through, because if you don’t then you are ignoring children you might have harmed.

Tw’s for: beastiality mention, sexual abuse mention, paedophilia mention, typical darkfic trigger warnings in essential

When I was nine, I moved into the Aphmau fandom. Earlier than that, I was an avid reader of Harry potter. Earlier than that, I was into stampy cat and iballisticsquid and skydoesminecraft. I have been in fandoms earlier than my body can remember, and I started in on wattpad when I was very, very young. Just writing, only writing. I had a vague understanding of what sex and smut was as a child, because of unmoderated youtube thumbnails. I ran into sexual themes online, because that is what a child does okay? I will admit that I knew about sex as a child if only barely.

As a kid in fandom, you don't know how to moderate things. As a literal fucking elementary schooler who doesn’t know how to differentiate “Their” “They’re” and “There”, you do not know the difference between right and wrong. You do not understand what an 18+ warning is, and you don’t know what the fuck a dead dove is and why anyone would want to eat it in the first place. You do not understand, and i think that this is something that problematic content creators expect of literal fucking children, and i also think that it is extremely irrational and condescending for you to do so.

When I was a bit older, maybe twelve/thirteen, I found ao3. I found twitter, tumblr, bnha and anime. I was excited because it was a community, so I became super involved as fast as I could. I had still not hit puberty yet. I hadn’t even learned the pythagorean theorem yet. I didn’t entirely understand variables and I had no clue that washing your face was basic hygiene. I am bringing this up to display to you that I. WAS. A. CHILD. A kid. Five years ago at this point I still had trouble jump-roping. I was a kid who had average decision-making skills for their age and who found the idea of boys gross, crushes were based on who was fastest in gym class.

I let go of tumblr because I couldn’t grasp what on earth it was supposed to be used for and how it was supposed to be used, I posted shitty depressed memes on reddit because I thought I was edgy. And then I got involved in fandom twitter.

Me, my friends, we recommended each other cute ship threads and discussed Notps and did “toxic fandom stuff” because we were children who still celebrated valentines day with sweet-tarts and holographic paper cards. I still knew jack shit about sex and relationships because as a child sex education is just “this is a penis, this is a vagina, this is how you don’t get pregnant, any questions?” 

So when one day, i decide to type “BNHA” into the search bar of twitter, intent on finding cute things to share with my online friends and instead am greeted with a picture of a character raping another character, I don’t know exactly what to do.

Let me repeat that; I looked up JUST the word “BNHA”. Just that. Nothing else. 

And I, a child, who has no decision making skills, clicks on the post. Because it makes me feel funny, and children are curious.

As a middle schooler. As a child who had the average physical and mental capacity to resist impulse, aka none, as someone who used Uwu and OwO unironically, who thought spelling “as” with a Z made me quirky and fun, discovered a main-tagged post of a character being nsfwed in a sexual assault.

From here, I explored. What you people don’t get is that is what children do. That is what children DO. And you, in all your wonderful wise ways, decide that it is on ME. On someone who had no understanding of what this was, to be the adult and say “I do not think this is right.” You, the thirty year old woman who maintags, are saying that to me, who was a twelve year old. 

I think the most traumatic thing I read during that time was an aged-down character, who went from fifteen to five, being sexually abused and pimped out by his mother and forced to have sexual contact with dogs.

Today, I suffer from intense intrusive thoughts that I do not think I need to be diagnosed for, because constantly wondering if you’re going to be sexually assaulted by every single man you come in contact with, having to shoo away evil disgusting thoughts that have made you involuntarily gag and nearly vomit, having to deal with these awful things in my brain is proof enough. Today, I have such a deep-rooted fear of sex and men and relationships that despite me being entirely Heterosexual, wanting children in the future, having these ideas of a family, I feel incapable. 

Today, I saw a fic saying that it was my own fault if I found their problematic fic, and today I raged for every child that is going to be messed up by people who choose to blameshift just because they want to use maintags. 

As fandom spaces get younger, and the fan age range grows bigger I have noticed a distinct uptick in who is reading and consuming fan content on social media. I know eleven year olds, ten year olds, I have met a nine year old child who messaged like they were twenty. All of these children read fanfiction of characters that they adore, and click on fics that include those characters because they adore them.

I’m going to share another experience that I’ve had with sex and sexual abuse that was self-inflicted, but normalized by the content that I had consumed. As a child, a thirteen year old, I messaged adult men. I went on omegle text chat, I found forums for sexual roleplay, I talked to probably a dozen adults in sexual manners without them knowing or realizing. Even a few women, and I am completely certain this experience is going to scar me until the day that I fucking pass. It makes me feel empty inside, but you know what? Your fics normalized that for me. I read a tweet from an adult, someone much older than me, who talked about having gone into adult spaces as a child. They did the same thing as me. It is a trend, but while I recognize that I was too young to know what I was seeing, reading, hearing from people who were older than me and therefore authority figures, they blamed themself. And that is the most heartbreaking fucking thing.

When you maintag. When you use a main tag, that a child who does not know how to filter out scrolls down on, and they decide that this will be an okay thing for them to consume because adults know better, will you look them in the eyes and tell them the fear of things they don’t understand and haven’t even been introduced to yet is their fault? Will you tell them that ao3 is an adult site for adults and it’s their fault for being stupid enough to read it? Will you tell them that the images that will play in their minds for years until they’re desensitized and so so scared that they’re now a bad person because of it, will you tell them that it was their fault for clicking on it when they were seven, eight, nine? 

Frankly, I do not give a shit about what you write. If it is in rpf and you still push it i will think you are a bad person, but other than that I could never care less. But I do care what you tag, because If you write the word bnha on twitter with an image of a young child's favorite character being sexually brutalised? If you maintag a fic where someone is starved till they are nearly dead, infantilised, sexually abused during all of it, and leave it out in the open on a site you know has children, in a fandom you know is targeted towards kids. If your tags leave a child open for attack, harm, mental scarring? I care, because I will not let another child be blamed for something they themselves did not fully understand the weight of.

[stressedspidergirlsfandomblog]

Okay, so imagine this

Kaer Morhen is a place that little boys go to die, if they’re lucky, or they become witchers. 

(In some ways, Strangers Like Me is what fucking ran thru my head literally all night last night. I wrote nothing, I could not sleep, and my brain SPIRALED all over this)

And somehow, despite the world beating him down and beating him down and beating him down and shelling him out over and over, he runs into an idiot bard who has no fear of him. Who slowly goes from thinking he’s a simpleton to realizing there is a man in there, a boiling seething lake of feelings and anger overtopped by a thick layer of ice. And the bard makes it his life’s mission to help him learn that he is human. (the whole fic idea is more Geraskier, but it has to START the development elsewhere)

he also bumps sorceress who teaches him love and anger and all sorts of other things -fancy table manners, philosophy etc. He has access to things with her he’d never have had in the keep. She teaches him how to eat chicken on the bone with a fork and knife (book canon), and all the other fancy utensils because he’s a person dammit and he should know that his napkin goes in his lap. He devours her books, and since she can read minds she can draw out the conversations from him. She teaches him how to have those conversations and those debates. 

TWs for all the canon compliant fucking misery that is Geralt’s life. Child abuse, neglect, assault, etc. 

Geralt is incapable of believing good about himself, or expressing himself normally or knowing what to do in social situations. He mimics, he copies, he attempts to replicate, but if the situation changes he isn’t sure what to do. 

Trauma gives us 4 options. Fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. He knows how to fight, but sometimes it leads him to battles he’ll never win. Flight is usually safest. Freeze can also work well, but he doesn’t know how to fawn, no one’s praised him enough or taught him how to give praise or fake affection in turn. Usually, he chooses to freeze until he can assess better. If there’s no blades drawn, it is time to freeze. 

( I am looking at this purely from a child abuse perspective) 

He has no idea what to make of Yennefer. She is rage, and greed, and feelings, and luxury. She teaches him to fight back. She teaches him you can be angry and people will not always leave you. Some children/adults will do anything to please someone in hopes of affection until they feel safe, and they begin to test boundaries. And with Yennefer, he’s allowed. Neither one of them knows how to process emotions in a healthy way, not really. But if she wants to throw a jam jar at the wall -not at him, never at him. She doesn’t want to hurt him. She’s just angry and has to break something. Better the jar than herself. Or him. He learns to stomp and yell right back, to knock things off the dresser or desk. Maybe it’s not a good lesson, but it’s something. 

She teaches him choice in bed. He’s never had choice in bed, he’s never made love. He has had sex. Voluntary, involuntary. Me for her, let the girl go, use me instead. He heals. He always heals. He can kill them if he wants to, but that raises more problems than it solves. Kaer Morhen has no women. He learns very little about making love there, either, feelings are forbidden. However, he learns to keep himself silent and still as his cock is stroked, he learns to not let the bed so much as creak the slightest bit, not the softest change in his breathing. He learns how to use precum as lubricant because there is nothing else, and while he doesn’t learn how to kiss, or fuck, he learns how to touch. There’s no kind of education like that. It’s control, management of pain, seeking approval from people who rarely give it. 

Yennefer gives him approval. She gives him choice, and she teaches him to move his hips. She teaches him it’s alright to breathe through it, to beg for it, to twitch, it’s okay to want something for himself. He can’t reconcile it, can’t adapt well to it. But in bed, with her, he allows himself to be freer. It doesn’t translate for him, into other situations. His learning is contextual. He has trouble applying the lessons she tries to teach him to other social situations. He can fight back with her because she likes him. He can argue with her about books because she starts the conversation for him because he doesn’t know how. He is heinously smart, he can read, write, and speak at least three languages, he can synthesize information so quickly it stuns her. If he’d been chosen as a mage, if he could access the Source, he would set the world on fire. 

She teaches him to say ‘no.’ It’s not something he knew he could do. Not outside of negotiating a contract. Most of his world is lived inside of his own head because he isn’t allowed to offer opinions unless someone asks. Other than contracts. There is a script, there are rules, he can say ‘I won’t kill that’ or ‘that’s not enough coin’ or ‘no.’ Those situations he can talk freely and articulately. 

They experiment in bed, to a point. She can tell when he’s getting cagey and stops. She never makes him say ‘no’, never lets it get that far, because she knows he’ll freeze. When he’s vaguely curious about light bondage she simply tells him to see if he can even stand to put his palms on the headboard and not touch her. He can’t. He can’t stand it if she won’t touch him, either, when she offers to return the favor and see if he likes that edge of control. He doesn’t. She’s had other lovers, but none like him. None as broken and angry as she is. (The book says, it flat out says, they did not know HOW to be kind, but they wanted to be, and so they were, when it describes how they make love.) They try other things, some things he more tolerates than enjoys -the unicorn. But he doesn’t hate it, he just doesn’t prefer it. 

He can’t admit to feelings, he can’t admit to loving her, and so she can’t tell him because he isn’t ready to hear it. He can’t believe any of it, and so she can’t say a word. Telling him would chase him out of her life forever. When he tries to share things with her, when he tries to push himself to describe any part of himself, she listens. She uses many of his failings against him when they fight, but never what he tells her in confidence and struggle and broken words. When he tells her ‘they botched it’ meaning they botched him, he’s worthless, not made right, and horrible, she tells him perhaps she is the same. 

Eventually the fighting is too much, the frustration at themselves is too much. They can’t heal each other. What they need doesn’t line up yet. 

They break apart and he travels again, happy to reunite with Jaskier. Not that he understands that feeling. But something feels ...easier, with the bard around. He tries on occasion to engage in conversations, just sharing a random fact or quote with the bard and Jaskier doesn’t realize what Geralt is doing for weeks until Geralt stops and he finally asks him what his quote of the day is. Geralt visibly perks and Jaskier finally understands what Geralt has been trying to tell him. He finally asks the right question and Geralt talks to him for hours, long after the sun sets, as animated as his training allows him to be, describing how he’s connected this human myth to an elvish historical event that is corroborated by the dwarves, he had to read it in Elvish, and also Dwarfish, but he can’t find a written version of the myth he’s only heard it spoken or sung. 

Jaskier takes him to Oxenfurt and leads him in and out of guest lectures. They sit in the back so Geralt can hide, because that’s what he does. Don’t look people in the eye unless they tell you to. Don’t look up, don’t be big, don’t exist if you can help it. And he hides and scrunches in on himself, but he listens, and the bard lets him pore over libraries and scares off anyone who would complain at a mutant witcher touching precious tomes. Geralt is gentle, and careful, and sweet, and he deserves to read what he wants, he deserves answers to questions about the world he could never find in Kaer Morhen where his only training was how to survive as a witcher. 

Jaskier teaches him how to answer the question asked, not just say what he thinks people want to hear. That’s not what I asked you. I asked what your preference was. He learns that Geralt was very much raised to believe children should be seen and not heard, in terms of himself. He doesn’t speak up, doesn’t offer anything unless asked. Not unless it’s about witchering, then he is allowed. And so he makes sure to ask. Are you hungry? Would you like to stop for the night, too? Does that hurt, it looks like it hurts. And Geralt learns to listen to the words, and he learns if asked, he is allowed to speak for himself. He doesn’t have to do what he thinks Jaskier wants. Unless prompted, around people, he rarely speaks, rarely converses, and just tries not to be terrifying. Keeps his head down, hood up, he doesn’t want to be hurt. He’s sick of being hurt. He’s sick of going hungry, he is sick of being miserable. And he has found if he is invisible, people leave him alone. He doesn’t get stoned, he doesn’t get beaten, he doesn’t get chased out for just wanting a bed to sleep in and a warm meal. If he doesn’t take up space, he can exist. Jaskier speaks for him, people think perhaps he’s a simpleton who the bard travels with, they don’t know the quick mind behind the eyes focused firmly on the ground. 

It constantly breaks Jaskier’s heart. He has never seen Geralt smile. He has never heard him laugh. He has heard him talk with intonation on occasion, and usually only when reciting what he’s been told. He is an incredible mimic for tone and pitch and it astounds the bard. When he asks Were you even listening to me at all?  and Geralt begins reciting everything he had said, with perfect inflection, since Geralt’s last one word response, perfect tone, perfect everything other than he doesn’t change his voice, his gravelly voice will never soar into tenor heights. 

Children, ones who don’t know what he is, love him. Parents who don’t know, don’t see the swords strapped to Roach, they don’t mind the bard’s pet simpleton playing pat-a-cake with their children, they don’t mind them teaching him to make flower crowns. Or watching them draw in the dirt. The children never think he’s stupid, they like him all the more for knowing they aren’t, either. He lets them pet his horse, and boosts them into the saddle. He helps them reach fruit on tree branches, and pulls down prickly berry vines full of blackberries so they can gorge on the sweet fruit. Jaskier loves watching him with children, because he’s less guarded. He starts out small, makes himself so small, so nonthreatening, and when the children realize he’s happy to play with them, he relaxes. The tension leaves him and the villagers ignore him. Any adult stupid enough to want to play with children, to humor them, and listen to their stories can’t be right in the head. The bard’s assurances he won’t touch them or hurt them goes a long way. 

He used to freeze and flinch and shudder whenever Jaskier touched him, because he could not understand. He still doesn’t. Emotions make no sense, touching for affection that isn’t between lovers makes no sense. Jaskier stays with him, so they must be friends. He’d admit it openly if asked. He doesn’t understand he loves the other man. He wouldn’t know that’s what he was feeling even if he was told. He feels nothing, it’s a scooped out shell, there is nothing inside of him other than sometimes anger. That’s why he had to leave Yennefer. She was the sun and he just reflected her warmth, he had nothing of his own to give back. 

Patently untrue, but there’s nothing that would convince him otherwise and Jaskier doesn’t try. Geralt is ridiculously capable and educated, and wonderful and the bard does what he can to praise him when he can because he knows Geralt needs to hear it. No one praised him or loved him as a child. Hugs are still foreign and after years of them his first instinct is still to flinch. He will sleep comfortably draped across the bard, or with the bard curled into him. He doesn’t care about that. He doesn’t have the same personal boundaries other people do. If he’s cold, and Jaskier is there, he sees no reason not to share heat. 

It had given the bard heart failure when they’d been sitting around the fire after eating and Geralt had just started pleasuring himself without understanding why that might not be socially acceptable. He’d offered to help the bard first. Not wanting to give Geralt another reason to be ashamed, or small, or scared, he had declined, and wondered in what world could a boy grow up afraid of being held, but feel perfectly comfortable jerking himself off in the company of others. What had been even odder was the witcher had continued their conversation as though this was normal. Hadn’t lost focus, his breathing had never changed, he hadn’t seemed to take much pleasure from his actions, and Jaskier couldn’t understand why he was doing it. 

It had made his heart hurt in new ways. It’s a perfunctory action, meant to relieve an itch, not something for pleasure’s sake alone. Everything he does has function and reason and logic. 

When they run into people Jaskier knows, and they want to talk to the white wolf, or see him, or bother him, Jaskier tells them to leave him be. He won’t talk to them. His poor witcher gains a bit of a reputation as being a tame monster, trailing his bard on a leash and killing monsters as directed. 

When they’re low on grain for the horses, he goes to busk and see if he can drum up coin. When he comes back to pay the stablemaster, the last thing he expects is for Geralt to be paying with his body, a blank expression on his face as he braces himself against the door of an empty stall. He looks at Jaskier without any kind of shame, any understanding of what’s happening to him because he needs feed for Roach, and she needs a warm place to sleep out of the muck during the rainy seasons. Her hooves need to be dried out, he needs to borrow tools to clean the frogs and check her shoes. He might need the services of a ferrier. He’ll get a bit of coin for this and then some extra. If it isn’t sex with a lover, it’s just a transaction, what should he care? The bard escapes when he realizes only Geralt saw, and pukes his guts up into the gutters. He’d have tried to stop it, but the stablemaster was bigger than he was and he couldn’t take the risk the man would hurt Geralt. 

The horses taken care of, Jaskier uses the coin he’d earned to have a bath drawn up and helps Geralt bathe until all trace of stable is washed away. He tries to ask, and when Geralt openly tells him it’s just better that way, he bites his tongue so hard it bleeds rather than reply or push the issue. He has coin, they’re fine, Geralt won’t need to do that again while they’re together. 

He notices how the witcher gets thinner after, stress and shame eating his insides even if he won’t admit it. He’d been the heaviest Jaskier had ever seen him after living with Yennefer for a few years. Healthy. Shiny hair, bright eyes, enough meat over his bones to hide them. Slowly his spine creeps through his skin and the bard can count the vertebrae. It will pass, and he realizes he’s seen this pattern. This has happened before he just hadn’t seen. It passes, Geralt finds lucrative contracts, and his body fills back out. 

They continue to work on what feelings are. Geralt remains baffled by the fact the bard will not bed him in any capacity, and doesn’t understand why they can’t share a little pleasure. Jaskier knows if he gives in, Geralt will never let it progress beyond more than just skin on skin. He’ll never understand it could be more. He has to wait, he has to keep pushing for the witcher to understand there is more. 

They happen upon a town, and a small girl, perhaps three or four years old, picks flowers by the side of the road. There’s a house visible in the distance, but it’s awfully far for a small child to have wandered. Geralt immediately looks around for a dead body, half expecting to find the child’s mother dead in a ditch. Nothing. When she notices his hair peeking out from under his cloak as he crouches down to talk to her, she pushes the fabric off his head to twirl her fingers into his hair. He barely breathes as he asks her where her ma and pa are. She points at the house and said she wanted the orange flowers. He looks over and sees that while there are what seems like thousands of wildflowers much closer, none are the color she’s currently collecting. The child will be missed soon enough, he supposes as he offers her a seat on his shoulder. Before she accepts, she splays small fingers under his eye and he freezes, waiting for her to scream or reject him. She simply says ‘pretty.’ When he lifts her up, she tangles a hand back into his hair to help her hold on and keep her balance. She stuffs the flowers into her small apron -probably made more to humor her than for any practical purpose, and occasionally pats Geralt’s head and tells him again, his hair is pretty and he’s nice to take her home. 

When screaming reaches his ears, he knows the little girl’s name is Ivana, and he tells Jaskier, “Make noise, her mother is in the fields looking for her.” The bard’s trained lungs will project far better than his will. His lungs are trained to breathe evenly and slowly in all things. He will endure if he keeps his heart slow and his breathing calm. 

“Over here! We’ve found her!” Jaskier calls, his voice ringing stridently over the fields. He’s not sure how she could hear him from so far that only Geralt can hear her frantic calls, but all the same he sees how Geralt tilts his head and nods to himself. 

They speed up, Geralt’s stride long and even as the woman comes pelting across the grass, crushing flowers, and her skirts hiked up over her knees to keep them out of her way. She gasps slightly when she sees Geralt and the brightly dressed bard, not sure what they will do to her or her daughter. She can see the swords on the roan mare. “I haven’t coin, please don’t hurt her,” she says. 

Jaskier feels Geralt shrivel. “We just saw her picking flowers and knew she’d be missing,” he explains. “We don’t want coin. Not for returning a toddler to her mother,” he protests. When she reaches out for her child, and Geralt obliges by leaning to hand her off, the girl shrieks in displeasure. 

Geralt freezes, one arm half coming up to ward the mother off, but unsure. Why wouldn’t she want to go back? It’s Jaskier who saves the situation by laughing. “I see she’s gotten quite attached,” he tells the anxious mother. “Here, Ivana, come down, he’s very tired and he’s not a pony. You brought flowers for your ma, didn’t you? You can’t show her very well from up there,” and holds out his arms. The girl allows Geralt to pass her over, and he swiftly deposits her on the ground where her mother relaxes immediately. She shows the flowers, and offers Geralt one. 

“Are you a witcher?” she asks. 

“Yes,” Geralt says, careful not to open his mouth too much. His teeth are a bit too white, and his canines a bit too sharp. Not fangs, but some people choose to see them that way. They’d grown in sharper when he’d lost his baby teeth, he’d seen plenty of other humans with teeth like his, but against his pale skin and yellow eyes, the effect was more noticeable. More monstrous. 

“There’s a wyvern, my man, when he gets back from ploughing, he can show you. I see Ivana has taken to you. If you’ll watch her while I bundle herbs, I’ll feed you both lunch.” She isn’t afraid of witchers. “We don’t have much coin, but there’s a bounty on the beast, you can turn it in, if you travel up the road a bit. In the mean time, I can offer you a place to sleep, some feed for your horse, and a meal in a few hours once I’ve finished my tasks.” 

Jaskier knows Geralt is well pleased with the idea just from the shift of his shoulders. “Geralt’s a wonderful babysitter,” he smiles. “I can help you with the chores, I’m sure. Just put me to work. My name is Jaskier, that is Geralt, and you are?” 

“Oh gods above, I’m so sorry, I’m Melina.” She reaches out to shake Jaskier’s hand and the bard accepts warmly, but when she tries to do the same for Geralt the bard gives her a look and she drops her hand. Odd. “Ivana, you mind Master Geralt, or I’ll give you such a hiding you won’t sit for weeks, do you hear me?” 

“Yes, Mama,” she promises. “I will show him where to put the horse,” she says proudly and Geralt makes a ‘lead the way’ gesture at her with a little bow that makes her giggle. He takes Roach’s reins from Jaskier and follows the girl child to the barn. 

“He won’t hurt her?” 

“No, he’d die in her defense in a heartbeat.” 

“But he can’t shake hands?” 

“He wouldn’t know that’s what you wanted,” Jaskier tells her. Not sure if that makes it worse or puts her more at ease. “You don’t seem much afraid of him, considering how we started.” 

“Witchers help people,” she smiles faintly. “My pa would have died long before he met my ma if not for a witcher who saved him on the road. Took a bad rake across his face, though, the witcher. My Pa taught us, even if we don’t know much reading or writing, history turns. People used to trust witchers. Then they tried to kill them all. And they’ll trust them again. Any man willing to risk dying to save others can’t be all bad.” 

“That is what I’ve been saying.” He glances up to see the black-clad witcher come back into view with Ivana swinging his hand happily. He can’t hear her, but he knows she is chattering nonstop. 

“Is he... simple?” she asks softly, watching as her daughter teaches Geralt a new clapping game he hasn’t seen before. He seems to be devoting all his energy to the game. 

“No,” Jaskier breathes. “No, he’s brilliant,” his heart aches. “Will they be alright out here, your man won’t come home and try and beat him with a stick?” 

“No, Roddy would never. He’ll come from the back fields as is. My Roderick is a good man. How could he hit your Geralt for playing with our daughter?” 

“People have done worse for far less,” Jaskier says bitterly. He has no idea why he’s sharing with her. Perhaps months on the road of people being truly horrible to Geralt have made him desperate to talk to someone who isn’t. Someone who is kind. 

“I see.” She shows Jaskier the herbs she’s drying, some to sell, some for home remedies. Vegetables to jar and pickle, and hundreds of other small tasks made near impossible by having a small child to mind. “My boys help their father in the fields, so that he can work on other tasks once they can manage the rest.” As the bard gets the knack for how to tie the herbs, she watches him a few seconds. “So what’s wrong with him?” 

“Nothing,” Jaskier protests. “Nothing at all,” he aches for Geralt. “People, people are the ones who are wrong. He does everything he can to not draw attention. The less he talks, the less he moves, the less people notice and the less likely they are to-” His head snaps up when he hears a husky chuckle from outside. “Your man early?” 

“No, he doesn’t laugh like that,” she says. 

“Who the fuck is that then?” he demands, peering from the small window. Ivana is pointing at something dramatically and stamping a foot and he realizes the laugh is Geralt. His heart squeezes and he blinks rapidly. He hadn’t known Geralt could laugh. Not in all the years they’d been travelling together. “Oh,” he gasps, the wind knocked out of him. 

“Let them be, if she starts to have a true tantrum I’ll rescue him. It’s about time for her to nap, she’ll be fussy soon enough.” 

“Eh, he’ll be fine,” Jaskier tells her, rubbing at his eyes with a knuckle. “He’s faced worse than a grumpy toddler before.” 

“Perhaps, Master Jaskier. But he cannot swing his sword to stop her from inconveniencing him.” 

“He would never. Although, he might turn tail and run in here, seeking rescue,” he tries to turn the conversation somewhere else. 

[elizabeth-mitchells]

Let It Happen - Andy/Quynh - The Old Guard Femslash Fortnight

Prompt: Song as Inspiration (St. Vincent - Smoking Section)

@tog-femslashfortnight

And then I think What could be better than love, than love, than love?

After their reunion, Andy and Quynh have some really good days together. But then there are the really bad days...

St. Vincent - Smoking Section

There were good days, of course they were. No amount of pain existed in the universe enough to eclipse the immeasurable joy that Andy and Quynh felt by being reunited. For the two of them, there was simply no greater pleasure than knowing the other other was alive. Then, on top of that, being able to just exist together, experience life and happiness as they well deserved it… well, it felt pretty much like a miracle.

However, after living as many thousands of years as the two warriors had, they didn’t believe in Gods, let alone miracles. They believed in doing the right thing, in fighting for the right causes, in giving their all in battle. They also used to believe they were immortal, and would always be together until the end. Now, they had to face the facts of the world being too big and complicated to save in a single war, and the consequences of one of them no longer being immortal, and the other one having experienced a tragic separation that would forever haunt her.

Sometimes I sit in the smoking section

Hopin' one rogue spark will land in my direction

And when you stomp me out, I scream and I'll shout

"Let it happen, let it happen, let it happen"

“You really must relax, Andromache, the world won’t end because you’re constantly trying to save it,” Quynh said slowly. Her tone carried that purposefulness that Andy came to recognise as her lover not fully believing her own words but wanting to, and wishing to torment Andy with the illusion that she wasn’t the same person that used to fiercely protect humanity, until humanity repaid her with the curse of her underwater torture.

The two of them were sitting on one of the exterior tables of a small restaurant of sort in a city that Quynh didn’t recognize at all. She needed to reacquaint herself with the world, and Andy needed a vacation. But this wasn’t a good day, this one was bad. Quynh was taunting her with those words, Andy was going through a pack of cigarettes as if her life depended on it, and she had just ordered another drink.

“My heart, you’ll finally kill yourself if you go on like this,” Quynh insisted, her concern barely cracking the surface before she covered it up with, “Then who, I wonder, will be strong to keep the world from burning?”

Quynh was mocking her. Quynh wanted Andy to believe that she now believed humanity wasn’t worth fighting for. Well, Andy thought, maybe she had a point after all.

“Let it happen,” she mumbled, and finished half of her new drink in one go, “Let the world burn, let me die first for once and for all,” she stumbled to her feet, kicking the table and making head turn their way, “Let it fucking happen!” she yelled, and walked away.

And sometimes I feel like an inland ocean

Too big to be a lake, too small to be an attraction

And when you wander in and start to flail a bit

I let it happen, let it happen, let it happen

“Quynh, please, talk to me,” Andy begged. She begged to the only person she would beg to. She begged for understanding, forgiveness, for a chance to listen and the privilege to hear. But Quynh was silent.

The nightmares happened on most nights really. She was back in the ocean, she was ocean, she dragged Andy down with her, Andy went willingly, Andy refused to go down, every option was horrendous. She couldn’t put it into words, she didn’t want to and so she didn’t. Only in silence could Quynh get a grasp of reality again. But her silence tormented the love of her life and she… well, she let it happen.

“Please, say something?” Andy pleaded with tears in her eyes, “I’m sorry, I know it was my fault, and I know I should have found you before,” she intended for the hundredth time while the tears started to fall, “Please, my love, it’s just me, say anything, I need you here.”

Sometimes I stand with a pistol in hand

I fire at the grass just to scare you right back

And when you won't run, I'm mad but I succumb

Let it happen, let it happen, let it happen

They were together at a shooting range. On the good days, when Andy convinced Quynh the world still had people worth fighting for, it was obvious one of them needed some introductions to modern day weapons. But when one or both of them weren’t in the right state of mind, things could sway in treacherous directions.

“Andromache!” Quynh screamed when she heard the shot that Andy fired at the ground, right between her own two feet.

The taller woman barely reacted, she was looking down at the ground, her body still as stone. Eventually, a smile started to show on her lips. “One shot wouldn’t kill me, unless I aim at the right place,” she looked up at Quynh with an expression too troubled to ever completely unravel, “If it’s my time now, should I just let it happen? Do you think I should shoot?” She asked casually.

“No,” Quynh replied, more serious than ever before. In two quick steps she was beside Andy, and she simply yanked the gun out of her lover’s hands. She could tell that had angered the other woman, but that didn’t matter half as much as taking care of her now fragile life.

And sometimes I go to the edge of my roof

And I think I'll jump just to punish you

And if I should float on the taxis below

No one would notice, no one will know

“What troubles me, Andromache, is that you couldn’t see me,” Quynh was explaining, “Sebastien and Nile did, through their dreams. But you, my heart, my most important person, you have no idea, not really, what it looked like for me down there.”

Both women, older than everything they could see around them, even the constellations above them, sat on the edge of the roof of what Quynh believed was an impossibly tall building. The city was loud, and bright, and the unstoppable and furious current of cars flowing on the streets below looked, to Quynh, like a much furious river than the ocean she now thought of as an old home, abusive and painful but a home nonetheless.

“Maybe I should jump,” she whispered at last, knowing Andy could hear her despite all the noise, knowing Andy didn’t have to hear her because they could practically read each other’s thoughts and knowing for that same reason that neither of them believed her words but that didn’t make them any less chilling, “Maybe I should jump, so you could see me drown.”

And then I think

What could be better than love, than love, than love?

And then I think

What could be better than love, than love, than love?

“Good morning,” Quynh smiled at Andy, “Are you feeling better today?”

They were in bed, just waking up and exchanging the very first meaningful looks, gentle smiles and intimate touches of the day. For the past few days Andy had been begrudgingly fighting a cold. A gruesome battle that included her many wishes to just “die already” while her family lovingly let her know a cold, “sadly,” wasn’t enough to kill her.

“Much better, thank you,” Andy whispered her reply as she leaned in forward and kissed Quynh’s forehead, “I love you,” she murmured, incapable of not saying it.

“I love you too, until the end,” Quynh answered, with a soothing conviction that would have healed Andy from even mortal wounds. Quynh placed a hand on Andy’s cheek and guided her so their lips could meet in a always familiar, always exhilarating kiss. It was going to be a good day, a very good day together.

It's not the end, it's not the end

It's not the end, it's not the end

It's not the end, it's not the end

It's not the end, it's not the end

It's not the end, it's not the end

It's not the end, it's not the end

[joaquinfeed]

You’re Like an Angel (Joe x Reader)

Prompt: You and Joe (You Were Never Really Here) have been casually dating for awhile. He’s let a few comments slip about his past, but nothing too revealing. Soon enough, you experience first-hand just how troubled and damaged Joe really is. Any dialogue or thoughts in italics is stuff Joe is remembering from his past.

Warnings: Cursing, descriptions of death and blood. Mentions of abuse and trauma. Bad coping mechanisms and suicidal thoughts. 

A/N: I’m not sure how many will even read this fic since the movie isn't that popular. But I spent some time on this one. So, maybe give it a read? I tried to keep Joe in character as much as I could. 

60, 59, 58, 57, 56,

Joe's fingers gripped the pill bottle like it was his only lifeline. His eyes ran over the dosage information before flickering up to the cashier. He could see the young man's mouth moving, but no words were coming out. The boy held up a white baggie containing the rest of the medication. He scanned the barcode of each bottle like Joe was his only customer for the day, and he wanted to make it last.

Other New York residents piled behind him, but he kept his eyes trained on the cashier's movements. He could feel the glares of everyone else bore into the back of him as they waited.

Stand up straight.

Joe's fist clenched around the orange bottle, the words of his late father ringing so loud in his ears he didn't hear the small crack of the plastic. His other hand carelessly brushed over his tied-up hair before wiping off the beads of sweat sticking to his face.

Stand up! Only pussies and little girls slouch!

Joe slammed his hands onto the table in front of him, his breathing coming out in ragged puffs.

"What?" Joe asked the cashier whose mouth hadn't moved since the outburst.

"I- I said your total is 18.50."

He dropped a twenty onto the table and ripped the bag from the guy's hand, rushing to get away from the prying eyes of other shoppers. He was out the door before he was handed the change.

55, 54, 53, 52, 51,

"Mom, I'm back," Joe said to his mother as soon as he came through the front door.

"Joe, come here, come here," she said from her spot in the recliner.

"What is it?"

"Look at the TV," she pointed. "Our song's on."

'A, You're Adorable' played quietly in the background of a children's commercial, as his mother hummed softly to the lyrics.

"Yeah, it is," Joe agreed before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her up. "Let's get you to bed."

"Janice loves this song. You should tell her we heard it."

Joe froze at the mention of his exes name. Janice. Before her, he had tried to date several women, all of which ended up leaving him. For years, he found himself to be incapable of maintaining a long-term relationship. Every girl he kissed, touched, or felt connected to—they all thought they could change him—fix him. He knew he was incapable of being fixed. Janice was different; she was there for him until his plan to escape the outside world, and all it's horror eventually pushed her away. It was his fault.

"Mom, I don't talk to Janice," Joe sighed. "C'mon, let's go to bed."

While he helped his mother up the stairs and into her bed, his mind drifted to you. He hadn't mentioned anything about you to her yet because he knew it wasn't serious. You both had been on a couple of dates, and even had a couple more planned, but the odds of it lasting weren't high. So, Joe kept his mouth shut. The last thing he needed was another woman for his mom to question him about.

50, 49, 48, 47, 46,

Once Joe was back in his bedroom, he pulled out his phone and sat at the end of the bed. His fingers searched his contacts for your name, while his other hand grasped his knee. The line only rang once before you picked up.

"Hey, I didn't expect to hear from you tonight," you said on the other end.

"I didn't expect to call tonight," he retorted.

"Okay," you said. "Your call wasn't unwanted, though."

The line went silent. Joe wasn't sure why he called at such a late hour; if he was honest, he really just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.

When he didn't respond, you spoke softly into the phone. "How was your day?"

"Good," he lied, letting his hand run over his beard. "How was yours?"

"It was okay, just busy."

"Tell me about it," he said before laying back onto the bed. He closed his eyes and let the recollection of your day soothe him for a moment's notice.

"And then, to top it all off," you said, finally nearing the end of your story. "I'm at the store, right? I turn around and see a dead girl lying on the floor."

Joe's eyes snapped open. "You saw what?"

"I saw a little girl pouting on the floor," you repeated. "I have never related to anyone so much."

He exhaled. His psyche was playing tricks on him once again. Images of dead bodies struck his mind like lightning. Kids upon kids laid lifeless in transporting vehicles—all the people he couldn't save from the savagery of sex trafficking and other violent crimes.

"Joe? Is everything okay?"

What pained him even more were the kids who screamed for help as he stood watching, helpless against the gun to his head. Jobs would go wrong, and he was forced to admit to himself, once again, that he failed.

Help me! Please help me! Don't let them take me again!

They'd cry out to him in such anguish, but he could only watch. He was as useless then as he was for his mother during his father's spells of anger.

"Hey," you said. "Are you still there?"

"I've got to go," Joe hastily hung up the phone, not waiting for your response. He threw the phone onto the bed and got up to pace around the room. With every step, a new face plagued his mind—tears dripped from the kids' eyes as they begged him to keep them safe. He rarely did.

45, 44, 43, 42, 41,

Joe moved to the closet where his arms tugged on an old, mucky box full of plastic bags until they all came floating out onto the floor. He slid his back down the wall of the closet until he was sitting—bags all around him. With shaky hands, he pulled a loose sack over his head, clutching it hard enough around his face to cut off his oxygen.

"Where the hell is Joseph?"

His father's voice rung out through the household. Joe carried his little feet across the floor as fast as he could, hoping to get to his hiding place before his father caught sight of him. At nearly 10 years old, Joe could identify at least three spots in the house where his father never searched for him—cabinets, under the bed, and his closet. He often opted for the closet, where he'd pull grocery bags or plastic dry-cleaning holders over his head to drown out the noise of his mother's wails.

"Stop! Stop it! You're hurting me," she'd cry out. Little Joe pushed his hands up against his ears so tightly, they'd be red for hours after the incident.

He was scared of his father back then, and so he let his mother take all the abuse. Had he not been hiding, he would have been the one facing his father's wrath.

"You're weak. Weak, weak, weak," he repeated to himself like a mantra. He knew it was only a matter of time before you figured that out and left him like the rest.

40, 39, 38, 37, 36,

When morning came, he awoke from a thud sounding out downstairs. He stayed in bed a minute longer, wishing his blanket would swallow him whole. Without any luck, he pulled back the covers and went downstairs to find the source of the noise.

Stepping foot into the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his mom's head lying still against the hardwood table. A broken bowl of cereal was turned on its side, leaking milk that ran from the dish to the end of the surface. His eyes followed the droplets as they hit the ground, joining a stream of red liquid to create a pink puddle on the floor.

Joe's breath came out in fast shudders as he approached his mother's figure. He pulled her face up to see a plastic piece that was missing from the bowl lodged in her neck. His fingers grasped the broken part, yanking it out in one quick motion; he watched as blood shot out in spirts, covering his clothes before he could make a move to back up.

He turned around after laying his mom's head back on the table and walked slowly out of the room. He kept his steps light and his ears peeled for any trace of movement in the house. His head snapped towards the living room when he heard what sounded like a vase fall. He rounded the corner to see a tall, slim-figured man dressed in black, looking through a pile of receipts on the coffee table.

While passing the cabinet, Joe grabbed his hammer that he kept locked away, and with one quick swing to the head, the intruder was left bleeding out on the floor.

"Fu-fuck," the wounded man choked out. "Don't kill me. Don't kill me."

"I think I already have," Joe said, bending down to lay the head of the hammer on the man's stomach. "Why did you kill my mom?"

"I was told to! I- I only work for somebody, man. I don't know anything about her. I don't have anything against you."

"Who sent you?"

The man kept quiet as quick and panicked gasps left his mouth. Joe ran the end of the hammer over the man's stomach, light enough to tickle him, before pulling it back and slamming it into the guy's stomach.

"Who fucking sent you?"

"Carl. C-Carl.”

"Carl, who?"

"Carl Alcott," the dying man coughed out.

"The club owner? Fuckin' fuck," Joe dropped the hammer, and his hands slammed into the ground with force. He knew that exchange from a week ago was going to come back and bite him in the ass. Influential people don't like to be messed with.

"He's- he's- comin' for," the man's words ran together as his breath started to leave his lungs.

"For me?"

"No- no," he said. "For- for your girl."

35, 34, 33, 32, 31,

As soon as intruder took his last breath, he stuffed his body into a trash bag along with his mom's and drove them to the lakeside. As he left the city and got further into the country, his mind started to wander to you.

For your girl. Your girl.

His hands gripped the steering wheel so tight with shaking arms, he was swerving in and out of the lane. His tires screeched every time he raced around the corner, desperate to get the remnants of the bodies out of his backseat.

When he went on dates with you the few times before, he had briefly opened up about his past. He thinks he can recall saying something about a rude father, or his time in the marines and the police force. He may have even let it slip that he's seen piles upon piles of decaying corpses. He never once mentioned his new work in fear of scaring you off.

As soon as he dropped his job in law enforcement, he sentenced himself to a lonely life. The small number of friends he had, plus any relationship he conjured up, fell apart. He abandoned any wish to be happy since he couldn't protect any of the people who came near him; his mother was a testimony to that.

You were something else, though. He had bumped into you on a whim, not expecting your smile and personality to slam into his heart as it did. He agreed to one date, trying to escape the bleakness of his everyday life. But for some unknown reason, he kept coming back for more. One date turned into two, three, and four; before he knew it, you were basically his girlfriend—without the title, of course.

When he pulled up to the lakeside, he dragged both bodies out to the small bridge that ran from side to side. He attached each of them to a cinderblock and pushed them one-by-one over the edge.

"I hope you rest easier here than you did in life, mom," he said into the air.

He wondered what it would be like to attach a block to his own foot and drown with the rest of them. He wondered how that would feel—how you would feel.

He couldn't do it though. His suicidal story that he contemplated often was pushed aside in the past because he couldn't leave his mother. Now that she was gone, it appeared to be the perfect moment. But, again, he had somebody holding him back.

You were being threatened with the ultimate price, and he'd be damned if he let you suffer for something you had no part in. He was determined for once in his life to save someone important to him; he would not let you be another statistic in his head.

30, 29, 28, 27, 26,

He arrived at your apartment after going back to his and changing into a blue long-sleeve shirt, jeans, and charcoal vest. He knocked three times against the door and waited.

"Joe," you said, looking surprised to see him on the other side.

"I came to see if you wanted to go out right now, like a little date."

"Oh, sure," you smiled, and Joe couldn't help but offer you a small smile in return. "Let me just grab some money."

"I've got it. You know I've got it."

"You paid the last date," you reminded him. "You said I could next time."

He sighed, running his hand through his long locks. If he was going to get through this meal with a good conscience, he had to be the one to cover it. He knew your relationship was coming to a stop tonight. For your safety, he decided it was time to end the connection between you two—even if it'd hurt like hell.

"Please, just let me pay," he said.

"Okay," you agreed before shutting your door and joining your hand with his. "You look good today."

As soon as he got to his car, he pushed your body gently against it before capturing your mouth with his.

"I was going to tell you that," he said in between kisses. "You always look good—so perfect. And you’re all mine tonight."

You hummed against his lips, moving your hands up from his soft belly to his strong arms. "Not that I don't love this, but is everything okay? You're not usually this…"

You trailed off, and he backed up only slightly, letting your hands fall from his arms so he can intertwine them with his own.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he assured you while pulling open the car door for you to get inside. Once you were secured, he went around and got in himself.

You smiled at him as he took off driving. "Where are we headed to?"

He took his eyes off the road for a second to smirk at you. "I'm not telling you."

"No fair," you pouted jokingly. "At least give me a hint."

"Not a fucking chance," he laughed—a real genuine sound—which is something he never does. You chuckled along with him before comfortable silence fills the car as you drive to the destination Joe picked out.

25, 24, 23, 22, 21,

He parked his car in a small parking lot and got out to open your door, mumbling something about 'keeping your eyes closed.' When you're told to open them, you're met with a worn-down diner that looks to be in the middle of nowhere. The windows are tended with the words 'Maggie's Place' scrawled across the glass. The building is painted red and white, with checkered lines running down the sides—a design that was quite popular in the '60s.

"Wow," you said, not knowing what else to say.

"I know it's not a fancy date restaurant, but my mom used to bring me here. This place is important to me."

"No, it's perfect," you told him, honestly. "I love it."

He nods in relief before leading you inside. You're quickly seated by a young waitress who looks to be no more than 17. Joe ordered a coffee while you looked over the menu for something you'd want. 

After you're done ordering, the waitress turned to Joe. "Is there anything else you'd like, sir?"

He stared blankly at her, trying to remember where he'd seen her familiar face. "What?"

"Would you like anything else?"

He shook his head and watched as she slowly walked away, staring at him the whole time she's departing. He knows that's not likely to be accurate; she probably left to the kitchen without a single glance back. His mind, however, sees her gaping at him—just like the other girls he couldn't save.

He exhaled. "What the fuck are we doing? What are we doing?"

"What do you mean?"

Your voice broke his delusion, and he snapped his head back to your face, which is sporting a concerned look.

"Nothing, nothing. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," you said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"I don't know," you shrugged. "Whatever has been on your mind since I met you. You know, you hung up on me last night?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Stop apologizing, Joseph."

"Don't call me that," he barked at you, his fist clenching the side of booth tightly.

You snapped your mouth shut at Joe's harsh tone. He had been angry before; you'd seen it first-hand but never directed towards yourself.

"My father used to call me that," he muttered, his words still sounding loud in the otherwise quiet diner. "I don't like it."

"I won't do it again," you promise. "How's your mom?"

He paused, fully prepared to go with a lie. As he met your eyes though, he couldn't will himself to deceive you further. Instead, he shook his head while taking in a deep breath through his nose.

"Actually, she passed away."

Your eyes widened. "What? When?"

"This morning."

"Oh my God, Joe," you breathed out, your mouth opening and closing, trying to find some way to console him. "That's- I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he said softly. "She'll be happier now."

"How—if you don't mind me asking—did it, you know, happen?"

Memories of earlier flooded his head--the blood oozing from his mother's body like a river; he could almost see it on his hands now.

"In her sleep," Joe mumbled, hoping that was satisfactory enough to stop the probing. He didn't want you to find out, especially during your last date—not that you knew it was the last.

"I know she meant a lot to you," you said, placing a comforting hand on his. "She would have been proud of you for putting yourself out there with me. I'm just sad I never got to meet her."

"She would have liked you," Joe admitted with certainty. "Probably a little too much. She'd have you singing 'A, you're adorable' in no time."

"A, you're adorable. B, you're so beautiful, C, you're a cutie full of charms," you sang, playfully.

"D, you're delightful and, B, you're exciting and, F, you're a feather in my arms," he sang back, smiling towards the end.

The waitress soon delivered the food to your table. You and Joe ate in silence, with a few comments made here and there about the food or something that popped into your heads. After paying the bill and leaving a rather sizable tip, he drove you back to your house.

20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 

Neither of you wanted the date to finish, especially Joe, who knew he wouldn't see you again.

He dropped you off, but before leaving to walk into your place, you asked, "do you want to come in?"

He nodded. "I have something to talk to you about, actually."

"Oh, well. I wasn't inviting you in to talk, but we can do that too," you joke.

The joke falls flat—Joe was too busy worrying about how you were going to take the break-up. Not seeing him chuckle, or even offer a smile, you became concerned.

He followed you inside to your living room, where he sat on the couch while you went to the kitchen to grab a drink. He was on his feet in seconds when he heard the sound of a glass shatter on the floor. When he got to you, you were standing in the middle of the room. A man with a different build, yet dressed similarly to the one who murdered his mother, stood behind you—a gun pressed up against your skull.

Joe quickly looked you over to see if the man had hurt you yet. Besides your trembling body and sporadic breathing, you looked to be physically fine.

"Let go of her," Joe spoke calmly.

"No, I don't think I will," the man replied.

"J-Joe," you stuttered. "What's going on? Who is this?"

"Stay calm, baby," Joe spoke softly to you. "It's going to be okay."

The man behind you laughed. "Oh, Joey. If only you would have been in here sooner. Just like all those other times, huh?"

The room fell quiet; all that was heard was the air leaving your mouth.

"The laws of man, they don't apply," the gunman sang while smiling. "When blood gets in a woman's eye."

Stand up! Only pussies and little girls slouch!

Don't let them take me again!

Where the hell is Joseph?

For your girl.

The memories wouldn't stop screaming in his head—every bad thing said to him from birth until now. The urge to leave and hide in his closet was unbearable; his hands scrambled to his ears, trying to stop the voices that were getting louder and louder.

"Joe," you yelled out as the gunman took advantage of his opportunity and started to drag you out of the kitchen. "Joe!"

You struggled against the larger man's clutch, trying to get an edge on him. He nearly got you to the front door before you heard a loud blast echo through the house. The guy's grip on you loosened, and you watched as he dropped to the ground.

15, 14, 13, 12, 11,

Joe's arms slide around your frame before you even notice he's there. You keep still, gawking at the body lying at your legs. His blood was seeping through his shirt, already creating a pool of red by your shoes.

You felt strong arms pulling you away from the scene, and only then did you look at Joe.

"What- what," you stumble, glancing between him and the man on the floor. "Why did-why?"

"Come on," he said softly. "Don't look at him."

Too shocked to resist, you let him lead you outside to his car. He sits you inside, placing a kiss to your forehead.

"I'll be right back," he told you. "I'm going to clean up. Y/N, listen to me. Do you hear me?"

You nod faintly.

"Please don't go anywhere," he kisses your forehead again, lingering a little longer before going back inside to wrap the body and clean the floor.

You watched him come back out fifteen minutes later, a human-shaped trash bag in his arms. You fight the urge to open the door and run for your life. You're not sure what Joe was planning to do with the man—with you.

He shoved the body in the trunk and made his way to the front seat. The silence that loomed over you both this time was not one of comfort like all those other drives before. No, this one was full of tension and emotional turmoil.

"Are you okay? Do you want a soda?"

You stayed quiet, not answering his questions. You rested your head on the window, watching as the city buildings got fewer and fewer. Joe decided it was best to take you to a small park in a country town far outside the New York City limits.

You listened to the radio, soft music by Rosie and the Originals played in the speakers.

'It's just like heaven being here with you. You're like an angel, too good to be true. But after all, I love you, I do. Angel baby, my angel baby.'

10, 9, 8, 7, 6,

It was nearing dark when Joe finally parked the car. Neither of you knew what to say or how even to start the much-needed conversation. So, you decided to take the plunge.

"Are you going to kill me now?"

Joe gaped at you like you'd just asked him what his name was—like the answer was obvious.

"Of- of course not," he stammered. "Fuck, Y/N. I would never do that."

"You just shot someone, Joe! And who the hell was that? Why were they holding a gun to my fucking head?"

"Calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down," you cautioned, taking off your seatbelt so you could turn towards him. "What do you do for a living? How do you know people like that?"

"I rescue people," he said, and you scoffed. "I know that doesn't sound right, but it's true. I rescue missing people, usually kids."

"So, what? You're a cop?"

"Not exactly," he trails off. "I- I was sort of. Then, one day I was at a crime scene. I found a truck full of Chinese girls. They- they all had been kidnapped to be trafficked. I found them, but it was too late."

He paused, his voice cracking on his next words. "They were already dead."

The air in the car was getting heavy. You could feel tears welling up in your eyes as Joe recounted the events that led him to his current occupation. 

"The man who killed my mom," he started. "Carl Alcott. He's coming for you. I don't mean to scare you, but he knows you're with me."

"Okay, so we'll leave."

Joe faltered. "You want to stay with me?"

"I do. That might seem crazy, but I do."

He considered it for a moment before shaking his head firmly. "No. You can't. This can't go on. We have to end this here before it gets too serious."

"I just saw you shoot someone," you reminded him. "It's already serious. I'm coming."

"No, Y/N! I refuse to let you be another person that I couldn't save. You have to leave alone—move very far away. You need to change your number, your bank information, everything."

"I'm not leaving you," you stated.

Joe grumbled, his mouth twitching in anger and pent up emotions. "Everyone always has! My father beat the shit outta my mom, and I just hid from him. I was too late to save those girls, and I've had too many children be ripped from my sight because I couldn't save them. I'm weak. I can't save you. I'm weak."

His whole body shook as strangled sobs escaped his lips. He brought his hands up to cover his face before he moved them down to tug off his vest and shirt. He was desperate to get out of the material that was making him feel too claustrophobic in the small car.

Once both of his tops were discarded to the back seat, you finally reached across the middle console and pulled Joe into your arms loosely. He clenched your shirt as his father's words,' only pussies and little girls slouch,' played through his mind like a broken record.

"It's okay. Let it all out," you said against his ear, rubbing a soothing circle over his back while still being mindful of his bruises and cuts. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving."

"You- you should."

"Maybe so," you said. "But I don't want to."

"You can't fix me."

"I don't want to; you're perfect the way you are. I only want to try and make you happier."

He retracted his head from your shoulder to meet your eyes. "Why?"

"I- I think I could fall in love with you," you admitted, shrugging slightly. You saw the onset of panic flash through Joe's eyes, so you quickly kept talking. "You don't have to say it back. I just wanted to tell you that."

He wiped his face of any tears and sighed. "I think I could fall in love with you too."

A smile tugged at your lips for first time since the date, and he again felt himself smiling right back.

You watched him put back on his seatbelt, and you swiftly copied his movements. "Where are we going to go now?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"I think we should probably do something about the body in the trunk."

He looked at you and laughed. "I think you're right."

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

It didn't take long to dispose of the gunman; after all, it wasn't Joe's first time. Before long, you were set out across the country to go wherever your hearts desired.

In the midst of the drive, his hand found yours across the console. And for once in his life, he didn't feel the need to run his car off the road.

[fairydust-stuff]

Ode to Hannah Annafellows

I noticed Hannah doesn’t get as much attention as Alois or Claude. I know a lot of her writing makes no sense half the time but lets be honest Alois and Claude suffered from inconsistencies as well. What we do have is fairly interesting though, so I wanted to write an piece that gives attention to my favorite Demon Lady.

Hannah the Demon Hannah used to be just like Sebastian and Claude for filling contracts for a quick meal. She was board and just killing time until she met Luka and fulfilled his wish to slaughter everyone who was mean to him and his big brother. “That is the first time anyone ever thanked Me." at first glance it seems like Hannah went from sinner to saint however a closer look reveals. Hannah is still a demon regardless of her newfound humanity; her true nature makes her a dangerous foe. 

Here's the thing Hannah isn't a good person but she's, not a completely evil like bad fanfic's portrays her as, and not without kindness but she's still a viper. Hannah would gladly tattle on Claude to Alois, she would never keep the spiders confidence. In fact she'd use the opportunity to try and get a heartbroken Alois to listen to her. Hannah has shown herself to be very manipulative and sneaky. She spent her whole time at Trancy manor patiently waiting for Claude to screw up so she could step in. Outside of Alois and Luka she's not exactly warm hearted people forget this is the women who was fine turning everyone into zombies and watching them tear each other apart on Alois's orders. She had every intention of hurting Sebastian in that fight. She's probly killed others off screen too and the stuff with Ciel which I’ll get to later. This reflects that although Hannah is capable of love, humanity with the exception of Alois and Luka are still basically insects to her.

Hannah and Alois Everyone seems to forget especially Claude x Hannah shippers is Hannah is Alois's creature even more so then Claude. In fact they have certain traits in common. Both of them are protective of those they love, (Alois luka and Claude, Hannah Alois, luka) forgiving of trespasses by dear ones, (Alois forgave Claude, Hannah forgave Alois) can be incredibly vindictive if crossed, (Just look at how they got Sebastian and Ciel good) know how to manipulate and trick people in order to get what they want. They both can keep up a charade for a fairly long time. (Hannah everyone, Alois lord trancy) Hannah is both the tinker bell and Wendy to Alois's peter pan. (Without the romantic feelings)

This is why oc x Claude fics annoy me so much. (Seriously, Claude couldn't keep a human female alive around those two. Alois would go sobbing to Hannah and she would cut the girls throat for being in the way of her highnesse's happiness. Also Hannah would never aid a random person unless that girl meant something to Alois. So any oc finance of Ciel's would be screwed in that situation. I strongly think her attack on Ciel was a direct retaliation for him stabbing Alois as well as to help Alois seize Ciel's body. However the fact of the matter is their relationship is troubling, manipulations by Claude and the fact both of them are socially impaired creates miscommunication about the others intentions. One being a demon that’s not used to looking after an abused human, and one being a mentally ill abused child.

I've noticed Hannah wears the same maid uniform that the maids that prepared Alois for Trancy wore, despite her good intentions Hannah comes across as predatory. Her eyes glow red and she slowly licks her fingers like a snake. There are scenes where she's crouched over or straddling Alois's unconscious body in an awkward position. Her biggest problem is unlike Claude who doesn’t care and can calmly make observations and cool headed decisions. Hannah's sincere love may cause her to be over zealous and over stepping into the comfort zone of a young boy who is wary of adults and their desire to be close to him. (Not that this excuses his behavior) Yet it can be argued Alois is as dependent on her as he is with Claude. When Claude hurts Alois emotionally Hannah is the one he goes to either to take his frustrations out on her, or to simply cry his eyes out. She is the one he gets to take him to ciels manor so he can warn him about Claude and later Alois relies on her to help him carry out his plans in the maze. This suggests even in earlier episodes she held some importance to him even when he didn't trust her.

Claude and Hannah The two of them have a very interesting dynamic. Claude is the beloved cherished servant Alois constantly showers with compliments and as a result of his affections, Claude has the kid wrapped around his finger. “My heart is trapped in your spider webs, I love you my highness." Alois declares in the last episode. In contrast Hannah gets all the abuse Alois even rips her eye out for looking at him wrong. “She creeps me out" Alois sincerely tells Sebastian in his introduction episode. Claude yet both of them are attracted to Alois's fiery soul. “I do so love your passion." Claude thinks near the end of Spiders Intention “As do I." Hannah adds. However as the two dominant figures in Alois's life they are at odds with each other. And although I’ve heard different takes on Claude and Hannah's relationship some suggesting love or sexual intimacy.

I tend to view them as enemies who dislike each other greatly, but see the benefit in an alliance against greater threats. Although I don't doubt a sexual relationship is possible, I think it would be purely for physical and manipulative purposes. I know some fans are convinced Claude is gay or a pedophile but honestly Claude is a demon therefore he most likely has no limits to what he will and won't screw. 

Claude although incapable of love himself is possessive he views Alois as his property bought and paid for by their contract, fated to be eaten when Claude grows tired of him. He is suspicious of Hannah and doesn’t want her to steal his meal but also regards her as his toy or as he so crudely put “Hole for my sheath." referring both to the fact she is the keeper of an actual sword and perhaps making a sexual reference. He even protects her from Sebastian at one point, yet Claude himself treats both of his so called possessions like trash. Hannah gets it the worst he throws her around hits her and constantly pulls a painful sword out of her body. Yet he's also dependent on her, as shown in spider’s intention Claude makes the triplets and Hannah do the actual work.

Although he insists the work is beneath him, I’d argue Claude is too proud to admit Hannah is better at pleasing Alois then he is. As shown when she suggests bluebells in Alois's room in contrast to the roses Claude wanted. Hannah seems to dislike Claude she is jealous of the love Alois has for him and angry at how false he is. “You don't deserve to be at his side, the only one who does is Luka Macken" she states. Later she seems to display open hatred for Claude instead of simple distaste Suggesting Alois use his wish to bind Claude to him forever and saying that she would happily break Claude’s legs for him. Most likely retaliation for his murder and betrayal of Alois himself. However later she does except Claude into her family and take him to limbo on Alois's behest while his soul is in side of her. Suggesting she has the ability to forgive and forget. Anti-Hero Hannah I know fans praise Ciel and Sebastian as an anti-heroes but no their villain protagonists. Both Ciel and Sebastian are obsessed with their goals which are purely selfish. In contrast Hannah is the closest thing this series has to a hero. So anti-hero I guess just to be fair. Her whole goal is to save Alois and his brother she even saves Claude from dying permanently and she kills herself to free their souls on the off chance they can all go to Nervinna. Think about her whole role taking abuse, saving children and forgiving her abusers and helping them too find a kind of peace. Even Ciel is able to relax as a demon knowing Sebastian won't munch on his soul.

She also goes through a huge change in her attitude from careless predator to someone who's starting to figure out she is capable of emotions like love and caring. But Why is she so understanding of Alois's abuse how can she love him? I’ve wondered this myself I know it was because she swallowed his brother, but I think their might be a deeper reason. I think Hannah gets Alois Trancy more than anyone else. (Not that it’s saying much everyone else in Alois life except Luka was extremely self-absorbed) She's a demon a demon who felt lonely and board and did horrible things that's what demon do lash out at the world because they've been rejected by heaven. So when Alois lashes out because he's scared or hurting Hannah can’t hate him, because I think she's been there many times and done far worse crimes then the human before her. She's had centuries to do things like start wars and topple empires. So when Alois hurts her Hannah can’t help but understand and relate to him. Which is what makes Hannah so fascinating she's a demon who can be nasty but still manages to be kind, understanding, and embrace penance, and forgiveness.

[killshope]

so casual ,,,,,,,,,, modern verse background information , for what i would consider a very .................. like ‘catch all’ modern verse & will be using for all modern interactions likely .

warnings for ; s/ex trafficking / , abuse / , death / , drugs / , blackmail /

i’m willing to write w/ any muses in this verse , just let me know where’d you’d fit .

side notes : in this verse , ben’s grandfather anakin is the reason that leia and luke are so vehemently involved in bringing down organizations . anakin , a child from the streets surviving on spite , determination and making his living from carrying drugs was taken in by obi-wan kenobi , a straight edge mentor with ties to the law ( fbi ) . through obi-wan , anakin met padme , an activist for women rights and fighting to break down the crime infiltrating through cities by going after dirty politicians . anakin unable to escape the control of his past gang affiliations was given the option of continuing to work for them or they’d kill padme , his now fiance . during a stint gone wrong , anakin killed padme while out of his mind on drugs which were put in his drink earlier without his knowledge -- padme died but obi-wan finding them , was able to get her medical help before the twins were lost . anakin overdosed and leading both his children to develop strong dedications to eradicating crime and t/rafficking from their streets. it’s unknown but implied that anakin was likely taken as a trafficked child himself as his mother shmi was never found .

obi-wan incapable of taking care of twins / not allowed by the state due to lack of legitimacy as a ‘blood’ kin , etc. owen lars agree to take both twins but by the early age of six , leia was already showing immense academic skills , and bail organa , who had been visiting the children and helping owen when he was able , asked to take her in as his wife and he could not bear children and they would be honored to send her to the finest schools and prepare her as best they could . luke , taking a shine to the country life , rather than school , went a different route , investing his time in criminal justice and studying what made people tick while living a rather quiet life out of the limelight . leia , not wanting her skywalker legacy to taint her chances at political success , took the name organa at an early age , legally changing it long before taking any position of power . 

infamous undercover cop han solo , who single-handedly disbanded two major crime organizations with ties to drugs and se/x t/rafficking after infiltrating them as a smuggler for nearly 10+ years after his rags to riches story in which he put himself through the academy after living on the streets most of his life . wildly popular and inspiring leia organa , who met han solo while captured during a political stint in which she attempted to bring down the ‘empire’ by putting herself into their gang territory and was captured , only to be taken by jabba , the ring leader .  obi-wan had invested his time in helping them with anything he could , becoming a mentor and respected figure to both twins . leia , after being captured is able to get one last message out to obi-wan requesting help , to which he is able to get luke involved which eventually leads to her being saved . her brother luke , a private detective went to the authorities and together devised a plan to get han solo close enough to save leia & get the intel to bring down the crime ring . han and leia had a rocky , on again off again relationship , into which obi-wan benjamin organa-solo was born .

ben solo , grew up with very little emotional support . with his father han , working largely either away from home or undercover after being promoted to a government job ( ben isn’t sure what but thinks it must be something like a spy , or handler ) and his mother , involved in her own extremely busy and important life  , he was left largely relying on house staff to care for him . beyond this , he was introduced to his uncle luke at the age of 13 when his mother found him after punching a hole in his wall . while not the first time he’d broken something on purpose , it was the first time he admitted that the action made him feel relief . fearing , wrongly , that her son could be exhibiting similar tendencies to her father , she sent him away to be luke , hoping that getting him away from the city would help . 

through luke , ben solo made contact with a persona via email known as ‘snoke’. after being emotionally and physically blackmailed through photos of ben altered to appear as though he were committing crimes , and threats they would hack his internet profiles he was sufficiently scared enough to do what they asked . things started out small , deliver this to so and so , show up here and say this , but became more and more unsettling - have this girl call this number , get her to meet you at the bar but don’t worry about showing up. one night , a message appeared on his phone while he was sleeping with a address and a code word . luke , having been hunting snoke for sometime , assumed the worst , and tried to take ben in , who attacked him , knocking him unconscious and running for his life .

ben solo was known as code name kylo ren from ages 13 - 29 , working for snoke when forced to , and using his cover as an accountant at a corrupt firm to make money and stay off the radar from his family . ages 21-24 , ben solo tries to leave , running away twice , once he is beaten and left with a scar from eyebrow to chest as a reminder that he is owned by the company . ages 25-29 , ben has completely taken on the moniker of kylo ren , hardly remembering anything of his family or his past. age 29 , kylo ren meets rey.

my canon has 3 forks here .

if rey is a kenobi , then she is obi-wan’s daughter (out of wed lock or accident or something), or she’s adopted later on , etc. and she is working for the police , investigating the crimes of t/rafficking and / or the corruption in the accounting firm. she could also be captured - but either way , he meets her and tries a second time to break free of snoke.

if rey is a palpatine , then she works for snoke as well , either willingly or unwillingly like ben . when they’re put together either via a heist / etc . they realize together they can escape , they can save one another as she’s likely be indoctrinated since birth into the ring.

if rey is a nobody , then it’s likely she’s been either captured / somehow involved with the ring / or she could just simply fall into ben’s life somehow , as someone from the office , or just as a random person  . again , he would try to escape again after meeting her .

[badgirlsinterviews]

The Paths of Beauty [Interview]

Interview with writer and actress Camila Sosa Villada, author of ‘Bad Girls’.

Written by Sergio Alzate.

11/05/20

Source: El Tiempo.

In her novel, Camila Sosa narrated the experience of a travesti community in Córdoba, Argentina. (Photo credit: María Palacios)

Camila Sosa Villada likes to take in the world with her eyes. For her, life is made up of images: vignettes that catch her eye from which she discerns a speck of light, a dash of colour, a certain meaning. Through her eyes, she listens, she feels, she smells, she sounds out, she travels and she consumes the world around her, a world which is made up of images that she treasures and stores away. Through these snapshots, she forms a collage of her reality and her experiences. They are, in other words, parts of a puzzle which she pieces together, bit by bit, creating a unique, absolute, indescribable final image: one of beauty.

Beauty (not as an anatomical category, nor as the opposite of faithfulness) runs through the pages of Bad Girls, her most recently published work which recounts the experience of a group of travestis who gather each night in the Sarmiento Park, in the city of Córdoba, in Argentina. As such, a travesti mother is able produce milk with her silicone breast; a mute woman turns into a bird; headless men fall in love; gardens burst and cover everything with their lush and uncontrolled vegetation; people declare their bodies as their home; laughter, embraces, words, and love become the shelter from violence; shouts echo with one brutal, resounding, infinite message: “being travesti is a celebration”. Miracles and sparks of beauty unfold with furious tenderness from page to page.

Some of these themes were discussed by Camila in her 2014 TedTalk. The actress, theatre-maker and writer spoke of the suffering of travesti and sex worker bodies, her father’s prediction that she’d end up dead, left in a ditch, the life of a pregnant girl who would meet her clients in the park, her hair filled with weeds from having done her job lying down in the grass. After recounting all of this, Camila asks in a broken voice: “Have any of you have ever imagined that there could be anything more concretely poetic than that?” That’s exactly what Bad Girls is: poetry, concreteness, beauty. 

The novel contains a theme which appears over and over again: beauty, the search for it, the curse of it, its joys and sorrows. What made you write about it?

I think I’ve always been privileged. I’m able to see the world in a way that’s different to others. I felt like a dealer: at night I’d be out with the group of travestis, and then during the day I’d go to university. In those worlds, there were moments I observed that were so defining, spectacular and profoundly beautiful that they affected me on an emotional level. I wasn’t speaking about them arbitrarily: things have always appeared beautiful to me. Not for what they look like our sound like, but for what they emanate. Beauty is the foundation of my book. 

In ‘In Praise of Shadows’, Jun'ichirō Tanizaki speaks of the beauty of shadows, which goes against how beauty in the canon of Western literature is based on light. The beauty of travestis, that which inhabits the shadows, the parks, away from the light, is a bit like that, don’t you think?

Yes, exactly. We were gorgeous during the day as well, though. Like something out of a Tarantino film, we’d go about in the sun, very early in the morning, strutting of the park under the morning sun towards McDonalds, where we’d have breakfast. We’d walk to the bus stop, the red sun over the city, everything glowing orange. Our beauty was a disruption, interrupting the aesthetics and order of a city as catholic as Córdoba. We tried to be beautiful in the light of day, and we succeeded. 

In his essay ‘The Simulation’, Severo Sarduy says that women don’t exist, with travestis constructing their identities based on that knowledge. What do you think of that?

I think we gave in to feminine beauty at some point. But we also moved away from imitating them. We began to explore sensations which still haven’t been defined, and which exist only amongst us travestis. It’s not to do with sexuality or identity. It’s a declaration of our existence in the world. Meeting a travesti who had money or was from a well-off family was rare. While all of us were marginalized, we all had our own bodies through which we constructed our unique existences, capable of being in our own ways. 

Speaking of bodies, the narrator in your novel state we can judge countries by the way they treat travesti bodies. Are these bodies national history? What can we read in them?

Men decide how the bodies of travestis should be, their desires dictate how our bodies are to develop. How incredibly unjust and terrifying! In the past, they wanted travestis to have hips like Sofía Loren. Then they said: “No, we want them tall, slim, and tan”. Now, they want us to be natural. Luckily, girls are therefore no longer obliged to get surgery. But this is just a first approximation, because there’s also the class struggle, something which has never been so concretely exemplified as through the bodies of travestis. Claudia Rodríguez (writer and trans activist from Chile) says that society doesn’t inform us of the danger of certain surgical procedures. All we knew was that, in order to change the world, we first had to change ourselves, our bodies. We fought to become beautiful, marketable, attractive, and when we didn’t have money for silicone, many of us would inject ourselves with industrial silicone, sentencing ourselves to a slow death. And we’d also be at risk of getting AIDS and other diseases, because we’d be terrified of going to the hospital. No one like you can be found there; no one there caters to us, listens to us, reassures us. All of them are hugely different to you. 

However, in the midst of it all, beauty and tenderness always remain. Do you see these as means of resistance? 

It comes naturally to me: I say without thinking that I’m looking for beauty in horror, or flowers in the mud. I tell it as I see it. I think discussing violence is akin to goldsmithing - it requires you to be extremely meticulous, and to take care to make sure what you’re working on doesn’t turn into something finicky or terrible. I have to have the patience and the eye of someone whose job requires them to be millimetrically precise. You have to be like a shaolin monk, wandering through the desert with a staff, looking for beauty. Without beauty, life is unable to exist. 

There’s also a series of miracle that occur throughout the book - some happier than others, but, ultimately, all of them are miracles. What drew you to this miraculous calling?

Neither of us would be here today if it wasn’t for the tale of a miracle. In Argentina, there’s a popular saint called the Difunta Correa. My parents brought a little medal to her sanctuary, and left it there with a promise: that the three of us would go back there together if I left the street and sex work. Three months later, I debuted in my theatre show Carnes Tolendas. I began gaining recognition and I never took cocaine, nor did sex work, ever again. I stopped being exposed to violence. The same year my parents made that promise, I experienced two violent instances with two clients. My parents sensed that, and prayed for a miracle to happen to me. So yes, my reading of it is that magic does happen. 

When Auntie Encarna, one of the characters in the novel, becomes a mother, this stirs up hatred within the community she lives in. What upsets is so upsetting about the thought of a travesti becoming a mother?

Every day, through their various methods and systems, capitalism and the patriarchy are competing for authority over childhood. They therefore want to ensure that it’s them who are raising the children of our country. The danger for them, is that they know that a travesti is incapable of perpetuating their systems of control. I prefer to look at it romantically, and refuse to believe that travestis would ever work for capitalism. That’s what bothers them. They’re scared of losing their control on the order which bestows them with their privileges. They also fear the thought of the existence of families formed through instincts, feelings, and emotions as subversive as love. 

The narrator asks herself how many times she’s written the word “violence”. Twenty years have passed since the events of the book - how many times do you think that word continues being written down today?

News about recent deaths still come up in conversation. We are trapped in a violent system. Violence is still there, but the support for us travestis, as well as other sectors of society, has increased. That possibility has arisen because of us, because of the girl who goes out to buy vegetables, the girl who does sex work, the girl who leaves her CV in a clothes shop for the first time, the girl who opens up to the people she’s living with to tell them she’s going to dress as a woman, the girl who writes books, the girl who sings, the girl who acts,the girl who creates a new kind of knowledge. All of us are creating an animal-like support where we resist and say “look, everyone, we aren’t genocidal, we aren’t rapists or child abusers, nor do we want to steal from anyone.” Violence still exists, and it has become even more intense.  

The travestis which appear in the book find a way of speaking and existing through their biting sense of humour. How does this particular type of language allow bonds to grow between people?

I think one of the most reductive takes on the topic is saying that “we treat each other like that to numb the pain.” In other words, we treat each other cruelly in order to later face the cruelty from the outside world. Last year, I read Claus and Lucas by Agota Kristoff, and there it may be interpreted that, like in the book, we are training in order to become desensitized. And I may be mistaken about this, but I believe that it’s to do with how we knew that language is the most powerful thing that exists. Through words, we could play speech in ways others didn’t expect. We’d say the most horrible things to each other with the greatest affection, and we’d say the most affectionate things in cutting and hurtful ways. We’d make up words, we had secret codes, nicknames that belonged to us. Our lack of privilege drove us to become very intelligent, and we soon realised that language was the only thing that truly belonged to us. As a result, we occupied it in the way we saw fit.

[a-heart-of-kyber]

My dog is very much watching me very closely in a “You aren’t allowed to leave me again.” way and I feel bad about it, but he also feels softer than I remember which is stupid because I was only gone for 4 days. 

Which ummmmmm yeah if anyone was curious as to where I’ve been....thanks tumblr for becoming my diary. 

Trigger Warning: Suicide

TW: Suicide

So, Monday night my dad and I got into another extreme argument because I am becoming extremely (and very clearly) incapable of handling...him and the way he is and by that I mean his emotional/verbal/psychological abuse and thus this argument resulted in once again me commenting “I just want to fucking kill myself.” because idk if you know but I’ve been treated for suicidal thoughts and depression before so this shit isn’t new.

What’s new is my dad saying, “Why don’t you just do it already?!” 

So...not to be topped apparently, I very pissed off went to go take some pills because clearly the why to get through to someone like me is to present a challenge. Eventually...the pills were removed from me which once again resulted in me getting more screamed at and then my dad saying to never talk to him again and me and my mom went to stay with my sister. 

Which turned into me going to the ER because my mother asked me too. 

Now...I’m not saying this can’t help other people, but the entire resulting situation did not help me other then getting me away from my dad for a few days...which I could’ve done at my sister’s. 

Spent 21 straight hours being babysat in the ER with barely any word from anyone about anything. Wearing paper and listening to people screaming. Being told after I did everything voluntarily that if I left I would be arrested until I was driven to a facility 2hrs away by a constable. 

Yep...spent 3 days in a psych ward. Lets not discuss intake. 

I wanted to leave as soon as I got there. All of the staff was more or less in agreement that I didn’t belong there. Half the techs/nurses thought I was a social worker and were very confused. 

Do you want to know what it’s like being hit on continuously by a vulgar/violent ex military man who forced himself onto another one of the women there just hours earlier? It’s not fun I can fucking tell you that much. Idk how I’ll handle being told my eyes are pretty in the future tbh. “Can I stare at you because your eyes are the prettiest I’ve ever seen? I love you because you read. Can I have your name/address/phone number/email address? (I’m going to ask you this repeatedly! While I intermittently attempt to start verbal and physical fights. So like...try not to be scared over not giving me this info and annoying me or anything and also don’t think about me potentially stalking you in the future!) Take my hand. Touch me. Dance with me.”

The others were fine and some were nice and everyone was just trying to get better, but I spent 2 nights thinking this guy was somehow going to break into my room.

The psychiatrist didn’t force me onto any medications because he thinks I just need to learn how to handle stressful situations. But also he thinks I should maybe take something, but my thoughts on that as ‘I’m going to wait til I’m away from the guy who very clearly could sexually assault me thanks.’ All of the other patients were just like “It’s a miracle you’re attempting this without medication.” 

Maybe...at a different time or a different person this all could’ve been more helpful, but I’m mostly just angry and waiting for actual therapy for my depression/anxiety. 

Also...back home. We’ll see how that goes I guess. 

[philosophicalparadox]

Sympathy for the Devil

Sometimes, I wonder about those characters. 

The ones that everybody hates, but that so many of us love. 

And I can not help but think, that maybe we love them, not because they are relatable, or because they are righteous, or maybe not even because they are interesting, 

we love them for what we can not see, but that we can sense. 

There’s always more than one side on a coin, and sometimes what the audience thinks is a square, might actually be a cube if looked at from the proper angle. 

Characters that have no backstory are often the highlights of a series; There’s always something we don’t know about them, and that makes them interesting -- and yet, there can be so many proper heros who we also know next to nothing about, but do they recieve the same adolation? Not really. In quantity, yes, certainly. There are I don’t know how many people that speculate about the livelihood and past of “hero” characters like Yusuke of Yu Yu Hakusho. Because frankly, we don’t know anything about that past. 

But for the villain, for the outcast, for the devil himself, there is a different attitude towards those speculations. There’s a fandom-wide curiousity, but also, I think, a pervasive sense of sympathy for those characters. In human psychology, a man does not become a monster overnight without something already there, some spark, an incentive -- a reason. In one second to the next, a decent human being isn’t likely to murder somebody, and not feel anything about it. 

There are, definitely, conditions such as Psychopathy which, from birth, render a person unable to experience or learn empathy or compassion. And yet, they are not often the ones who perpetrate the worst crimes (As much as hollywood and cheap, plastic Wikipedia articles would have you believe otherwise). 

And there are conditions, often falsely roped into the same group, such as Sociopathy, which is learned through horrible, neglectful, pervasive abuse that goes on continuously in someone’s life. Those sociopathic characters that can’t bring themselves to have a conscience in spite of being born okay -- well, they weren’t okay as they grew up, and learned that feeling was a bad thing. Feeling pity, or sympathy, was something used against them. It was something they were punished for, or that they were just never taught because there wasn’t anyone around to teach them. (Dude, telling you now, don’t try to argue with me that empathy is inherent in humans, because it is learned - there’s a whole lotta scientific papers and psychology to prove you wrong if you want to go check them out.) 

Narcissistic Personality Disorder is also a learned condition, and I think we can name at least a few characters we could suspect of that. (Ahem, you know who you are :p ) It, too, is a disorder born of abuse and neglect, and setting entirely the wrong standards for your children. (There is a genetic component for both of the above, but nurture is what brings those traits out). 

But there are so, so many completely typical (as in neurotypical) flaws in those characters we love to hate, hate to love. Look at Alucard (Hellsing) - if that isn’t a human man with a broken sense of self, I don’t know what is.

 He’s a monster, a beast that likes to pretend he has no feelings, but it is so very painfully obvious to some of us that yes, yes he does -- and they are all too human feelings. He feels jealousy. He feels rage. He feels empathy, which is a rather miraculous thing since he is both quite old, and has been dragged through hell and back from the time he was a small boy. 

To his defense, Alucard was human at one point and time. But what about those other, not-so-human characters? Can we feel sympathy for them? Or is it just their way to be so mean and nasty? 

Well, I think both. 

I seen a post a long time ago, talking about Sebastian (Black Butler) and how he reacted to being called a monster at that party in the beginning of the Blue Cult arc. 

And honestly, that fine post has stayed with me, as did that scene. He had such a look of hurt on his face, that it is really hard to place whether it was truly fake. The post went on about how Sebastian wasn’t such a heartless monster; maybe he did feel, on some level, like we do. Certainly, he seemed to be offended at the least when so many women began to shield their children from him. 

I don’t know if I fully agree with what that post said about him having human feelings, but I definitely concur that he has feelings, and that there was an unmistakable sense of realism coming from his response. He seemed, to me, confused and affronted more than hurt, his expression begging the question, what did I ever do to you? followed by his tucked head, maybe even shamefully, wondering, I never wanted to hurt you, so why do you hate me?

I got a similar-ish sense from Mephisto when he was confronting Amaimon on the balcony, Amaimon stating flatly that he hated his brother. 

Mephisto just shrugged with a hmf, and said ‘Hate? What a human emotion.” which I think is a remark of contempt from him. Contempt, maybe not for human feeling entirely, as surely you couldn’t enjoy the company of humans if you didn’t have tolerance for their fickle hearts, but perhaps towards those feelings which he has known, and abandoned. 

It’s pretty evident that demons in the Blue Exorcist universe are capable of fairly complicated human emotions, and compassion is not something unknown to them, nor incapable. 

But it would seem that Mephisto, like many, forgo that compassion and empathy at some point. Why? 

Because it hurts. 

And something which hurts is something you could live without, by demon logic. Besides a body. Because a body is such an intoxicating and exhilerating thing that no demon, save a few bold souls, would dare be without one, even at the cost of enduring torture. They’re the ultimate drug, the highest addiction, and nothing ever feels the same once you’ve had it once. 

living bodies are heroin for demons, change my mind

But feelings? Feelings are fickle, they’re not necessary to survive or to enjoy the pleasures of the mortal realm. Things like empathy can get you hurt. Being nice to people can get you yelled at, or hit. Showing great wells of compassion to the sick and dying won’t bring them back, and the humans who mourn them will try to kill you if you use magic that they don’t understand. Because mankind is a terrified animal who doesn’t know where they are in the scheme of the cosmos, but damnit if they don’t wonder. It just happens that when one tells the truth, and one is called a liar, everyone around them would rather accept that they know better, and that you are the one who lied. 

And it is too often true, and a trope of course, that when you’re called a monster enough times, you will someday see yourself become one. After all, a child who does bad things to get attention, is still getting attention, and we all know that demons, at least in the Blue Exorcist universe, but sometimes in mythology as well, have the tired hearts of children. Their minds are complex and at times, expansive, but their emotions are those of kids who just want to play, to have fun and, of course, be recognized.  

I have a great deal of sympathy for the Devil. He wanted to be recognized, to be admired and loved as much as his Father was; but in the end, he became a victim, not only of his own pride, but that of his Father as well. 

I feel for Mephisto, too. There are times I don’t wonder if he really was an “angel” once upon a time. Maybe somewhere, deep in a past he can’t remember, he was benevolent, and kind, only to find out the hard way that humans can be cruel, unspeakably so. To find out that their fickle hearts can love you one day, and in the same stroke, hate you the next, and all because of one mistake. It’s been happening for millenia; Good people who are doing good things, but lose face, and in the end, lose trust. It’s got to be one hell of a bitter realization for an alien that knows nothing of human kind, to be adored and praised and given the recognition every child yearns for; and in the same day, have all those men and women leer and sneer and throw stones at you because you made a mistake. 

We all know how it feels, to be blamed for something unjustly. Imagine that playing out over, and over, and over again over hundreds, thousands of generations. They love you, they hate you, they die. Repeat for thousands of years, thousands of humans who ally themselves with you, who praise you and uphold your image, who worship you as a god; but just as quickly as they came to find affection for you, they either move on and forget your existence, or they hate you and point the finger your way every time something bad happens, because hey, it’s easier to blame the devil than to admit you were wrong, right? 

None of this is to excuse the terrible actions of those “demons” and “devils” and “evil people”; Your actions are your own, and they are just as responsible for them as anyone else, fictional or not. There’s no denying that Alucard has killed, slaughtered, butchered and masacred thousands, that he has tortured and bullied and abused others. 

There’s no denying that Sebastian, demon as he is, isn’t sadistic, nor that his actions with Beast were of questionable consent, seeing as he basically intimidated her into sleeping with him. 

There’s certainly no denying that Mephisto is a toxic cocktail of narcissism combined with an enabling attitude; he might not have been directly involved with the human experimentation that went on in Asylum, but he did nothing to stop it’s progress either. Hell, he proposed the idea! And the suffering of all those clones, all those kids, is at least partly on his head. 

But he doesn’t care. None of them care, because it would hurt them if they did. It would drive them mad and make them scared of themselves (like Alucard isn’t, pfft) if they took those steps back and looked at what they did, and examined it through the eyes of the empathy that they might have had at one time. (Alucard still does, but he is super selective about it. Compartmentalization at it’s finest.)

But somehow, I don’t think they got that way by choice. Someone  failed to teach them that it was okay to feel hurt, that it was okay for them to be scared, that they didn’t need to hide or disguise or push it down. 

This is mostly to do with the fact none of those mentioned had “parents” to teach them anything at all, but instead relied on themselves or, in the case of Mephisto/Samael, the humans around them. And what they learned instead was that they were the only reliable ones, that the only people they could trust was themselves, and that human nature is a confusing mixture of contradictions, of pleasure and pain, of kindness and cruelty, and the only way to feel good about themselves was to focus on themselves, and to live as an island, sustaining their own egoes and living for the sake of themselves, because they “know” no one else will. 

And I think, in some way, those of us who are willing to love the bad guys while also hating their guts -- we feel that. We sense that. We know there’s something underneath all the flashy clothes, the smirking sarcasm, the shrugged shoulders and the utterly remorseless attitudes. We sense something deeper, even if we don’t know what it is. In fact, the very reason we cling to them sometimes is because we don’t know what it is, and it makes for a far more entertaining thought to chew on than the flat, but adorable, but also sometimes embarrassingly shallow hero. (Ahem, Inuyasha, I’m looking at you, mister “I have no character development despite being the main character”). 

I have great sympathy for the Devil, and I think all of us do too.