#psychology cowardice

[ladyalienist]

What is your position on trauma-related conditions/personality disorders?

Hi! I’m really glad you asked because this is a thing I wanted to make a post about.

So, let’s first start with a bit of general context, shall we? I’ll try to make it as short as I can.

Psychologists and psychiatrists are different in many ways, but they both take care of the same kind of illnesses, distresses and problems, and hence need to communicate between themselves and create a taxonomy of the most common kinds of problems they face. In that taxonomy (DSM, PDM, you name it) it is understood, generally, that people might react to traumatic events in an acute way or in a persistent way (what we usually refer to as PTSD).

In that same taxonomy, personality disorders (PDs) are not seen as trauma responses per se: they are something different. Personality is defined as the unique and fairly consistent patterns of thoughts, feelings, and behaviours that distinguish a person from others. When something in the development of personality goes wrong and those patterns become consistently dysfunctional and hurtful to the person and/or to others, we have a PD. There’s currently about 10-15 of them that have a specific label, all with their specific characteristics: I’m not diving too deep into that because else this thing will become a whole essay and I’d have to charge you money to have you read it.

Now, one thing that seems intuitive but apparently was absolutely not to psychiatrists is that thought/feeling/behaviour patterns are not formed in a vacuum, and require a lot of interactions with external influences to be moulded into a specific shape: hence, a thing that isn’t that obvious is that personality disorders come usually (not always, but very often) from a deeply traumatic childhood.

Especially when it comes to the most (in)famous and debated personality disorder: the Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), which many feminists (me included) view as an evolution of the so-called hysteria psychs would diagnose women with in the 1800s.

It is, on many levels, the very same situation: we have young women who react to horrifying and prolonged abuse by becoming “bad women”, “untamed women”, and hence need to be corrected with sedation and institutionalization.

Many ladies here on Radblr are unwaveringly anti-psychiatry, or at the very least critical of psychiatry and of the BPD diagnosis altogether: they think that it is a pathologisation of natural responses to the horrific treatment little girls go through in way too many cases, and a tool of oppression in the hands of a patriarchal paradigm of health and science.

Now let me be clear: I understand those critiques and they are in many ways grounded and valid. This is a diagnosis that gets often given without an understanding of the personal history of the woman who displays symptoms, or gets given way too soon (PDs should not get diagnosed before adulthood and many women receive a BPD diagnosis when they are still adolescents).

I am myself… not exactly enthusiastic about psychiatrists and colleagues alike, and I do not appreciate the modern paradigm of mental health, but you already know that, for you asked this specific question.

The fact is that in other ways it is a myopic view of a complex and nuanced issue. My first problem with the General-Radblr-Critique-of-Psychiatry is that many many people do not understand a simple fact: psych language is edulcorated as fuck and a competent psych keeps that in mind. When a psych writes “difficulties in keeping care of personal hygiene” (non-political random example of a typical consequence of severe depression) it doesn’t mean “eh, haven’t showered yesterday because I didn’t stink”, it means “this person hasn’t showered in months because they cannot find the energy/they do not want to see themselves naked/they are actively trying to rot while alive and are succeeding”.

Another problem is that many people are not aware that PD diagnoses are actually… not that gendered: while it is true that BPD is more often female and Narcissistic PD is more often male, and socialization brings wildly different levels of destructiveness, there are men diagnosed with BPD and women with NPD, and they are not a statistical rarity!

The third and last problem is a direct consequence of the first: a thing many do not understand is that a PD diagnosis is not given because you’re a moody teen who is angry at misogyny.

It is mostly given when you are a fucking menace to yourself and people around you.

A person should get this diagnosis when they have a consistent pattern of destructive behaviour and uncontrolled emotional responses. These are people who self harm, who have risky behaviours (reckless driving, substance abuse and addiction, violent relationships) and who can and will treat others like shit with little to no reason.

Now, it should not be given to adolescents and this happens. It should not be given without addressing the causes, which often include sexual trauma or prolonged abuse, and this happens. Medication should be prescribed very, very carefully and this doesn’t happen. This is malpractice, and it is way too widespread. I will not deny that.

But here are just some funky tales of things people I know with that diagnosis did:

Set fire to the car of one of her ex BFs. Gleefully told me. The poor guy had done absolutely nothing wrong except leaving her, which was well within his rights. She absolutely could not understand why what she did was unacceptable.

Kept a merry-go-round between three different partners. Two of them were abusive pieces of shit. No amount of telling her that they were pieces of shit would have her convinced that they needed to be excluded from her life and that it wasn’t a good idea to keep fighting with A, calling B for sex and company, fighting with B, calling C for sex and company, fighting with C, calling A, and so on and so forth. This kept going on for years, I cannot stress this enough.

“I only like violent sex” (multiple people, on multiple occasions).

Cheating and then becoming flabbergasted at the partner’s anger, which was seen as cruelty towards them (multiple people, on multiple occasions).

Had a partner who absolutely loved and cherished her. Her response to compliments was, on average, “can you not?”. She would complain that she was ugly and no people would want to have sex with her: confronted with the fact that she did, actually, have at least one person wanting her, she blurted out “you don’t count”. Had the same reply for “I love you”.

Proceeded to find a partner whose opinion apparently counted: you guessed it, an abusive piece of shit. Could not wrap her head around the fact that the previous partner did not exactly want to stay friends.

All of this has to be added to the typical description: labile sense of identity, difficulty in understanding the limits in interactions, volatile emotions, black-and-white thinking, destructive rage, deep sense of void, self-harm and risky behaviour.

Does this look like something that should not be treated as pathological? Does this look like something that can go away with just some more compassion for trauma?

In conclusion: while I do agree that this is a diagnosis that can and does get used as a tool to silence the reality of gendered/sexual abuse on girls and women and it has an ugly stigma to it, I do not entirely discard it as useless either. What I’d like to see is a different paradigm in mental health, where people who have experienced earthly hell can find ways to heal (people can and do get a lot better!) and learn more constructive ways to deal with the world, but in order to do that we need to have a precise frame for the problem.

I hope I did explain myself, and if I didn’t please, let me know. I’ll try to be clearer.

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

Man has it all in his hands, and it all slips through his fingers from sheer cowardice.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

[fiction-quotes]

Nia's eyes filled with tears. “I'm sorry I'm a coward,” she said, and sniffed.

Daja sighed. “You're not a coward,” she told her second student gently. “You just don't know what you're brave at.”

“I'm a coward,” Nia insisted, tears running down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Jory says I'm always squeaking and jumping, I always hide, I don't argue...”

It bothered Daja to talk so long to a kneeling girl. She knelt and helped to gather buttons. “The bravest person I know is afraid of the dark. She sleeps with a night lamp always, but if her friends are threatened? She suddenly thinks she's a bear twelve feet tall and attacks whoever scared her friends. There are all kinds of courage. You'll find yours.”

  —  Cold Fire (Tamora Pierce)

[toerrishumansodontbeone]

man, its such a drag trying to find objective reviews of books with disturbing content. 9 times out of 10 it will center around the shocking subject and criticize it mainly on how justified was its usage.

Read Tender Is The Flesh yesterday and I wanted to see what more people thought, but ugh its so tiring having to filter through all the shocked normies.

I wanna hear peoples thoughts on the issues of sustainability that have been entirely left out of what is an obvious satire of late stage capitalism and the meat&dairy industry!

I wanna be validated on my nitpicky pro science sceptics pet peeves about how little enthusiasm the author has for the scientific method, how shallow the worldbuilding feels when youre faced with the premise of " all animals carry a virus deadly to humans, so they can no longer eat meat". I have a million questions having some basic interest in biology that I do. I have a million questions from being a vegetarian by simple preference. I wanna hear from other people who have trouble suspending disbelief cus INSECT PROTEIN IS RIGHT THERE AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN PEOPLE KILLED THEMSELVES BECAUSE THEY COULD NO LONGER EAT MEAT THATS INSANE

[vaugarde]

pmd explorers of the spirit is like pmd2 no mercy run

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Apologies were in order when Eddie's true whereabouts were revealed, but would a rainy evening bring forgiveness or an even harsher storm? (4.6k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, misunderstanding, anxiety, self-deprication, parental conflict, poverty, jealousy, brief touching, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter eight: mind your own business

A simple conversation changed everything.

Admittedly, it was not your conversation, but one you had eavesdropped on. 

You had turned in the final exam for your Experimental Psych class, ruminating over any possible wrong answers as soon as your paper touched the pile on your professor’s desk. Did you get an abnormal amount of Cs in the multiple-choice section? Were your short answers detailed enough?

And then you overheard two guys talking in the hall, one sounding like he’d just chain-smoked a carton of cigarettes. 

“Dude, what the fuck happened to your voice?”

“Lost it at a concert the other night. Totally worth it, though.”

“What concert?”

“Death’s Echo.”

You froze, hoping your sudden stop didn’t draw any attention to you. Death’s Echo had a concert? Where was it? Is that where Eddie was on Monday night?

Potential exam mistakes forgotten, you strode over to the guys on a quest for information. “Excuse me.” Your lips curved into your best customer service smile. “Did you say you saw Death’s Echo?”

The hoarse-voiced one nodded. “Yeah, why? You like them?” His eyes narrowed in assessment; you clearly didn’t embody his expectations of a punk music fan. A fair enough judgment, because you certainly weren’t. 

“Where did they play?” You pressed, ignoring his question. 

“Webster Hall,” he coughed, and his buddy laughed at his apparent pain. “You listen to them?”

“Yup,” you lied easily, not wanting to stick around and have him find out why a “fan” didn’t even know about a local gig. “Um, feel better!” You hurried out of the building, head spinning with this newfound knowledge. 

Webster Hall. It was just over an hour to get there, which meant that the concert must have started late; a practice not unheard of for more up-and-coming bands. The prime time slots went to the headliners who brought in the most money. 

If Eddie had gone to the concert on Monday, why wouldn’t he tell you? Did he think you’d be angry? Disappointed?

Or maybe he just didn’t want you to know he was blowing off work for a concert, you reasoned, and your opinion beyond that is irrelevant. 

Should you ask him about it tonight? Could you? He might hole himself up in his room, ignoring your knocks and only coming out after your shift.

Maybe that was for the best. 

His harsh words from last night continued rattling around your brain, barely taking a reprieve during the test. Honestly, you were grateful you wrote down actual psychological terminology instead of I am a total hypocrite over and over until self-deprecation filled the pages. 

Tomorrow was your last official day of your undergraduate career, your own personal deadline for confessing the truth to your parents, and yet you were no closer to being ready than you were when you first made that silent promise. 

The problem spun a web woven from neurons and synapses, its delicate threads slowly taking over your mind and catching the most daunting tasks. 

NYU Essay revisions Graduation The motel Eisen’s Eddie

Too much. It was all too much, but you couldn’t shake them from their entrapment. You wanted to squeeze your eyes shut and only open them once everything had been resolved. 

You had a fleeting thought of boarding the bus and remaining seated as it rolled past the motel, leaving it all behind and reclaiming your sanity. Running away was always an option, in theory; realistically, you would be overwrought with guilt before the bus made it to the next stop. 

What you’d once considered loyalty was now stained with splotches of cowardice. 

Maybe one day, you would be able to see yourself the way you wanted to be seen: as a trailblazer, a go-getter, a woman in pursuit of her dreams. 

Today was not that day. 

Rain streamed down from the clouds in thick sheets as though compensating for the week’s idle threats of stormy weather. It pelted against the motel’s windows like a steady drumbeat that wouldn’t be drowned out by your clock radio cranked up to its maximum volume. 

Darkness loomed in the night sky, heavier than usual. Wind accompanied the rain, jostling the power lines and making the lights flicker. 

If the electricity went out tonight…

You couldn’t finish that thought, not when the front door swung open to reveal Eddie, drenched from head to toe. His curls clung to his forehead, his cheeks, the back and sides of his neck; his chest heaved beneath a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt that was saturated with rainwater. 

He stood in the doorway for a moment, unmoving and catching his breath. 

This was your chance to apologize. To admit what you know—what you might know. The timing of the Death’s Echo concert could have been a coincidence, but your intuition told you it wasn’t. 

Another awkward smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a tentative “hey,” and he was trudging past you without attempting to stop.

Opportunity went as quickly as it came. Every word you had planned had been scrambled like a tornado swept through your brain and left gibberish-laden debris. 

The version of you that had confidently confronted him about smoking pot a few weeks ago would have scoffed at the way you failed to utter a simple apology. But this was much more complex. 

Eddie’s forgiveness—if he forgave you—was only half of the battle. His blatantly false accusations about your work ethic had cut too deep to ignore. 

Did he really think that little of you? Or was that his own defensiveness rearing its ugly head and taking over?

Then came a cry from down the hall.

“Of fuckin�� course!” Eddie boomed loud enough to be heard beyond his closed door. “Goddammit!”

You abandoned the desk, grabbing your essay papers and bolting to his room. He was at the window, violently pushing down on the pane, but it remained open. The shirt he’d been wearing earlier laid right next to the door as though he’d peeled it off as soon as he stepped into the room. 

Your eyes landed on the dusting of hair that was now plastered to his pecs, another effect from the weather, the soft brown tendrils partially obscured by his demon head tattoo. 

This wasn’t the first time you’d seen him bare-chested. The night he had arrived, he answered your knock in only his Calvin Klein boxers. He was wearing Fruit of the Loom tonight, the elastic waistband exposed from the weight of his rain-sodden jeans. 

Heat burned in your belly, a sensation you hadn’t experienced in a long while. 

“Little help?” Eddie grunted impatiently, and you nodded, tossing the essay onto his nightstand among a sea of his own handwritten papers. 

Had he caught you staring? 

He moved over, bringing both of his hands to the right side so you could press both of yours to the left. The combined force was enough to smack it closed, the resulting burst of wind sending the papers airborne. They floated to the ground, paragraph-laden parachutes, but all you could focus on was the patch of carpet beneath you. It was completely soaked, visibly darker where the rain had seeped in, and it squelched under your sneakers.

“I’ll grab towels.” You started towards the door, pausing to scoop up a sheet of looseleaf that had landed near your feet. It was obviously Eddie’s; his was not as meticulously curated as yours, full of scratch-outs and barely legible, but the words you could make out were enough to pique your interest.

Want what I can’t have

She’s got me mixed fucked mixed up

You couldn’t read any more of it without him noticing, and you certainly did not want to get caught snooping after upsetting him, so you placed it on the bed as casually as you could.

There were extra towels stored in the supply closet, and you jogged back to the lobby, mentally calculating how many you’d need to sop up the mess. Taking as many as you could carry, you perched your chin atop the oversized pile and lumbered into Eddie’s room, dropping them to the ground. 

To your dismay, he had put on a new shirt, but it did nothing to temper your thoughts of running your fingertips over his inked skin. 

The air was now rife with the scent of burning tobacco, the cigarette between Eddie’s lips already smoked halfway to the filter.

“Thanks.” It was muffled and gruff, hardly an olive branch, but it was enough to tug the corners of your mouth in a tepid smile.

You wanted to stay, wanted to ask about what he had been writing, but Eddie snatched up your essay papers from where they’d scattered before you could ask. He shoved them towards you, leaving the edges creased where they crinkled under his grip. 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t vandalize them,” he sneered. A gray cloud whorled from his lips as he spoke, but it didn’t hide his sarcastic grin. 

You steeled your gaze and forced yourself to look just above the glowing ember and into his eyes. “I’m sorry.” You let your apology float downwards, watching for any indication of a softening expression, but he remained tense. 

“You didn’t even bother asking where I was,” he spit. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, less abrasive this time. “I assumed...because you were so mean to Ben…” Any further explanation felt too much like an excuse, so you left the sentence unfinished.

Eddie’s chest deflated slightly, his bravado extinguished. He’d been expecting a fight, you realized. 

You refused to give him one. 

“Were you at Webster Hall?” Your voice deliberately turned up at the end, careful to pose it as a question rather than a declaration. Certainly not as an accusation. 

Eddie flinched, his forefinger and thumb quickly pinching his cigarette to keep it from falling. “What?”

“Monday night,” you said. You pushed your right foot into the mound of towels, hit with a sudden bout of antsiness. “Was your errand seeing Death’s Echo play at Webster Hall?”

He said nothing, just looked at you. Really looked at you, assessing whether or not you deserved to know the truth. 

The admission came out gradually, as if it was being met with resistance, pulled from a place so deep he had forgotten its existence. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?”

Eddie took another drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs until forced out with a cough. “Wanted to hear how they sounded with their new, ah, frontman.”

Lower lip tucked snugly beneath your front teeth, you nodded. “And how did they sound?”

“Great. Really fuckin’ great.” His wry smile held more sadness than amusement. “Better than when I was with them.”

Your heart lurched. Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand, giving it just a little squeeze before letting go. “I know that’s not true,” you said. “I heard you playing on Sunday, and you’re good, Eddie. Not just anyone could pull off playing Metallica without an amp, but you did.” 

You wished he could see himself from your perspective, see the man whose talent was too vast for a dingy subway station, whose music deserved to be heard by sold-out crowds at The Garden.

Eddie didn’t agree, but he didn’t disagree, either. His face remained neutral, and given the circumstances, you considered that a win.

“I can work tonight. Hang the new wallpaper.” A lightning-speed subject change, but you were becoming accustomed to seamlessly shifting tracks to follow his train of thought. “I’ll be back out as soon as I finish this.” He lifted the cigarette to his mouth again and you nodded, closing the door behind you.

Part of you expected him not to return. If his brain worked like yours, he would overthink the conversation, replaying it over and over until he’d wrung out all the positives and left it saturated with the negatives. He’d opt to stay in his room and smoke out his pack, leaving the wallpaper job unfinished. But you heard the door hinge creak and his footsteps pattering into the lobby.

One thousand words flooded your brain to form myriad sentences, from a joking long time, no see to a much more serious who were you writing about?

Ben thought Eddie had feelings for you, ones that stretched past the platonic confines. But he’d only met him once, briefly. He didn’t really know him. 

Want what I can’t have She’s got me mixed up

Did you really know him?

Eddie had an endless list of things he couldn’t have, which often was the case for people facing poverty. As for the girl who had him mixed up, you couldn’t narrow that down, either. The only women you’d seen him interact with were Phyllis (an unlikely muse, but it wouldn’t be the most bizarre case of unrequited love you’d ever heard of), your mom (again, not likely), and you. 

There was no doubt you had him mixed up. Maybe even fucked up, as he’d written and crossed out. But had you had enough of an effect on him to warrant poetry or song lyrics–

Song lyrics.

It all clicked into place: The band; more specifically, the drummer who happened to be his ex-girlfriend. He’d gone to see them play. He could have spoken to her, and maybe realized that a spark was still present. A real spark, not whatever pathetic flicker you might have felt that night when he’d held your hand as you removed wallpaper, or when you’d exchanged gentle touches after his unfortunate wasp’s nest encounter, or when he’d loomed over you in the subway car and a delicate dip in your belly made itself known.

You decided that this explanation, the one in which you had little to no involvement, held the most logic. His inspiration was his past love–potentially his current love–and your argument was a mere distraction from a much more complicated situation.

A natural silence fell over the lobby, a healing balm over the wound you’d taken turns picking at and reopening. It was the perfect setting to finish editing your essay, and yet you found the task impossible. Any threatening grammatical errors paled in comparison to the slight movements of Eddie’s back muscles, visible through his white cotton shirt as he smoothed down the wallpaper panels. 

The pronounced flex of his tricep as he drove the paper cutter above the moldings with utter precision. 

The soft grunt that escaped his lips as he pressed on his thighs to stand up and admire his handiwork. 

You didn’t know how long you’d been staring at him before the slamming front door snapped you out of it. 

“L-Looks good,” you managed, throat suddenly bone-dry. 

Eddie crossed his arms, took a small step back, and nodded. Wide brown eyes scoured the wall for any uneven edges or unglued seams, his lips pursed in concentration. “Not my best work but, uh, it’ll do.” He smirked at you, then jutted his chin to your left.

A middle-age man stood beside the desk, rainwater dripping off of the slope of his nose. He held an umbrella, turned inside out and rendered useless by the wind. 

“Sign out front says ‘vacancy.’” He grumbled and swiped at his bushy eyebrows, revealing a sliver of beer gut when he raised his arm. “Just need a room for the night.”

“Mhm, of course.” You found your footing with a polite smile and collected the stranger’s money, just as you always had, just as you were supposed to. Because you were at work, and that was your job–not watching Eddie hang wallpaper.

As you scanned the wall behind you for a key, a warm whisper tickled your ear, breath tinged with a smoky aroma. A shiver reflexively wiggled down your spine as Eddie spoke, your body unused to this level of proximity.

“Put him away from my room. He looks like a snorer.”

You tucked your lips into your mouth to stifle your laughter. Eddie was right; you weren’t quite sure what it was about the man, but he did look like he snored. Loudly. 

You meant to look over your paper after your shift, but sleep was too seductive to resist. Just one more day, one more final exam, and then you were done. At least until August. 

Summer stretched before you, and though you would still be spending nights behind the desk, your days were wide open. 

Days that might be spent alongside Eddie. 

There was no formal apology from him last night, a fact that nagged at you throughout the bus ride to school and prevented you from looking past the first page of your essay. That, and the burdens of shame both you and Eddie carried: yours from the blatantly wrong accusation, his from…what, exactly? Why was he embarrassed to tell you where he’d been?

The wound was still too raw last night to press on it, to ask further questions; instead, you kept the conversation light and airy. The only foray into dangerous territory came from Eddie himself when he asked about the vandalism at Eisen’s. You couldn’t answer fast enough before clumsily pivoting the discussion to the warming weather.

And maybe it was your inner people pleaser that craved reconciliation, needed it to unfurl and bloom like a budding rose, that lowered your guard and bade you to talk with him. But people-pleasing didn’t explain the warmth that crept through your body, lazily winding through your veins, when he laughed at your jokes.

That laugh–the gentle nose scrunch it evoked, the lightheartedness it exuded, how it chiseled away at the remaining iciness between you. It was all you thought about that night, your heart relaxing as the friendship was no longer in limbo. 

But when you got to class and flipped through your essay one last time, that newfound homeostasis meant nothing. Yes, there were ten pages present and ready to be stapled, but unless your conclusion focused on angsty song lyrics, you were missing the final page.

Dread’s chill pricked at you, followed by an overbearing wash of heat. The granola bar you’d scarfed down threatened to make a reappearance. 

Stupid. How could I have been so careless? All I had to do was check before I left home, but I was too busy thinking about Eddie to do the bare minimum.

It was a bad dream; you’d wake up and find yourself in bed with your full essay safely stored in your bag. All you had to do was wake up and page ten would be a continuation of psychological development in infancy. 

Your eyes opened hopefully, but you were still in the classroom, and the page still beared Eddie’s sloppy scrawl:

I’m the castle She’s the queen Can’t be a king I’m too obscene

The lyrics a few lines down stopped mid-sentence:

Crushed beneath a broken dream Failed to launch now I

You were wasting precious time. If you left now, you could probably make it home and back before the professor left. You’d have to fork over the money for a dollar cab and forgo your afternoon coffee, but it was a sacrifice you needed to make. 

Stupid stupid stupid—

Your name being called drew you from your pit of self-loathing. It wasn’t Nora; the voice was too masculine and too far away for it to come from beside you. 

It was someone with the same name. Just a coincidence. 

And then you heard it again. Loud enough so it echoed down the hall, but not frantic. And yet your heart fluttered in your chest. 

Eddie. 

There was no way; he couldn’t be—

You squeezed past Nora and thundered towards the door, trying to quell your hopes before they rose too high. 

But there he stood, sweat pasting his hair to his forehead. His chest heaved beneath a white cotton undershirt that was tight around the biceps. Deep brown eyes lit up when he spotted you in the doorway, his lips curving in a triumphant smile. 

“I have your paper!” Sure enough, your conclusion paragraph was clenched in his calloused hand.

You could have cried with relief. Fueled by gratefulness and residual adrenaline, you flung your arms around him. Your hands found his back muscles; at first tensed, almost reflexively, but quickly relaxed. The paper crinkling between your torsos jarred you out of the moment, and you took a step back before he could return the gesture—if he even would have. 

“Sorry, I…” Words suddenly evaded you, eviscerated by the musky scent of his deodorant. He didn’t appear to be uncomfortable, all soft doe eyes and lazy grins from his unlikely heroism, but…still. Your relationship now teetered between employee and friend, and you couldn’t afford to knock it off-balance. “How did you get here so fast? And how did you find me?”

Eddie exhaled a chuckle. “Took a cab. And when I got here, I asked every other person where the psychology classes were.”

“You walked from where the dollar cab dropped you off?” How many blocks was that? No wonder he was sweating. 

His cheeks, already flushed from exertion, tinged a deeper shade of pink. “N-No, I, um…it was a regular cab.”

Sheer disbelief widened your eyes. He must have dipped into his meager savings to shell out the money for an actual cab, putting him even farther behind in his journey home. 

“I…” There were one thousand ways to finish your sentence. 

I can pay you back. 

I can’t believe you did this for me. 

I am so sorry I ever doubted your character. 

I wish we’d hugged just a moment longer. 

You finally settled on a string of words that required no courage at all, just a genuine thankful smile. “I have your lyrics. Let me turn in my paper and I’ll grab them for you.”

Eddie’s timid expression shifted into one of amusement. “Shit, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Was wondering where those went.”

Opportunity splayed out in front of you, tempting you to ask him about the woman who had him mixed up. Every cell in your body ached to know if she was the same queen he’d placed on a royal pedestal, unattainable despite his valiant efforts. 

Was it fear or politeness that held your tongue? You weren’t supposed to see the lyrics in the first place; how could you justify your questions? Sorry I read your innermost thoughts without permission, but could I pick your brain about them?

Any doubts about your intentions were confirmed when he took the page from you, cocked his head, and asked: “What’d you think?”

There it was. Your opening. You could see it, practically touch it, your fingertips brushing the chance to admit that the songs’ mysterious inspiration gnawed at you—

But then he might ask why you wanted to know. And, quite honestly, you lacked the energy to figure it out for yourself. The desire was too strong to be nosiness, too personal to be gossip. 

Not to mention the inexplicable sourness that burned your esophagus when you’d considered the high probability that he’d written them about his ex-girlfriend. 

“Really good,” you managed. “I can’t wait for the finished product.”

Coward. 

“Me, too,” he agreed with a laugh. “I’m sure the folks at the train station are dying to hear it.”

“The rats’ll give you a standing ovation.”

He snickered. “My biggest fans.” 

A hand squeezing yours prevented you from getting lost in the slight dimple that appeared when he smiled. Nora now stood beside you, expression innocuous to Eddie or any other man, but her dark brown eyes silently asked, are you okay?

I’m fine, you replied with a squeeze of your own, grateful for someone who swooped in seeing you with a man she didn’t know.

“Nora, this is Eddie,” you introduced her. “He’s–he’s my friend who’s been helping us out around the motel. Eddie, this is Nora, best friend and study buddy extraordinaire.”

“Ahh, Wallpaper Boy.” Nora furrowed a brow. “You go to school here?”

Eddie cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head. “No, I…she left her paper, so…” He trailed off as though embarrassed by his chivalry. 

“So now she can graduate!” Nora wrapped you in an embrace so tight that you briefly worried about your shoulder dislocating. She leaned in knowingly, her tone teasing with an air of seriousness. “And keep me company at the ceremony, right?”

You rolled your eyes, acutely aware that Eddie was watching the entire interaction. The last thing you wanted was attention drawn to the fact that you weren’t attending graduation. “Maybe,” was all you said, and Nora left it at that.

There was an awkward beat before anyone spoke again, and it was Eddie who eventually filled the silence. “Heading home now?” He asked you, already starting towards the building’s doors. 

“No, I’m going to Eisen’s. I promised Ben that I’d help clean the graffiti.” You braced yourself for a volatile reaction, or at least something akin to annoyance, but his response was more surprising than any snarky remark. 

“I’ll come with.”

Cocking a disbelieving brow, you did your best to keep your tone free of judgment. You were waiting for the gotcha, but you couldn’t let him know that. “Seriously?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, why not? I’ve got the day free, and I have some…expertise in graffiti removal.” He relented with a shrug when you and Nora exchanged curious glances, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “My trailer got hit a time or twelve back in the day. The tragic life of a Satan-worshiping freak, y’know?”

“But I bet the vandalizers were upstanding citizens.”

“Keys to the city and everything.” Eddie stuck out his hand, palm up, and you could see the details etched into his pale skin. Calluses decorated the pads of his fingers; you’d assumed they were mostly from guitar playing, but now you could add physical labor to their origins. He looked down at his hand, then back at you. “Shall we?”

Your own hands were suddenly slick with anxious perspiration, like a middle school student on her first-ever date. Even that juvenile scenario held more significance than this—two friends scrubbing down a hardware store was a far cry from the Sandra Brown romance novels you secretly devoured in high school. 

And yet, you felt it—that soft electricity that crackled through your whorls of fingerprints when you slid your palm against his, the jolt of energy as he tugged you forward and laced his fingers with yours. If he noticed the nervousness that embarrassing seeped from your pores, he didn’t mention it. 

Nora, ever astute, excused herself with a story about not wanting to miss the bus, but not before whispering in your ear, “he’s cute.” An approval that would almost certainly be followed up with a phone call later to discuss the fine details of the afternoon’s escapades. 

There are no ‘escapades,’ you reminded yourself. You’re removing graffiti, not embarking on a Parisian vacation. 

Eddie led the way until he reached the building’s doors, blinking as his eyes once again adjusted to the sunlight. “I, uh, I have no idea where we’re going.”

You laughed at his candor. “Follow me.”

It was an opportunity to break the grasp, to unleash the anxiety that threatened to cleave you and Eddie back into two separate pieces. He was dangerous because he was temporary; if you allowed him in even farther than you already had—beyond the confines of friendship—his inevitable departure would destroy you. 

Let go. Let go. Let. Go. 

And yet you kept holding on, adjusting only to take the lead. Eddie’s thumb brushed against yours, pausing just at the knuckle to press down in subtle acknowledgment. 

Hi. 

You pressed back with an accompanying smile. 

Hi. 

This time when you reached the subway station, you both jumped the turnstile. 

--

taglist (now closed ♥):

@theintimatewriter @mandyjo8719 @storiesbyrhi @lady-munson @moonmark98 @squidscottjeans @therealbaberuthless @emxxblog @munson-mjstan @loves0phelia @kthomps914 @aysheashea @munsonsbtch @mmunson86 @b-irock @ginasellsbooks @erinekc @the-unforgivenn @dashingdeb16 @micheledawn1975 @yujyujj @eddies-acousticguitar @daisy-munson @kellsck @foreveranexpatsposts @mykuup @chatteringfox @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @sapphire4082 @katethetank @sidthedollface2 @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @mysteris-things @mrsjellymunson @josephquinnsfreckles @the-disaster-in-waiting @eddielowe @hugdealer @rip-quizilla @munson-girl@fishwithtitz @costellation-hunter @cloudroomblog @emsgoodthinkin

[fadingstudentbananacookie]

It's hilarious how Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren carry the Green's legacy in spirit by destroying House Targaryen through internal conflicts decades later.

Aegon IV grows up to be far more extreme and gluttonous than Aegon II could ever be, coupled with a greater degree of cowardice (Aegon II would never). His sister Naerys is a little Helaena/Alicent-coded, but her cousin Daena mirrors Alicent more than I could imagine. And I am precisely talking about book!Alicent here.

Both Alicent and Daena were unapologetic in their pursuit of power after years of abuse and neglect, demanding the realm recognize their sons as kings by birthright. Neither of them gave two fucks about starting a civil war and I call that a slayyy. Go, my queens!

If Daena had been more like Rhaenyra, believe me when I say I wouldn't have liked her as much. It's their defiance that makes both Alicent and Daena more compelling characters.

I don't necessarily think Daena would have liked Alicent, but she would have definitely felt grudging respect and admiration for her courage.

Daeron the Young Dragon is just like Daeron the Daring (both are extremely popular among the nobles and the smallfolk). Both died young and were eternalized. Baelor the Blessed is obsessed with catholicism and guilt to a point that would even scare Alicent and Criston.

Aemon the Dragonknight is essentially a more refined, though not necessarily cooler, version of Aemond One-Eye. Aemon literally stood aside while his sister endured years of sexual and psychological abuse from her brother-husband. Aemond would never have stood by if Aegon II had tried to harm Helaena. His loyalty and protectiveness towards his sister would have driven him to intervene. Their love stories are similar too, with many fans shipping Aemond with Helaena, and Aemon with Naerys.

Elaena is intriguing, but there's not much to say about her or her sister Rhaena.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren are worse than the Targtowers in every aspect. Alicent (the Hightowers) and her children de-stabilized House Targaryen during the Dance, but Rhaenyra's grandchildren did so much worse by starting a civil war that lasted for generations to come. Team Black got the realm and power back, and they still fucked up. Again.

Another intriguing aspect is that Alicent and her children had legitimate reasons to resist and fight for Aegon's claim to the throne by feudal right—even if those reasons were fueled by spite and revenge. Alicent endured years of sexual abuse from Viserys, bearing children he barely acknowledged. She was humiliated in court and called "mad" when her son lost his eye, and Rhaenyra's son faced no repercussions—not even a slap on the wrist.

The Targtower children were neglected by their father for years and were practically forgotten when Rhaenyra lived in the Red Keep with her sons in tow. (And if you think Rhaenyra didn’t use her father’s love and rejection of his other children as a political machination, then you’re an absolute idiot.) If usurping her throne was the biggest fuck you they could give Rhaenyra and Viserys, then I fully support it!

Despite their complicated and angry feelings towards each other, the Greens would never act on them to cause significant harm. They understood that they only had each other for support and protection. But Rhaenyra's grandchildren, who were also in a similar situation, harbored outright hatred for each other for no reason! You'd think after the Dance, they would have learned a thing or two about the importance of family, but the gang didn't give a single fuck LMAO.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren didn't have significant opposition. House Targaryen still held substantial power and ruled over the other Great Houses. Although they had to be more cautious without having dragons to threaten others, the internal strife could have been avoided if Daena and her sisters had been treated like actual human beings rather than cattle. (If Alicent was treated better and her children were acknowledged by Viserys and the rest of his family). The lack of care and respect towards them sowed the seeds of war, leading to the internal conflicts that ultimately weakened the dynasty.

The generational cycle of abuse and neglect within House Targaryen is one of the main key reasons why they were driven to extinction in merely three centuries. House Hightower and House Baratheon only did so little to show their true color.

Rhaenyra's claim that "The only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon was itself," couldn't be more accurate!

[sonics-atelier]

Examining Hypocrisy: Cassian's Words and Actions in the Face of Eris' Trauma

Thank you to @watcherintheweyr 💗

In a recent incident, Cassian's choice of words towards a man who had just endured torture has sparked controversy and raised questions about his own actions and character.

Calling someone who has undergone torture a "coward" is not only insensitive but also hypocritical, especially coming from someone who prides himself on strength and valor.

It undermines the immense physical and psychological trauma that victims of torture endure, often leaving lasting scars that go far beyond mere cowardice.

What's particularly striking about Cassian's remark is the contrast between his harsh judgment of others' perceived weaknesses and his own actions when faced with adversity.

Despite his reputation as a fierce warrior, Cassian's inability to stand up for his mate during crucial moments challenges the very notion of bravery and loyalty that he espouses.

Rather than condemning others for their perceived shortcomings, perhaps Cassian should reflect on his own actions and consider how he can demonstrate true courage and integrity in the face of adversity.

Standing by one's friends and allies, even in the darkest of times, requires more than just physical strength—it demands unwavering loyalty and moral courage, qualities that Cassian should strive to embody in his own life.

[dragon-ball-meta]

And another thing.

I'm so beyond tired of seeing Vegeta Apologists try to minimize or spin what he did as excusable or "expected" because "he's Vegeta and wants a real challenge", so let me just go ahead and remind people of what exactly he did. No frills, no fog of memory, just the events as they happened.

The complete and utter betrayal, the way he attacked his own son to literally help it happen, the way he called his terror and horrified memories cowardice, and all this just to try to prove his machismo. But somehow this isn't as bad as tossing Cell a Senzu as a psychological ploy, or refusing to murder someone who's hiding, terrified, someone who'd frankly done nothing to warrant her death, when there were TWO people strong enough to kill that monster already in play on the battlefield. This is beyond favoritism at this point.

[hellosweetart]

Hi, so for the Serial Killer Francis Au, I have some ideas (btw I'm not the SK Francis anon, so there could be some inaccuracies in the AU here and there)

About the Milkbread route of the AU, what if: Nacha is a nervous wreck? Of course, she is nice, bubbly, but she also is a ball of crippling anxiety, always scared of messing up everything in her life, from relationship, to work, and to her overall reputation?

As Nacha hung around with Francis, she still noticed something was wrong about him, like how uncaring he was to the world, how sometimes he would drop the most disturbing and morbid statements, but she was just a little bit less decisive. Now at that time, psychology was not a big thing yet, so while her gut was screaming that he's a dangerous man, she still had zero evidence to actually prove that he was and had no reason to distance herself from him. Since Nacha's gut feeling was strong, she even called some of her friends and family members from outside the building to evaluate Francis' behavior. However, all of the people whom Nacha contacted waved off her concerns and some even said that her worries were ridiculous and she might even make a fool of herself if she kept worrying.

So, to not be the jerk, Nacha stayed with Francis. Francis was a smart man, so when he saw Nacha exhibiting her discomfort when he acted "off", he knew to adjust his act. Eventually, Nacha ultimately felt bad for thinking of Francis as one creepy man, (even if her worries is totally valid), and even dated and had Ana with him.

And fast forward till Nacha killed someone and was too scared to do anything that she called Francis and confessed everything. Francis of course was over the moon in a twisted way and helped Nacha with the corpse, pretty much by butchering it so it looks like a doppelgänger mauled the victim.

At this point, Nacha would realize that her gut was right all along because: no way a normal person would look so excited dissecting a whole corpse, and from the way he worked, so "professional" for lack of better terms that it's definitely not his first time.

She had 2 choices: 1, say nothing and live with this cursed knowledge that her husband was a monster in the form of a human while pretend that everything were fine; or 2, confront him about his ways and behaviors, but get blackmailed back because he knew she killed someone. It was not like she had a video recording of Francis casually dissecting a corpse and like I said before, all of Francis' behavior can be chalked up to jokes and stuff, which means that she can't get him arrested, due to lack of proof.

Francis can now force Nacha help him around with his kills, something like a twisted bonding time between the couple. He makes the kills, she helps with the disposing, both of them get bloody together and sometimes she even kill under his threats too. She now can out him for being a murderer, but she would also end up in jail for being his accomplice.

In other words, her cowardice and lack of trust in her own judgement doomed her.

Then come another character: Izaack Gauss. He's the nosy reporter type, whom, like Nacha, notice something off about Francis, but has no proof to accuse him of anything. He's been trying to befriend Nacha for ages to get her to spill something interesting to him about her husband, but she had nothing to say to him... until now. This time, she can rat Francis out to Izaack, and can actually get away scott free since Izaack would be covering for her. But would she actually do it? Or would she be too broken and too drowned in her own regrets to do anything? Or maybe... she may even kill Izaack, in her shattered mental state?

Also, since I also see Francis with Angus and William being friends with dubious morality, I think it'd be somewhat funny if Angus explains his friend group to a random lackey of his like this:

"Ah yes, me, the nerd who created the doppelganger catastrophe, and a dude with superb killing and torturing skills plus his wife who makes good food but looks a bit too traumatized lately, meh, at least she's not ratting any of us out."

This is a great headcanon. Though if SK Francis actively killed someone and need to dispose of the body, he would rather just do it by himself than ask assistance from Nacha. I believe he would prefer to fix his own mess because, in his own standards, he would be a "bad husband" to ask for his wife's help. And if Nacha fell into the same mess (like what she did to the workmate bastard who sexually harassed her), SK Francis would be more than willing to help her.

Speaking of Nacha's trouble, here is my sketch:

Ana peeks out and yeah...something is off with her father.

Also, another thing about my HC for Angus is that on this universe, he doesn't often smile. I think its because of trauma he had endured of owning a shady business and then came along with SK Francis where he has developed a strange close relationship. He can't tell if its amazement, fear, amusement or infatuation...

[semehere]

Armand wants absolute control, to the point of paranoia, which is precisely his downfall. 

We are presented with two puzzles regarding Armand’s decisions, because logically, they are unnecessary: 1/ his killing of Claudia (indirectly or directly), and 2/ his memory wiping Louis in San Francisco. Armand doesn't have to torture Daniel over Louis' faintest interest, nor does he have to eliminate Claudia and Lestat from Louis' life through the orchestration of the trial, nor is he forced to wipe Louis’ memory in San Francisco. These actions ironically had the unintended effect of causing a rift between him and Louis. Here I want to argue that Armand took drastic, unnecessary, even risky action out of paranoia and his deep need for control.

1/ The part where Armand wiped Louis' memory of the San Francisco night - let's assume that he wiped Louis' mind without his consent. (This is up for debate - the show so far leaves enough ambiguity for it to go either way.) But why? Armand already won the fight. Louis apologized to him repeatedly, renewed his vow to Armand, and rejected Lestat by begging Armand not to call Lestat. That makes Armand’s memory wipe so puzzling at first to me, since I think there would be no need for such a drastic measure. 

My best explanation is down to Armand’s personality - he doesn’t want even a slightest crack in the relationship, when what he wants is perfection. He doesn’t want Louis to remember the hurtful things they spoke to one another, and definitely doesn’t want Louis to remember that Armand’s words pushed him to go out to the sun. He doesn’t want Louis to recall all the cruel behaviors he exhibited while Louis was incapacitated in the bed - torturing Daniel, taunting Louis, calling Lestat. Armand was also extremely jealous of Louis’ slightest attention to Daniel, so that he also wiped that part where Louis begged for him to spare Daniel’s life. Those are why he wiped Louis’ memory.

2/ Another way Armand exhibits his paranoia is through the trial. The narrative shows us there is no need for him to kill Claudia to “unburden” Louis of her. Claudia was gone, off with Madeline, and had to be away from Paris out of necessity, effectively removing herself from Louis’ life. Armand, again, does not have to eliminate Claudia, especially if he doesn’t care about maintaining power in his coven and coming off as weak and ineffectual as coven maitre.

Yet Armand feels threatened by Claudia nonetheless, because she is competing for Louis’ love and attention. It definitely doesn’t help that Louis’ slit his wrist and let himself bleed out on the couch the night he turned Madeline because Claudia left him. (recalling the moment he contemplated sitting on the bench waiting for sunrise in S1) Louis can get suicidal and depressive over Claudia, but so will he if Claudia is put to death over the trial. 

The trial serves a dual purpose - to eliminate Claudia (through death) and Lestat (through betrayal) from Louis’ life. It’s killing two birds with one stone because Lestat caused Claudia’s death by showing up at all, and then testifying against them. I think there is no world in which Louis would return to Lestat, if he ever loved Claudia at all. That makes Armand’s cowardice for inaction come off as a much better alternative.

Armand’s decision is not so much out of physical, circumstantial necessity but out of a psychological, internal necessity. Armand doesn't just want control, he wants complete control, absolute annihilation of the opposition to his goals and wants, which ironically will forever prevent him from ever achieving his desires.

[ladyalienist]

So apparently a new revision of the DSM has been published and of course the changes are as stupid as imaginable. A new name for what was called Intellectual Disability, now named Intellectual Developement Disorder (God forbid we call a spade a spade and stop using fucking euphemisms to avoid dealing with "icky" realities). The (re)introduction of Prolonged Grief Disorder (ok) and slight changes to diagnostic criteria in plenty of conditions, mainly substituting symptoms/diagnosis/disorder with problems, just to again keep on using euphemisms because people cannot fucking handle reality.

Interestingly they keep on pushing for inclusive language, muddling the already ridiculous criteria for gender dysphoria and claiming they will also discuss the impact of racism/discrimination in mental distress (and of course the latter is important but allow me to have my doubts they will actually write something that makes sense, especially outside of the USA) and a new guideline for self-harm behaviour (I have the same doubts as before).

✨Things they did not do:✨

exploring the impact of new technologies on mental developement (no changes in the ADHD diagnosis, for real?)

exploring the impact of porn

exploring the impact of social media on distress and social contagion

discuss a new paradigm for trauma-related conditions, including personality disorders (on which my position is slightly different than the one Radbr usually has, but that is not the point)

discuss different forms of treatment for various forms of distress (surely in 10 fucking years there must have been some significant innovation...)

So basically this is a useless fucking thing just to try and justify APA's existence and spending 200 euros on a manual that has little to no substance to provide.

Fucking parasites, that's what they are.

EDIT because of course I do not notice stuff and someone else does:

✨The things they did not do✨ also include:

exploring/discussing the impact of Covid, either for the long-term consequence of the infection itself or the isolation and societal changes in the pandemic period

related to Covid, the awfully big number of people whose grief process never began to begin with: people who are not processing the death of a beloved one, a significant distress that APA would keep in mind if they gave two fucks about human welfare instead of money.

[hanzajesthanza]

"vampire that has resolved to not drink blood" is a done trope already that makes a sympathetic character out of a well-known mythological creature, but regis' character actually transcends the trope even more by using some crucial changes to tell a compelling story about addiction.

because following the trope, the vampire has sworn off of blood out of a noble cause, most likely not wanting to harm humans. but, were they to drink blood, it would be only natural for them to "give in," as it were, and it would be an instinctual (and perhaps animalistic) act.

but vampires in the witcher don't need blood to survive, it's like alcohol for them. so for regis, blood is not a life-giving force. it's actually the opposite.

it's what tortured him for centuries, slowly and miserably, in happiness and swaggering boldness and heartbreak and tragedy, it became everything and he lost everything. the very reason of his death.

so when regis was recovering, trying to stay sober, and wanted a drink—it's not like in the trope, where, if he could just have a little blood, it would heal him or cure him or dispel his hunger and anxiety... no... it would do the opposite. it would send him back on a downward spiral, he would not consume the blood, it would consume him. it would turn his life back into a dreadful hell. and eventually, kill him. again.

there's no good reason that he wants it. it's not logical, it's not for survival... it's just there, gnawing at his psyche and agonizing him.

it's not a physical self-restraint and a battle with the physical body which in its very nature could only ever require such a thing to live, it's a psychological self-restraint and a battle with the mind, which aches for something that will ease suffering in times of pain, grant boldness in times of cowardice. it's not an animalistic struggle, it's an exceptionally human one... his tortured intellectual character is fully suited for this story.

for the trope vampire, the audience maybe... wants them to drink blood. maybe we're sympathetic to their "cravings," for all of us have probably also wanted something only natural to us, but denied ourselves it out of social constraints or loftier ideals. we see them as a being deprived of food, of love, of life... why not just a little, after all?

but for regis, i think the audience should see his relationship with blood for what it is—recovered alcoholism. it's not "oh, if he could just drink a little blood..." "surely, there could be a way he could do it just to satisfy a desire..." no! he finally escaped from it, he finally got away from it through very difficult introspective work.

he can finally live his life without it, he can be free from it. he no longer desires it, it's not anything to him any more. because he embarked not only on a journey of recovery and sobriety, but of self-love, inner peace, healing.

to drink again would kill him. "him" as we know him now... he would have to find himself in an utterly dark, entirely hopeless, complete place of despair to be forced into drinking again. ...

[fiction-quotes]

We all knew, of course. Everyone knows, but no one looks. We don't look because if we look it makes us evil because we aren't doing something about it, or it makes us sad because we can't do anything about it, or it proves that we're monsters when we always thought we were righteous because we won't do anything about it. Either way, safer not to look.

  —  84K (Claire North)

[hermit-frog]

Something I don't get is WHY Armand didn't try to save Louis. And WHY did he save Louis from the coffin if he intented Louis to die on stage?? Is it just cowardice or am i missing something here?

Have literally two posts about why Armand didn't try to save Louis, guys do at least some minimum research, + rewatch the ep.

Have already shared my take on why Armand had released Louis out of the “banishment” but unfortunately for you, i still got few thoughts.

Louis was supposed to go with Claudia, burning alive in one or two minutes is much better than a slow, agonizing death. I know that Armand's inaction in the 70s was basically torture and punishment, but in this case Armand is the one aching with remorse, rightfully so (unlike 70s Louis). It was haunting him, the screams, the image of Louis, someone he loves, lying there in his claustrophobic darkness, starving and grieving, losing his mind. I find it interesting how Louis' starvation had fed Armand's guilt. I'm afraid you can't disassociate your way out of this one, Mandy. He couldn't take it.

Armand might be the strongest in the coven, but ironically, he is also one of the weakest. I mean, for god’s sake, he got played by Sam (and later Rashid and Daniel. cringefail lmao but it's not about that, it's about his psychological state). If we can trust Santiago (him being the mastermind) and the plot, that Armand wasn't actually pulling the strings since the beginning, like in the books, but was indeed given an ultimatum, then he's more pathetic panicked wet 🥺 loser than i had expected, lol. If Armand was in fact outcasted, humbled and humiliated, it made him extra vulnerable and sensitive to be around Louis, witnessing his pain was too much to bear. I 100% believe that Armand loved Louis. That theory going around that Armand was only with Louis to piss off Lestat, yeah, hate that. Lestat🤝Y'all attempting olympic level gymnastics in order to make everything about Lestat. No, thank you.

Idk how close to the truth Assad is in this interview, but if he's right, then i suppose there's little to no room for speculation behind Armand's actions at that moment. There could've been a theory (maybe there is) that Armand had used Louis like Lestat “You let it happen?” “Yes.” “You led him there, so he could destroy it.”, in this case to get his power back, but had miscalculated Louis' mind state, what he's capable of when blinded by rage and revenge. Resulting with him sitting on the ashes of his previous life, and having no option but to go with Louis.

But i don't like it, it doesn't make sense. Daniel ponders: “Thirteen to one. Maybe you were hedging your bets? See who emerges from the ash heap.” Armand had released Louis, and later when faced with consequences couldn't kill him again. To love him, to betray, to witness the trial, to hear Louis scream and suffer… Could Armand do it after everything they had, after the brutal betrayal that took Louis' daughter? Was Louis' determination to avenge Claudia and sacrifice himself in the process a turning point for Armand, just like in the tunnels? Armand couldn't attempt to kill Louis for the 3rd time, so he just let him.

Indeed the entire theatre paid for his grief and his rage, and justly so perhaps. I can make no judgment. I did not love those decadent and cynical French mummers. Those I had loved, and those who I could love, were, save for Louis de Pointe du Lac, utterly beyond my grasp. I must have Louis, that was my injunction. I knew no other. So I did not interfere when Louis incinerated the Coven and the infamous theatre, striking, at the risk of his own life, with flame and scythe at the very hour of dawn.

Have in mind that this is the book Armand, the one who had orchestrated the whole thing since the beginning, so you can only imagine how show Armand felt.

[the-daily-dreamer]

Black stans really think their side are the good guys

Oh my goodness how vile. I sincerely hope this is satire, but even then. Just gross.

Blood and Cheese are sent to kill a toddler, which should be bad enough. But instead it’s much worse. They strangle a bedmaid, tie and gag Alicent and make her wait in fear for her daughter and grandchildren, force Helaena to choose a child to kill, threaten to rape a toddler girl in front of her mother and grandmother, and then murder the toddler they were sent to kill.

They maximize the torture on such a horrible scale. They threaten to rape a four year old little girl. They kill an innocent maid. They force an innocent mother to pick which of her innocent children she is ok with having murdered before her eyes, and for nothing. The pure psychological torture against not only Alicent and Helaena but also the poor toddlers. This is torture so bad that Helaena jumps from a window in grief and madness.

I would also like to bring up the fact that black Stans are so hypocritical, it’s insane. They will scream and cry about Alicent wanting an eye for an eye in a circumstance where she had a breakdown and wanted the actual perpetrator of the mutilation of her son punished. Even though she explicitly states that she does not want an eye for an eye later on when she’s calm, it doesn’t matter. It’s an unforgivable notion to want equal retribution and punishment.

But then Daemon and Rhaenyra are perfectly ok to kill innocent toddlers who had zero involvement in the murder of Luc? Suddenly the retribution rhetoric is ok? An eye for an eye is unforgivable and too far, but a son for a son is perfectly fine? It’s utter nonsense, and they can’t even keep their own opinions straight. Besides. A son for a son should be Aemond in return for Luc. The supposed killer gets killed. That is retribution. Murdering a toddler in front of his mother because he happens to be the son of the king isn’t retribution. It’s cowardice and cruelty, but what more can you expect from Daemon and his stans.

In the end, Black Stans truly can be the most vile people, and they somehow manage to consistently get worse. So just a message to y’all: cheering for the threat of rape against a toddler and the murder of another toddler is such a scummy thing to do. Fictional or not. It’s not funny, it’s horrific. And if you’re excited for it then you’re showing your true colors and they are gross.