#this is a The Horror of Girlhood set

[amityvillehorror]

Sad. Very sad... To be lost like this. Sad, sad, sad that when someone asks you, What do you want? nothing comes to mind but a pair of fists clutching little broken bits.”

- Mona Awad, "Bunny"

[adacayifedaisi]

Mia Goth behind the scenes of X (2022)

[yandere-wishes]

｡⸝❀Desert Rose ❀⸜｡

�� Yandere! Paul Muad'Dib Atreides x Reader x Yandere! Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: You miss the desert. Miss the sun and the sand and the place where they buried your heart. So you run and pray that they won't catch you. 

⁀➷Warnings: Yandere behavior, obsessive tendencies blood and gore, bloodplay, knifeplay, injuries, Feyd being Feyd. Paul is high on spice for 60% of the story. Part two will be much more fluffy. 

The thing they don't tell you about the desert is that it's alive. A breathing creature with feelings and a beating heart.~💜

There's blood on the Sietch floor, red and thick and sacrilegious. 

You thought you had run far enough, fast enough. You thought you had escaped. 

How terrifying it is to be betrayed by that which you love most. How terrifying it is when you've forgotten how to harmonize with that which love most. 

That applies to the desert.

That applies to people too. 

There's something about the sun that's never been more poetic. It's harsh in its lashes, a cruel master, reminding you of what you'd been born into. It beats down something terrible and you can't help but suppress the frantic giggle that escapes your dry lips."You're so mean" you mumble, the glimmers muddle your focus. You see silhouettes of blue-eyed warlords and tar-painted gladiators. Feel phantom kisses rummage across the hollow of your bones. 

All of this is too familiar.

It makes you sick. 

Back then your father had reveled in Muad'Dib's coming. Proud to meet a warrior such as he. He'd spent hours refining his war plans, polishing his battle tactics. It's always such a strange site to see excitement in such a strict man. 

He introduced himself as destiny's child when he arrived. Dissolved and dehydrated with curls coated in sand. He was the desert's golden boy sent to fulfill every prophecy you'd ever been told. 

And yet, to you, he'd simply looked like just another heartthrob.

Just another boy's name to whisper to your friends during blasphemous games under the starry night sky. He had been no different than any tribal leader or warrior's son. That was truly such a miraculous time, back when such an atrocious thing had been merely a girlhood toy. 

Your father hadn't proposed marriage or alliances. That's not the Freman way, not during war. That doesn't stop the renegade gaze you've felt since he arrived. There's something stalking the desert, something too powerful to contain. You feel its chill, like the space between breaths before the breaching of the shai hulud. 

"You can call me Paul..." 

Lisan Al Gaib

The desert is a cacophony of dreams and nightmares. Deadly once the blood-deep navigation atrophies from constant complacency. You try to remember the prom of each foot. When to straighten, when to bend. Each step feels like treading through a mirage, murky and viscous. Too thick, too loose, you think you might sink. Fall through a false bottom into something great and endless. 

There is no bottom, no end. 

Only darkness, vast and perpetual. 

You wonder if that's what it feels like to be swallowed by a sandworm. If there is security in its infinite stomach. If it's better than the Arrakeen Palace. Daunting, soulless structure, home to monsters and killers. 

The sand grows thin. 

It's always the thinnest nearest a Sietch.

You made it...

You wonder why it had all felt so gruesome, so unholy. Paul's cacoon of naivety was breached, its remnants nesting underneath his feet, their spines snapping with each ground-quaking step he took. Arrakis had given birth to something monstrous, something ravenous. Yet all you had seen was a youthful face that tells not of horrors or suffering. It only promises freedom. 

Freedom was supposed to taste sweet, satisfying. The first sip from a childhood oasis. And you guess it had, for a little while. Before the realizations set in. Anyone who so openly grants freedom can take it away too. 

Paul inhales the reverence of the crowd. Savors the saccharine taste of victory on his tongue, before he spits out the essence of his hatred. Watching the blood scorch away under the desert sun. 

He swears he sees the sand dunes bow from the corner of his eye, they're towering magnificently bestowing something lethal onto him. Something they've yearned for, something fragile, something ancient. He deems it responsibility, duty, divinity and spins it into an enamelware crown.

Paul had become king. Not emperor, not sovereign, not overlord. Not yet at least. He's not the boy-prince from a distant planet anymore either. There no longer exists a boyhood carved of temperamental weathers and jagged salt-covered rocks. No more fairy tales of great dukes fighting bulls by the seaside and young princes running off on fighter jets to save mystical witches. There is only the sand and the giants underneath it, only a prophecy cracked whose ichor covers him in gold and stardust. 

He is Muad'Dib, savoir of Dune. 

Paul's eyes rummage through the crowd. Hungry, desperate

seeking out something, someone whose devotion does not show. 

He memorizes the scowl on your face, the dip of your lips. How he longs to feel them under his thumb. 

Duels concluded in death. When the ground has been fed its blood depts. When Jannah and Jahannam are granted another soul. That is when the victor arises. Duels end in death, in a chipped knife and a broken body on the floor. 

This one did not...

The memory still haunts you. 

Not in its breach of rite.

Nor its contradictions to morality.

But in what comes after.

The fear of the thing that was allowed to live...

Paul hadn't killed Feyd. Beaten, mauled, tamed. But not killed.

There is a rostrum made of sand and burnt bones. It was meant to serve as a victory throne, a symbol of a war and a revolt. You aren't so sure about that anymore. Not when it's being desecrated, by a survivor of the very thing it vowed to eradicate. Atop the dias, Paul stands, fingers swathed tightly around a pale, maimed wrist. The crowd stares, speechless as the prophetic son appoints a battered and bleeding Harkonnen Na-baron as his aid, his duke.  

Feyd-Rautha is all jet blacks and blood reds. His eyes hold daggers, impaling anyone who dares to look into them. You can not fathom why Paul, the one who promised a paradise and an end to the Harkonnen oppression would do such a thing. You never thought him holy, you didn't consider him cruel either. 

Paul hands over the spice trade to Feyd. He speaks of concentrated zones away from life. Somewhere deep and forgotten. He says "virtuous" as if it's a sermon only he can comprehend. "We need the funds, we need to rebuild, to fight. The spice is valuable and it will not hinder the awakening of Dune. My cousin will oversee its harvest and trade. The finances will be brought back to Arrakis, back to the Freman."

Maybe it's sorrow, a slithering nuance that won't leave. Maybe it's guilt twice folded and misplaced. Desperation for a kinsmanship

with a family, he had thought all lost. The way he looks at Feyd speaks of hope and trust and everything else a little boy feels when he's dragging his friend by the hand through a forest made of splendor and ideation. But Paul isn't a little boy anymore and Feyd has never been naught save a killer. And you, you can't help but notice how the Muad'dib begins to lose his golden hue. 

The Sietch is cavernous, domed ceiling that expands into the rocks and sandy tiles that stretch as far as the eye can see. Unaltered spice particles dance in the gentle filtered rays of the sun. It feels like home. Like freedom and paradise and everything else those two men had stripped you of. Your body slumps by one of the etched walls. Awaiting your fellow Freman to find you. 

There is a stiffness in the Freman, an elegance that must be mastered. You'd once thought it inherited, a mere bone structure passed on from mother to child. You're not so sure anymore. The stiffness reverberates off the Sietch walls, it's obvious now that it's never been about straight spines and high-held heads. It's the ideals, the loyalties that Fremen carve into their souls. Sooner or later someone will inform the king of where his darling hides. 

All of Arrakis knows who you belong to. 

One of the older women tunnels water down your throat, she cradles your head and shushes you when you try to speak. She spills advice, motherly advice, into your veins. Telling you of how blessed you are to be chosen by the Lisan Al Gaib and his blood. Her embrace is a vice, coddling suffocating and not at all unpleasant. There is a sleek comfort between the witherd silk of her chador. It heartens fatigue residing stubbornly between your bones. It causes your eyes to fade and your mind to race. You forgot the terrors that lay outside, the advancing menace carrying crystalknifes and a voice that shakes worlds. Darkness beckons, a welcomed change. For the first time in months, you feel safe...

You are still a Freman, born of sand and spice. There is a future somewhere with palm trees and rosa persica. You intend to find it, to hold it between your hands running tired fingers over soft cloud-light edges. Arrakis has stood for longer than most planets have existed. You refuse to abandon its fate to a spice addict and a manic.

It's obvious, isn't it?

Maybe it always was...

Arrakeen palace is shaped like a heart, something eternal ungraved. It was young when you first marched through its grand gates. It had felt no less threatening than the sandworms beneath your feet. The spice that flew through the halls was suffocating, a distant, permutated relative of the elixir that had raised you. 

Paul's chancery is something empty, a cut out of Kaahgel masquerading as a citadel of dominance and perspicuity. It, much like the rest of the palace is novice and new. Paul sits in an awkwardly placed plush parlor chair, one retrieved from Caladan no doubt. He squirms in his seat as if his body has too many angles to fit properly in the rounded chair. He's far too accustomed to soft sands and jagged boulders. To sitting cross-legged on something loose and malleable. This luxury is unwelcomed, uncomfortable. You only notice Feyd when his demonic eyes suddenly land on you. He's languidly draped on the carpeted floor. His back half propped up by a quarter-painted wall. He's feeding slices of fruit into his mouth, savering the nick of the knife along his tongue. 

They look so innocent. Sinless, carless little boys playing in a sanctuary fort. Hiding from life and its crushing expectations.

Paul follows his cousin's gaze, he's out of his seat and across the room before you have time to knock. You note the blackness under Paul's eyes, how the synthetic blue feels distant and sunken. Almost as if they're looking at you from meters inside a cave. He's wandering through the twilight of exhaustion. Paradying awakeness like a lost bat caught in the afternoon sun. He's only surviving on artificial energy from the spice he so readily consumes. 

There is an exhilarating lilt in the timber of his voice. A galvanization in the way your name spills from between his lips. "What brings you here?" Paul's fingers dance across your shoulders, gripping them as one does their favorite toy. His eyes hold a fragile reverence, something unstable, denating with the slightest breath. "Lord Usul..." you begin, eyes bouncing between the sandy beiges of the walls. "You don't need to be so formal. Just say my name, like the first time we met." His nails start to dig into your arms, a jovian strength only a divine may possess. You don't remember leaving a deep impression. 

"Paul, I-I need to talk to you about..." Your vision cuts to Feyd, a hidden flare penetrates his legs, you don't dare look the Harkonnen in the eyes. He's far too feral for such raw exhibitions of hate. Yet you want him to feel your abhorrence, your detest. Paul understands, he knows what you're going to say before you've even finished rehearsing in your head. "Feyd doesn't mind, you can talk freely in his presence, I promise you, he won't bite." You swallow the need to argue, to protest, he bites, he definitely bites, and lacerates and kills...

It's easy to fall between the crevices of his voice, to allow the gentle nudges to sway your decisions for you. You wonder if the words coming from your mouth are even truly your own. They had sounded so absolute in your head. So firm. Now they sound dented, feeble, like a child begging to remain awake. You tell the king of how you disapprove of the spice trade, that it should be ceased. Its termination can only benefit the war, hindering the galactical navigation of your enemies. Paul listens with a distracted sort of attendance. His eyes melt into you, tracing your features with a delicate precision. You feel like a map, laid bare, feeding him information. Information he ignores, opting to busy himself with tracing continents and oceans. "Paul please listen" you beg. "Please". You notice an ignited flicker in his eyes, snapping him out of his lucid trance. "You know, since you feel so strongly about...everything. Maybe, maybe you should stay here. With us. Be the queen or duchess or whatever. You can help us rebuild. You can-" 

"What?" Your body jerks back, his fingers don't leave your forearms, pulling you back, closer. "Lord Usual...Paul...what are-" Something slithers between your bones, your skin, your muscles. Pushing past the cracks and sliding inside you. His mind grasps yours, echoing his desire, mapping out its constellation between your crux. 

Paul feels in blues, blues that make up the nuance between worlds. 

The ocean behind the largest dune

The lake beneath the greatest mountain.

The lamination of spice over one's eyes. 

It somehow ends with you. Covered in a color that mimics ambitions and dreams and something practically attainable. 

You feel him reach out, pushing you back into the physical world. Away from the luminous tints and flickering landscapes. 

"I'm saying that everything I do reminds me of you. It's hard not to dedicate every single breath to your memory." Paul's eyes are blown wide, there's a lament carved into his voice. He's pleading, desperate, like trying to chisel rock with a pebble. You don't like where this is going, don't like the mania, the love that's painted so vividly on his face. Your stomach churns, false ecstasy pumping in agonizing doses. This is wrong, you shouldn't feel flattered, gleeful. This isn't a miracle or a blessing. It's a curse, you know this, you have to run to escape. But something in you freezes, a sickly silver of devotion, of habit, a tradition force-fed into your soul keeps your legs stiff and still. 

Devotion is such a slippery thing. Always so close to suffocating. Sometimes all it's good for is a knife that kills. Just a grain of salt in a pulsing wound. 

Your eyes flicker across the room, trying to look at something, anything but him, anything but the Muad'dib who could make you grovel at his feet like a doll without even opening his mouth. It's only in your frantic search for an affix point, that you notice the beast is missing. His dominion left empty. You feel a chill in the room. Something stalking closer, something lethal and rogue. You scream shriveling into Paul's arms as someone grips your waist from behind, encaging you. "You were right cousin, she's as beautiful as you described...and as brave." Your breath hitches, he's touching you. Your body twitches as a cold sweat breaks. "Paul" you plead looking up into his electric blue eyes. He only smiles, contorting his features into something they're not, something soft and arrogant. You see triumph shimmer through his mind. He's won a game you didn't know you were playing. Crowned victor by fate and circumstance and...

and prophecy.

Paul cradles your cheek in his hand, tilting your head up to look at you. 

 "The first time I set eyes upon you, I knew you were the girl in my dreams. The desert rose beckoning me to Arrakis, to Dune. Don't you see, we've been bound by fate?" 

No. 

Feyd slowly licks the shell of your ear, he hums in satisfaction, an action you didn't know could be laced with so much malice. He murmurs something into your jugular, something too violent to decode. 

No.

Please no. 

It's easier to love than to be loved. 

There's a jolt that rings you awake, something violent crawling under your skin. You feel it before you witness it, witness the cold and loneliness not viable in the desert temples. 

The halls scream in silence, 

Hollow, employed out. 

"Hello?" The eerie reverberation of your words leaves you shivering. Scraping along the walls, tumbling into doorless rooms trying to find someone, anyone. You can't remember the last time you'd been alone. 

Utterly alone.

You didn't notice it at first. Didn't notice the unnatural stillness and the deafening silence. there is no life here, but it takes a practically mangled corpse for you to look down at the floor. 

There's blood on the Sietch floor, red and thick and sacrilegious. 

You thought you had run far enough, fast enough. You thought you had escaped. You turn and you run, back from that which you came, feet thundering across the sand-dusted floor. You don't know where you're going, why even run? Helplessness swells inside you, coiling in intricate knots. Only to snap violently when you cross the third threshold. 

The corpses lie at his feet. your frenzied brain tries to count them, only going up to eight before it forgets what comes after. There is more, more bodies, more blood...more bones? But you can't focus on anything else except the glabrous man standing over them, knife pointed downwards, dripping into an endless sea of red. 

Your father used to tell you tales of rivers made of blood. Of mad men claiming divine crusades as they fed bodies into the endless stream. 

You never thought you'd witness it.

It shouldn't feel as conflicting as it does. 

"Darling..." Feyd's voice is gravel on gravel. Rough and coursed. It grinds against your skin reawakening every half-healed scar. 

"no, dear maker, please no" Feyd's gaze rakes over you, lingering on every detail. Toying and probing, much like a predator sizing up its frightened prey. "I missed you" his voice is purely threatening, mocking, he wants you back, needs you back. You can't be forgiven for this deliberate offense.

You try to bolt passed him, it's like a gallon of adrenaline has been shot straight into your chest. There's a scream in the air, you're not sure who it belongs to. you make it to the hallway leading to the contraction arena. Where the bearers of the water of life are nursed. You can see the stone-carved stairs and someone sitting there...

The ground slips beneath your feet, the red liquid having leaked under your soles. In the next breath, you're plunging into redness, shrouded and engulfed and bathed in the blood of your own kind. It feels warm and safe and disgusting. Like watching the stars of your favorite constellation collapse within themselves. It's a destructive kind of comfort, one that only ends in pain and bruises and fractured bones in places you can never wholly identify.

You're drowning, 

the more you thrash the harder it gets to stand. 

You feel the blood entangling you, weaving around your body like a net. 

and then like a shadow, he's over you. 

Looming with the promise of pain, of the misery of the savagery only he can offer.

"Feyd..." his name is razorblades upon your tongue. Your eyes catch his, distant voids colliding. Since when did you start looking into his eyes? When did the torture become worth it? His fingers ensnare your jaw, pushing cheeks and bones together. Feyd straddles your body, knees splashing into the blood. He tugs your head forward violently, before pounding it onto the floor. You moan out in pain a mangled, distorted noise. He only chuckles. Before repeating the motion. "You ran from us, you left us. I should kill you here and now. Bleed you out with the rest of these traitors!" it's hard not to notice the pain his voice harbors, odd how even a monster like Feyd can have his feelings hurt. He lifts his knife, wrapping both hands around the handle before plunging it into your abdomen. You choke, on a shriveled scream or a throat filled with blood you do not know. The colors are dulling and pulsating, somehow too dark and too bright at the same time. Everything feels like it's made of flowing water. Precious streaming water. You can feel the throbbing at the back of your skull, you feel the giddy patter of your heart, and the nervous ticks of your hips under Feyd. 

Feyd...

Has he always been so beautiful?

Your body feels so hot and your mind feels so distant. 

Everything feeds into his endless beauty. 

Why are your lips pulsing? 

your teeth sink in, trying to still the need to kiss. 

"What's wrong princess, trying to play innocent? I know your tricks."

Feyd traces your lips with his. Fingers snake into your hair, pulling at odd intervals. "my sweet stupid little girl" he whispers, a curse and a blessing. He sucks on your bottom lip biting it harshly. Slipping his tongue between your teeth. His kiss is possessive, and swallowing. You feel yourself sinking deeper, wanting him to consume you whole. When he pulls back you feel like you can't breathe, you only existed within his kiss. It's the last thing binding you to this world. 

But then his head dips down. Leaving open-mouthed kisses upon the gushing injury. Feyd drinks deeply from your open wound, ravaging the blood and pushing in silver of a forgotten moonlight. The way his tongue laps at the gaping hole and torn ligament sends a shutter up your spin. When he lifts his head again you watch mesmerized by the way your essence drips from his lips. He kisses you again ferocious and deep and all conusiming. 

You feel so lost and so found.

Grounded and afloat. 

It's only when a scream, a familiar one, in a distance distorted sort of way, rings across the hall that you start to pull away. You push yourself up, palms slipping on the liquid life. From behind Feyd, you notice a man and a women. Young, scared. There is revulse in their blue eyes, yet you can't navigate its direction. You're sure if you weren't bleeding out you could identify them, you're sure you knew them in this lifetime. You hear the blood gushing, hear the crisp whistle of the blade as it slices through flesh. 

Once

Twice. 

Only then does the alluring migraine sober. The metallic tang of blood wafting through the air makes you sick. It's odd how the repugnant scent had alluded you until now.  Even if you'd been lying right in it. You wonder if such a scent would bother them. You doubt it, they tend to revel in the red glory and its hypnotizing associations. 

"Took you long enough, cousin" Feyd's head is turned watching as Paul steps past the corpses. His eyes are vibrant, a sapphire blue that cuts through time and space. He kneels next to you, gaze devouring you in your pitiful state. "why did you run?" he is cold, hurt. His blue eyes betray a degree of relief hidden by a defrauding glower. "I-we love you, you mean everything to us." You look away too exhausted to put up an argument. "I missed being home." You mumble. You swore for a minute something akin to comprehension ripples through the air. You're too delusional to believe in anything solid anymore. But maybe Paul understands, maybe he yearns for the desert too. Maybe he'll go easy on you...

Paul's fingers glide across your stomach, scattering the dust particles that have landed on your still form. The light from the high windows glimmers off the three of you painting something holy, something right, in another world, in another lifetime. When he sees the wound Feyd created he chuckles. " Stars Feyd, at least try to keep her alive." Paul's nails gently rack across the torn ligament, idly playing with the loose skin. Feyd laughs deep and psychotic -is it wrong to say you missed it?- "I couldn't help myself, you should have seen her. Eyes blown wide covered in blood. Stars I just want-" you interrupt him with a low moan. Paul rubs his calloused thumb over your wound, soothing the cut before he presses down. Hard.  

 when he hears the moan he presses harder. Making you wither and hiss. "This is a punishment, (y/n), you're not supposed to be enjoying it." His fingers slither into the open wound, stretching out the ligament " You jolt and holler and cry, begging him to stop. "You're my oasis, the only thing I love in this world. But you ran. YOU LEFT US." His words glitch and crack, the voice shining through penetrating you with a knife seeped in guilt. "I'm sorry." you choke out, only to be rewarded by another harsh cut from Feyd's knife. "I'm the daughter of the desert..." you protest, tears slipping past your hooded eyes. "You're our lover" Feyd barks defensively, aggravated. When the tears begin to leak the pain stops. "Don't waste your water" Paul mutters, wiping away a tear and sucking it between his lips savoring your delicate taste. 

Paul cradles your bleeding head in his lap, lowering his to kiss your crimson-soaked lips, "I love you" he mumbles against you, trying to press the core of his words into you. Making you feel him, making you believe. Feyd tucks your hair out of your face. Slowly pulling you up by your shoulders. The thin smile he offers is such a rare sight it makes your heart explode.

Why did you run away?

Why did you leave the ones you love most?

Your heart is laying on a bed of nails.

Somehow that feels fitting. 

Feyd pulls off the top of his stillsuit, discarding the armor-like pieces. Slowly he lays in the gore, he pulls you over him. His motions slow, mesmeric. You follow just another wave trapped in the current. You're so torn and hurt, broken in ways that can never properly heal. You let it happen, it's easier this way. Slowly he licks his blade clean of your blood, he grabs your wrist places the hilt in your hands, and tucks your fingers over it. "Hold on tight," he advises as he draws your hand back and brings the knife down between his defined muscles. The moan he lets out is profane, it makes you feel euphoric, filled to the brim with the merriment of guilt. Feyd kisses you again, his tongue pushes past your teeth, his conquest of you feels Harkonnen in every way. His tongue down your throat feels like a heavenly bliss. From behind Paul breaks the back of your stillsuit, he licks a strip up and down your spine. You moan into the kiss with Feyd. Slowly Paul starts to whisper firefly kisses into each vertebrae. Sucking melodies into the frail bones. His teeth snick between the cartilage, all scorpion stings, and cobra bites. It feels so right.

Feyd is a cannibalistic star, relishing in the way your wounds bleed into his. He feeds off your pain, feeds off the pain you grant. He's delusional with a cosmic kind of lust. Pulling celestials from their homes to burn into his own body. He loves you, loves how you penetrate him with a knife clad in anathema and adherence too turbulent to understand. 

Paul is, in many ways Feyd's opposite and in many others his equal. The quintessence of the path to hell being paved with good intentions. His kisses are the desert's curse and it's love. He's an entire solar system revolving around the only two people he has left to love. 

Slowly the world grows dark. You feel it hard to remain awake. "Sweet dreams princess" you hear Paul whisper as Feyd shuffles under you. You fall into his expecting arms. Safe and strong. The day has been so long and bootless. so tiring. so vexing. 

Yet somehow, in the endlessness of the moment, it matters all so little. Paul is here and he can hang the stars upon the night sky. Feyd is here and he can slaughter the universe and call it entertainment. You are safe with them, safe and happy and satisfied. 

ngl this is the longest tag list I've ever gotten. THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH!!💜💜 Let me know if you want to be added to future taglists

@deertaur , @fragileheartbeats , @yandere-romanticaa , @galaxyquirks , @feedmestraycats , @peachysunrize , @slytherinholland , @missbeeentertainment , @moonchild-artemisdaughter , @shiranai-atsune , @therealoutereffect , @frenchgirlinlondon , @purplefrogella , @yzuposts , @whiteoakoak , @abundance-of-fic-reblogs , @pomtherine , @goldenatreides , @sorianis , @howibecameabadassbitch , @sansaorgana

[steveyockey]

While some of both Davis and Crawford’s work could arguably be described as camp (for the former, King Vidor’s Beyond the Forest; for the latter, later-era films such as Strait-Jacket and aspects of the wondrous Nicholas Ray film Johnny Guitar), that their entire careers and places within film history are defined as such does a disservice to their artistry. But they aren’t alone in representing what has become a troubling trend when it comes to women’s work. As camp entered the mainstream lexicon, especially after Susan Sontag’s landmark 1964 essay, “Notes on ‘Camp,’” the term has been increasingly tied to work featuring women who disregard societal norms. Camp is often improperly and broadly applied to pop culture that features highly emotional, bold, complex, cold, and so-called “unlikable” female characters. I’ve seen films and TV shows such as the witty masterwork All About Eve; the beguiling Mulholland Drive; the stylized yet heartwarming Jane the Virgin; Todd Haynes’s Patricia Highsmith adaptation Carol; the blistering biopic Jackie; the deliciously malevolent horror film Black Swan; Joss Whedon’s exploration of girlhood and horror, Buffy the Vampire Slayer; the landmark documentary Grey Gardens (which inspired the 2009 HBO film starring Jessica Lange and Drew Barrymore); and even icons such as Beyoncé and Rihanna be described as camp. Look at any list of the best camp films and you’ll see an overwhelming number of works that feature women and don’t actually fit the label. Usually, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, the film whose behind-the-scenes story provides Murphy’s launching pad for Feud, will be at the top of the list.

While camp need not be a pejorative, that hasn’t stopped it from being widely used as such. In effect, being labeled as camp can turn the boldest works about the interior lives of complex women into a curiosity, a joke, a punch line. The ease with which camp is applied to female-led films and shows of this ilk demonstrates that for all the (still-paltry) gains Hollywood has made for women in the decades since Davis and Crawford worked, our culture is still uncomfortable respecting women’s stories.

That major Hollywood icons such as Marlene Dietrich, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford (and, more recently, Natalie Portman, thanks to Jackie) have been roped into this lineage isn’t surprising. Society doesn’t know what to do with women of this ilk without discrediting their very womanhood. Take artist and filmmaker Bruce LaBruce’s offensive description of Mae West in an essay on camp: “[She] played with androgyny to the degree that her final performance — her autopsy — was necessary to prove her biological femaleness.” In his 2013 essay “Why Is Camp So Obsessed with Women?”, J. Bryan Lowder expands on Sontag’s most well-known line: “It’s not a lamp, but a ‘lamp’; not a woman, but a ‘woman.’ To perceive Camp in objects and persons is to understand Being-as-Playing-a-Role.” Lowder writes, “‘Woman,’ the concept within the quotation marks, is not the same thing, at all, as a real woman; the former is a mythology, a style, a set of conventions, taboos, and references, while the latter is a shifting, changeable, and ultimately indefinable living being. Of course, there may be some overlap.” But if all gender is a performance, where does the “real” woman begin? And why does the presence of camp hold more importance than the actual work and voices of actresses such as Crawford, who have come to be defined by it?

At times, camp can feel like a suffocating label. Its proponents often misconstrue the fact that recreating oneself as a character is not merely an aesthetic for women, but rather, for many, a matter of survival. Living in a culture that profoundly scorns ambition, autonomy, and independence in women, girls learn quickly the narrow parameters of femininity available to them. When they transcend these parameters, life can get even more difficult. Women often pick up and drop various forms of presentation in order to move through the world more easily. Performance as a woman — in terms of how one speaks, walks, talks, acts — can be a means of controlling one’s own narrative. Camp often limits this part of the discussion, focusing instead on the sheer thrill of watching larger-than-life female characters cut and snark their way across the screen. How these works speak to women, past and present, becomes a tertiary concern at best, and the work loses a bit of its importance in the process; it either comes to be regarded as niche or, if it still has mainstream prominence, as abject spectacle. In turn, the conversations around these works become less about the women at their centers and more about how those women are presented.

Much of Baby Jane’s camp legacy comes down to how more recent audiences have interpreted Davis’s performance. She’s ferocious, frightening, and grotesque. But framing Davis’s performance as camp, as Murphy does, doesn’t take into account how dramatically acting has shifted over the course of film history. In some ways, camp has become a label used when modern audiences don’t quite understand older styles of acting. Modern actors privilege the remote, the cold, the detached. The more scenery-chewing performances that make the labor of acting visible — such as the transformative work that Jake Gyllenhaal did in Nightcrawler, or most of Christian Bale’s career — is typically the domain of men. (Or, at least, it’s only men who can get away with it without being called campy.) As Shonni Enelow writes in a marvelous piece for Film Comment, “[Jennifer] Lawrence’s characters in Winter’s Bone and The Hunger Games don’t arrive at emotional release or revelation; rather than fight to express themselves, her characters fight not to. We can see the same kind of emotional retrenchment and wariness in a number of performances by the most popular young actors of the last several years.” Davis’s work as an actor was the antithesis of that; she painted in bold colors. Even her quietest moments brim with an intensity that cannot be denied.

[hiwelcometothemonstersancturary]

Image ID: Two glitter texts, reading as "NIGHTMARE FACTORY – DEVLOG 0". End image ID.

Hi, I'm Garça Visconde Mirigis, and I'm VERY happy to announce that this post you're reading is the first devlog ever for my nightmare game, a 3D platformer parody of mascot horror genre! And yes, nightmare, not dream game, because making my actual dream game is way out of my current abilities at the moment!

Ever thought to yourself how different a horror game would be if our protagonist decided to help the monsters instead of... [reading a list off-screen] killing, imprisioning, sacrificing, exorcizing or even banning them to other dimensions? Because I have, for ungodly amounts of time, and after literally years I decided that the time to actually make this thing has come. Welcome to the NIGHTMARE FACTORY!

OKAY BUT WHAT IS THE SYNOPSIS?

As previously mentioned, NIGHTMARE FACTORY is a parody of mascot horror games, set in an abandoned toy factory that also used to host a theme park. You play as Vera Torres, a 57 year-old mechanic who used to work in there. One day, our dear Vera receives a call from an old coworker: The higher-ups are going to sell the factory and the theme park, but they need a good inspection, and no one is accepting the offer! Feeling a bit nostalgic and wanting to help her friend, Vera decided to help take a look inside...

... Only to discover the place is now filled with strange monsters whose leader has, somehow, decided that she's actually his mother?! But she only had one kid ever in her life...?

Yeah, Vera is CONFUSED, and it's now your duty as the player to help her figure out just what the heck is going on!

... AND WHAT THE HECK IS THE GAME ACTUALLY ABOUT?

The game is a lighthearted and pink look at mascot horror as a whole, featuring little references to other games and lots and lots of silly jokes. It is also a long love letter for the genre, because as much as I like poking fun at FNaF, it did change my life for the better and it will forever have a soft spot in my heart. I love the franchise despite it all, and making a whole game just to poke fun at it and other similar games feels stupid. No one can create a good parody if they don't love the thing they're parodying even a tiny little bit.

NIGHTMARE FACTORY is not an "aha look at how stupid this is" look at mascot horror. I want it to be as sincere as possible, and the end product needs to be honest and not ironic in the slightest in order for it to be a success.

HOWEEEVEEEER. Despite the silliness, NIGHTMARE FACTORY can and will feature grapphic imagery and disturbing content due to its nature as a horror title. Trigger and content warnings have not been currently set, but shall be added as development continues.

WHAT ARE THE ~ INSPIRATIONS ~ ?

HEHEHE. HAHAHHAA. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. MY FAVORITE PART!

The gameplay is inspired by the original Crash Bandicoot trilogy, Pac-Man World 1-2 and Rayman 2! These are my favorite platformers ever and I played them for hours as a kid, and since NIGHTMARE FACTORY is all about toys and childhood I figured it would be the perfect fit!

For themes and story, NIGHTMARE FACTORY is inspired by Five Nights at Freddy's, Bendy and the Ink Machine/Bendy and the Dark Revival, Tattletail, Poppy Playtime, Silent Hill 1-4, Welcome Home, My Friendly Neighborhood and the Lacey series on YouTube! Some of the themes include loss of childhood, the horrors of motherhood and girlhood, corporate corruption, trauma recovery, grief and rage.

For visuals, however? Alice: Madness Returns, Hello Kitty Roller Rescue, Strawberry Shortcake: The Sweet Dreams Game, Disney Princess' Enchanted Journey and old dress-up flash games are my references!

THE SETTING

The game is set in 2020s São Paulo, Brazil, AKA where I live, and it can and will feature elements of brazilian culture. The final version should have both english and brazilian-portuguese translations, with cultural notes being featured to help non-brazilians understand some jokes and themes better.

CURRENT SITUATION

NIGHTMARE FACTORY is currently sitting at "the single gamedev is desperate to start programming but he's busy with uni work" stage of production, but do not worry, the single gamedev is also working on the story, how level progression shall go, how the game should feel to play, and, of course, planning the mechanics, AKA the most important part of a fun game. I'll make an entire devlog detailing every single main mechanic as soon as I'm able to finally start fully working on this!

NIGHTMARE FACTORY is being made with Godot, Blender and Krita, and it will be released first for PC.

NOW A LOOK AT HOW THE SINGLE GAMEDEV IS ALREADY ANXIOUS ABOUT MAKING THE GAME

It wouldn't be a project I made without me losing my mind about it from day 0!

Nightmare Factory is a 3D platformer game, with around ~30 levels planned, divided into 5 acts/chapters/arcs/sessions. You can think as these sets of levels as Crash Bandicoot's Warped level selection, like this!

After answering some asks relating to mascot horror as a genre, I remembered a conversation I had with my amazing partner some weeks ago about how I want to release NIGHTMARE FACTORY. YES, I didn't even start programming it, but this is the type of thing I need to settle on before I build a good chunk of the game. It will be important!

But then. There's the problem: I don't like it when games are "released" but you have to pay more to get all of them. Yeah, each chapter would be super cheap so they would have a full game price when combined, but also. Do I want to do this. Do I genuinely want to do this. Like? Am I sure this is the right way to do it?????

Image ID: Screenshot of Crash Warped for the PS1, with Crash standing in front of a warp room with 5 blue buttons on the floor, each marked with a number from 1 to 5. The 6th button has the face of Tiny Tiger, signaling it to be the entrance to a boss fight level. End image id.

My first plan was to release each act separately so I could both get feedback and also have more fun, because by getting feedback I would be way less worried about messing things up + I could update things like character physics to be less wonky or more stiff in case it was a common complaint, which could change the entire level design. And also because I'm a clown and I want to make a mascot horror parody, and releasing it in chapters aligns perfectly with how I want this to go.

Anyways, this has now lead to me deciding that the game should be a "pay for it once" type of thing. I'll still release it in chapters, but the updates will be for free. Will I regret this decision because liking it or not I need money + I am an indie dev + there's nothing wrong with game devs expecting to be, y'know, PAID for their work? Absolutely so!!!!! But I think that, for now, this will be how I develop this silly game.

Anyways, this is getting long enough, so I'll finish it for now. Character introductions will be made after the gameplay-focused devlog, so see you guys soon enough! Byeeee <3

[spooky-momth]

Do go on /gen

CLAPS HANDS TOGETHER! here we go! oh boy!!

Transmasc!Susie, aka: An In-Universe Examination of Gender as One of the Few Girls in Spooky Month

Disclaimer: A lot of this is me making shit up. We haven't actually seen that much of Susie so I've had to extrapolate a lot about her. Welcome to the sandbox, grab a shovel and dig in.

1. Susie is a Girly Girl.

Susie likes pink. She likes hearts, and the sign declaring which room is hers is shaped like a flower. She wears ribbons in her hair. Her main interest is in the arts, which is sometimes associated with femininity (or at least, is considered less manly than other interests.)

She's an Older Sister. In all of her appearances so far, her context in the story has always been informed by her little brother.

He pulls pranks. She reprimands him for it. He goes trick or treating. She stays home. He steals her crayons. She doesn't share. He is playful. She is a killjoy.

He is the childish boy. She is the mature girl.

Even if you take ages taken into account, there's still this general cultural attitude about boys and girls; 'boys will be boys' is always about mischief, but girls are expected to be more well-behaved.

2. Susie is Not Like Other Girls.

Susie likes demons. Susie really, really likes demons. EVERY occasion we've seen her in a costume, she dressed up as a demon. (Even Skid and Pump have had different costumes! She, on the other hand, has never been dressed as anything else! EVER!)

She likes heavy metal music, and has band merch that she likes to wear out. She has horror movie posters up in her room. She's read Homestuck.

She has a weird brother. Really weird. He gives candy store clerks bugs as gifts. He's always talking about Halloween- no, sorry, "spooky month." Do you think her classmates talk in hushed whispers that since he's like that, what do you think she's like? She's related to him after all! No way she's not a weirdo too...

3. Susie is A Girl.

Can you define Susie outside of her femininity, or is it tied to the core of how she's perceived?

It's all a matter of connotation.

To her parents, is she their eldest child or their eldest daughter? Is she waiting for them just as eagerly as Pump is, or is she managing things just fine because that's her job as the girl of the house? To her brother, is she his older sibling or his older sister? Does she reprimand him or nag him? What about to her peers? Is she passionate or emotional? Brash or bitchy?

She knows she's more than her girl-ness, but... is she really?

You don't describe Smurfette as the spunky one, or the creative one. You describe her as the girl.

You don't describe the Pink Ranger by her weapon or her attitude. You describe her as the girl.

And when you describe Susie, your first description of her is that she's the sister of that weird kid. She's that girl who streams herself drawing those weirdly hunky demons. You describe her as the girl.

4. Susie is...

Would people like her more if she weren't a girl?

There aren't a lot of girls her age. That can be isolating. It isn't that boys are an entirely different species or anything, but there's this certain set of expectations that come with being seen as, raised as, being a girl. Does she... feel an obligation, maybe? To represent the whole of them to her peers, to put on a good face for girlhood whenever she talks to people because stars know there won't be anyone else to pick up the slack?

How much of that is a performance? Is it convincing to anyone? Is it a good show? Is it all a lie?

...Would she like herself more if she weren't a girl?

Something shifts.

5. Susie Is.

I don't think she figures out immediately what she is. I'd imagine she finds some labels, some that don't stick.

But she knows. Maybe she'll tell her friends, but figuring out how to explain it to herself was already enough of a headache. She wouldn't even know where to start.

She can't reject girlhood outright; Try as she might, she's still attached to it, and she doesn't really hate that. Being a girl doesn't suck all the time.

But she's not just a girl.

She's not just a girl, in more ways than one.

[pink-evilette]

♡ favourite horror tropes/motifs ♡

~ tragic ending/"fate worse than death" (Anna in Martyrs, Adam in Saw, Arkin in The Collector) something about seriously bleak and hopeless endings in horror just do it for me idk

~ tortured protagonist (Lucie in Martyrs, Amanda in Saw) for me these characters just feel so relatable to me, especially Amanda 💔

~ doomed lovers (Bones and All, Martyrs, Eden Lake) again, I love a tragic ending (and bones and all isn't really horror but it's sorta horror-adjacent)

~ girlhood horror (Teeth, Jennifer's Body, Ginger Snaps, Carrie and soooo many more) teen girls ready to destroy the world hells yeah!!

~ trashy aesthetic (House of 1000 Corpses, Bride of Chucky) think sleazy, run-down motels, go-go dancers, even better if they are also 2000s/90s with the iconic fashion

~ 2000s grunge (The Ring, The Hole, Silent Hill) these are the other side of the 2000s horror that I love!! old technology, dingy and rotten, lots of greens and blues in the cinematography

~ winter settings (Orphan, The Children, Let the Right One In) winter time is the perfect season for horror for me, and I especially love how winter horror utilises the visuals of blood on snow (Liverleaf is awesome and so underrated)

[out-of-the-forest-i-come]

For some reason I don't understand, I've been craving queer books that take place in boarding schools lately, so here are some books that fit this precise trope.

disclaimer: I haven't read most of these books, which means that I am recommending them solely because of their genre, and not because of any content that might be inside it. Trigger warnings and the likes are up to your own search.

The Chandler Legacies, by Abdi Nazemian / dark academia & contemporary

A Lesson in Vengeance, by Victoria Lee / dark academia & thriller, sapphic rep. this one I read, and it was great

Ace of Spades, by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé / dark academia & thriller, everyone recommends to check the trigger warnings before reading this one

Fence, by C.S. Pacat, Johanna the Mad & Joana Lafuente / graphic novel/comics & sports, mainly mlm rep with rivals to lovers. a very wholesome series

Wilder Girls, by Rory Power / horror - sapphic rep, I think

Fraternity, by Andy Mientus / dark academia & paranormal - probably mlm rep

Girlhood, by Cat Clarke / mystery - sapphic rep, I think

The Grimrose Girls, by Laura Pohl / dark academia & mystery - sapphic rep again, if I'm not mistaken

If We Were Us, by K.L. Walther / romance

If We Were Villains, by M.L. Rio / dark academia & thriller - I personally loved it more than The Secret History, and it's about theatre gays and murder - mlm rep

My Dearest Darkest, by Kayla Cottingham / horror

People Like Us, by Dana Mele / mystery

The Society for Soulless Girls, by Laura Steven / fantasy - sapphic rep, I think

Tiny Pretty Things, by Sona Charaipotra & Dhonielle Clayton / mystery

We Set the Dark on Fire, by Tehlor Kay Mejia / fantasy

[goldpilot22]

Your tags on the sacrificial virgin post make me want to know everything about your OCs, especially this Ivy Rose! What's Ivy Rose like? What story holds them?

ok so! Ivy Rose Lohaun is from my story Red Eyes Take Warning, which is..... a lot. it's actually an in-universe comic series in my Eldritchverse setting, and it starts out as a parody of those generic isekai mangas, before gettting Weird as the author is unknowingly long-term exposed to eldritch horrors a little bit.

I don't have any proper art of Ivy Rose but here's what I do have... most of the RETW characters were inspired by ai gen images (*BACK WHEN AI WAS A WEIRD EXPERIMENTAL TYPEA THING) so this is his

and also this is an Arknights au version of him (he is not normally snakeboy)

and I am still sort of figuring out his lore but what I've currently got is that he inherited some sorta really rare special powers (according to my notes he is a witch, something different from mages. but I think I'm going to make it specialer than just that) and there is some sort of curse or prophecy on his family, that anyone born with those powers will die in some circumstances, and trying to evade this always results in things going really bad (possibly involving said powers?) but the curse/prophecy/whatever is vague enough that when he transes his gender, it manages to fulfill the prophecy / neutralize the curse / whatever.

anyway most of that is kind of just background lore, his actual role in the story is that. he starts out as a 'girl' in disguise as a guy (he is closeted/eggmode at this point) and under the name Lohaun he joins Gavin's party (Gavin is the classic isekai hero guy. he's also just a massive jerk) to go adventuring and stuff and also to get away from the gilded cage of richgirl life. then he gets 'found out' as a girl (this is a trope that happens sometimes where the 'crossdressing' character gets found out and then goes back to their 'real' gender like they're fine with it. I don't like this trope very much so he's like a deconstruction or subversion or smth of it.) and briefly tries just going back to girlhood, before deciding that, actually, he'd rather be a guy. so he tries out a couple different combinations of gender terms + presentations, before eventually settling on using he/they, presenting femininely, and using his firstnames and his surname interchangeably. Gavin, being the asshole he is, at first is disappointed by Lohaun deciding to identify as a boy (because the rest* of the party is sort of harem-adjacent, as tends to happen in these isekais)but then they're like "well I'm still pretty and here so does my gender really matter that much" (they don't want him to ditch them) and so he's like "alright I guess I'm 'straight with an exception' now"

*that is, the rest of the party except for 1. Emery (too beefy for Gavin's tastes, as well as too aroace and autistic to fawn over some asshole guy) and 2. Enzo/Elodie (it is 10 years old.)

[moonagedaydreamsofrhiannon]

Media I enjoy with similar vibes

1. Cynical satirical comedies/dramedies in which selfish people do bad things and no one gets a particularly happy ending:

Veep, Succession, Bojack Horseman, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Arrested Development

2. The horrors of girlhood and homoerotic female friendships with vaguely supernatural happenings:

Yellowjackets, Jennifer’s Body, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Heathers, Veronica Mars (VM and Heathers aren’t supernatural per se, but there is some “dead girl haunting the narrative” ghost action so I’ll count it)

3. Strange things happen in the Pacific Northwest:

Yellowjackets, Gravity Falls, The X Files, Twin Peaks

4. Tragic doomed romance in period pieces:

Titanic, Dead Poets Society, Romeo and Juliet, Swan Lake, The Phantom of the Opera, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Maurice, Brokeback Mountain

5. Bittersweet coming of age story set at an all-boy’s boarding school in the twentieth century where a teacher changes the course of a student’s life for the better but is fired by the corrupt school administration at the end of the story:

Dead Poets Society, The Holdovers (I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice, right?)

[faithlesbian]

buffyangel gender roles transfem angel - when angel gets possessed by that girl ghost in season 3? insane and the guy ghost picks buffy to inhabit beautiful

BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER SEASON 2 EPISODE 19 I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU EPISODE OF ALL TIME!!!!!

for real this ep is up there among my whole show favourites because of how directly it engages with buffy's self-blame over angel losing his soul through, of all things, the medium of genderswapping ghost possession. this is gonna get Long just to warn you

the way this episode is set up is so so so genius. they could've made it a very simple story about an evil abuser and an innocent victim, but instead they recognised that the situation demanded more than that. real life rarely follows a simple story, and it can often be hard to recognise a relationship for what it is when it doesnt fit that template. buffy finds it very hard to think of herself as a victim, and she blames herself for "killing" the angel that she loved and turning him into the monster he is now, which is why she hates the ghost of this boy as much she does - she fears that she has done something worse than just murder her lover. she could have all her friends and family tell her this wasnt her fault and i dont think she would fully believe them, but through the possession she is told that if it was her fault, if she did kill angel, she would be loved and forgiven anyway.

the role that gender plays in this episode is Crucial. despite setting out to subvert the horror movie blonde cheerleader victim trope, btvs often falls into a pattern of men as monsters and women as victims. in this world, no male character is exempt from seeing women sexually, even gay characters like larry and andrew perform misogynistic sexual degradation of women that's played for laughs. it's just "how all men are". conversely, as evil as women can be on btvs, their sexual violence against men is never taken seriously (see all the times xander is assaulted that just never get addressed). this episode complicates the binary of men as monsters and women as victims as part of its overall complication of these roles by having the final possession play out the way it does. angel, the "man" who is textually a monster, becomes a woman who was a victim of a crime of passion, while still remaining the older person who got into a relationship with a teenager despite knowing it was wrong. buffy, the innocent young girl, becomes an angry murderous boy, while still remaining an emotional teenager making rash choices in the name of love. the disruption of these concrete ideas of monster and victim (and their gendered natures within the show) allows buffy to realise she needs to forgive herself.

obviously this whole plot is doing fascinating things with gender, but the ending stands out to me specifically because of how angel reacts. textually he feels disturbed by the reminder of his humanity and feels the need to go out and do evil vampire things to feel affirmed in his monstrosity, but i also think its interesting how buffy, who often feels robbed of her sense of girlhood by her role as the slayer, isn't perturbed at all by briefly becoming a man. the subversion of gender roles was central in their relationship prior to him losing his soul, with buffy being the strong capable hero, and angel her damsel in distress -- buffy has for the most part reconciled with the perceived masculinity of her strength and doesnt feel that it makes her any less of a girl. angel, on the other hand, who has now had to take on a more masculine role as patriarch of the vampire family (in darla's absence) is freaking out not just because of the reminder of humanity but bc he was briefly literally buffy's girl -- something he wants more than he can let on, soul or no.

[vacantgodling]

yeah so basically ph has become -> girl who knows he's a guy is sent on a quest by her parents to recapture his lost (or never existant) girlhood. during the journey he becomes and feels more like the man he's supposed to be that when he finally meets the reason why the girlhood was stolen, he decides to forgo it and cast it away from himself and stay true to who he's supposed to be. when his parents hear of this, they come to try and force him to be a woman, but he is able to refute their actions and become finally free.

or (plot spoilers below ig? idc anymore lol)

SMITE (current character name cuz i think i wanna make a conlang for this bc why not so these are technically placeholders) has a younger sister, SONG. SONG is the golden child because she knows a woman's place and duty, but SMITE has like eldest sibling syndrome and is always tasked with looking after SONG. one day, a raiding party from the far north attacks their lands and SONG is kidnapped during the struggle. as SONG is staged to be an important chess piece for an upcoming strategic alliance, SMITE is tasked, alone, with retrieving her because he is his sister's keeper. SMITE takes off, and along the way has yknow. Shit Happen and uncovers the fact that his parents purposefully set them up: SONG was promised to be the bride of their southern ally, but also to the son of the northern band, and they had only come to collect her. however, SMITE & SONG's father set this up so that it would appear like a raid, and give them an excuse to rally their allies to attack the northern band altogether. SMITE is not supposed to come back from this mission because he is their scapegoat; when he fails to return they will take this as an act of aggression from the northern band and begin their war.

SMITE, despite all odds (and thanks to the companions he meets along the way) is able to make it to the northern bands, where it is discovered that the leader who made a deal with SMITE and SONG's father was actually killed by SONG, who was instructed by her father to become close to the northern band's leader and slip him poison--this leaves the band in a semi precarious position, but the son (who i have to moniker) has taken over in a quick succession.

SMITE is captured and at first the son is upset and wants to excute both sisters immediately, but SMITE is able to explain to the son the situation and propose the solution that SONG is sent back to their father because he would truly only go to war for his favored daughter (on paper) and that SMITE stays as his POW. this would force their family and the other southern tribes to back down because there would be no reason for war, and should hopefully keep and restore peace. the son, who wants time to bury and grieve his father, agrees though does not promise to make SMITE's time there easy. SMITE accepts his terms to the horror of SONG who is then sent back with provisions to their father.

SMITE then becomes a prisoner of the son of the northern band, and though he promises harshness, he seems to be everything but: even winter has its sunrises, essentially. SMITE becomes well liked among the people slowly (but surely) and his masculinity is recognized and praised by others there. he and the son also begin to care for one another as we yknow. unpack abuse and come to terms with who they both truly are--a man and a leader (for both of them). SMITE helps the son with the burial and in private apologizes for things coming to this. the son, knowing him better now, tells him there's nothing to apologize for.

in the south, S&S's father is FURIOUS that his plans have fallen through, for he didn't really want to hand over SONG to the southern tribes. the reason for this is because he was hoping the war would kill 2 birds with one stone: stop the expansion and dominance of the northern bands but also get the warlike southern tribes out of his hair because they would kill for one of their own and they already consider SONG "one of them" because of the promised bethrothal. this would rid him of his useless eldest (SMITE) and allow him to keep his younger daughter, and then become ruler of the whole fucking steppe. so now he needs a new plan.... which i need to figure out.

i do know that the latter half of the story does become SMITE and the son marrying (obvs) and SMITE's father orchaestrating a war against the northern band and a buncha other shit but yeah. that.

oh yeah and also in SMITE becoming a man and marrying the son, he is "reborn" and changes his name to TIDE (the longer version i already posted about) because he and the son marry during a full moon. and the full moon is associated with tides-you get it.

[banananutmilk]

Carrie Film Essay (1976)

By Jacob Christopher

Carrie (1976) is a supernatural horror film directed by Brian De Palma and adapted from Stephen King’s novel of the same name released 2 years prior. The plot follows a highschool girl named Carrie, who discovers she has been born gifted with telekinetic powers. The conflict of the film is that of the abuse Carrie endures by her own mother and school peers. Carrie (1976) is a critically acclaimed film for it’s subject matter of teenage isolation and angst, creatively expressed within a supernatural horror genre. In regards of it’s box office qualities, Carrie (1976) with a budget of 1.8 million USD had managed to garner 33.8 million worldwide. Along with positive reception, such as deemed by Pauline Kael from the same year, “ Carrie is a terrifyingly lyrical thriller. The director, Brian De Palma, has mastered a teasing style- a perverse mixture of comedy and horror and tension”.

(article linked in image above)

The film deals with the subject matter of puberty, sexuality and the criticisms on purity culture. We begin the film following Sissy Spacek who plays the tragic protagonist Carrie, a highschool girl who within the first act of the movie has her first menstruation and left confused by her own body. Followed by a horrific act of bullying, in which the gym full of girls react to Carrie’s plea for help by throwing tampons at her shouting “Plug it up, plug it up, plug it up, plug it”. It’s within this scene we can interpret the metaphors for the horrors of girlhood. Carrie is shamed by the world around her and told contradictions.

A revelation made during my research of the historical events of 1976 is that of the first apple computer launch from the time period. Comparing the time the film had come out along with the release of a product bound to become a common lifestyle necessity, had really put the age of the film into perspective. The perspective makes the film more impressive, especially with the utilization of editing in it’s production. Makes me give the editing and production team more kudos for editing that can be done on phone applications now.

The aesthetic of Carrie has become an influence, with the sequel and two readaptations of the Stephen King novel, both noticeably inspired by the 1976 film. As pillars of the popularity of the medium. Other forms of inspiration from Carrie are the 70s style of fashion. The film has an eerie tone, often through the dialogue deliveries of the characters and the predicaments Carrie has to handle when treated in distasteful manners throughout the film. Suspense is often built up through the interactions between Carrie and everyone else, culminating into moments of alarm for when Carrie’s patience is tempted. What gives Carrie (1976) it’s edge is the choice to be blatant with their audience. To not hide what is gonna happen, the audience feels sick and grapples with their anxieties, absolutely helpless to be bystanding victims. The age of the film’s grainy quality actually has fermented gracefully into a dark gradient staining the screen, adding to the already thick atmosphere. There is great emphasis on the distinct cinematographic style of De Palma. Using split screens for dramatic scenes and the dream like sequences experienced by Carrie. 

The qualities of Carrie (1976) can be interpreted as both conventional and unconventional depending on what factors matter more to the critic. The movie incorporates many expected tropes and tactics used in it’s horror genre. Exemplified through it’s usage of the highschool setting, jump scares of sudden loud music and snappy movements. However what makes Carrie (1976) an outlier from it’s contemporaries is the subject matter displayed. Touching upon and criticizing religious fanaticism, exemplified through Carrie’s mother’s overbearing nature and blind faith to her Christian belief. Along with the themes of adolescence and the struggles of young women. If it were to come to my personal opinion, I would deem Carrie (1976) to be more so unconventional than conventional due to it’s subject matter’s taboo nature. Overall Carrie has earned it's cult classic status through it's unconventional thematic and great reception to affirm it's reputation.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

I saw your tags on a post about becoming the mc in one of your novels. Gothic, where the character is more monster than damsel and i am 👀

Would you be willing to talk about it? The story, the character, anything?

(for those of you who did not see my tags on the post anon is referencing, the post prompt was basically 'you are now the main character of your most recent WIP' and my tags were: #technically I think this would put me as the MC of my novel#in a gothic mansion that houses a monstrous lord said to steal people’s souls#in a village the inhabitants view as a cage#after faking my death to escape an abusive arranged marriage#discovering that I am more monster than damsel)

so i talked about it briefly when i ran this poll a while ago asking which one of these two novels you'd all like to see first. it is the one that won, the gothic found family: Of Beasts and Wretched Things (working title). feel free to click through to the poll if you want to see what the results were, what the other option was, and what people's initial reactions were!

Of Beasts and Wretched Things is an inverted 'Beauty and the Beast' coming of age story that wrestles with the monstrosities of girlhood and the inherent horror of self-creation.

When the Lord of Crosswell Estate plans to wed his niece to a brutish lord to save his wealth, she runs away and stumbles upon Illthern, a forgotten trading village under the control of the monstrous Theodoric Gaut, whom she deceives in order to gain his protection from her wrathful uncle; but when she finds herself face to face with Lord Gaut, who is not what the stories would have her believe, she must wrestle with the monstrosity of her own making before he discovers that his supposed long-lost relative is not what she claims to be.

(More under the cut bc wow I...got a bit carried away.)

working on this project has helped me work through some of the trauma i have around my own relationship to femininity and womanhood. the MC struggles with the legacy of abuse inflicted by her blood relatives and what it means to be the person they tried to make her into. the inherent fear of things labeled 'monster' and the consequential fear of being monstrous is a predominant theme, as well as questions of how many of the monsters are things we make ourselves.

what really drew me to the gothic genre was the emotional weight i wanted to give these characters and this world; so often in gothic works it is the characters' own emotional turmoil that drives the plot and shapes the setting, you are the ghost haunting the house even though you still draw breath, etc. even in this real world, there are these weights of what society things a woman should be, the pressures of girlhood especially during adolescence, and these weird half-mourning periods of killing the person you used to be. i think because i wanted these characters to be steeped in the emotions they have about their situations in life and themselves, i found myself drawn to gothic conventions just because it fit so well with what i wanted to explore

with regards to the characters themselves, and particularly the MC, i really wanted them to feel like they were driving the story. the MC has the brilliant and terrible certainty that I know at least I had when I was a teenager. Theodoric is very similar to most characters you'd expect to see in a gothic setting: ominous, more than a bit sinister or mysterious, yet I wanted it to feel like he was always hiding a bleeding heart just under his coat. did i mean to make him autistic? no, but when I was proofreading i was like whoa yeah this man has the spicy brain. i'm a sucker for monstrous things that treat others with tenderness first, what can i say. i don't want to talk too much about any other characters just yet, I don't want to spoil anything :)

WIP-wise, I'm in the midst of getting the manuscript ready to submit to agencies and publishing houses. it's funny, as i'm doing the research to see what that entails, the other story seems to be way easier to market. who knows, maybe i'll self publish OB&WT the way I did Tales from Thicketdown Forest and then go the traditional route for the other one. we'll find out, i guess.

i did sort of know this was going to get long but jfc i went way harder with my prose here than i thought i was going to. uh, hope this answers your question????

Tl:dr; gothic found family h/c, heavy on the comfort, with tender monsters and monstrous girls :)

[limerental]

limerental's themed self-rec lists

read my old fics, you cowards! these are majority witcher fics, because i have an illness.

silly goofy modern au

how long we were fool'd - jaskier/yennefer(&geralt)

married neighbors yennskier, suburban dad!geralt, modern witchers, little kid ciri, aroace geralt, relationship misunderstandings, borzoi roach, supernatural mystery, some canon-typical violence, found family nonsense, and my own clairvoyance in writing yennskier husband-wife but it was spring 2020

(don't) poke the sleeping dragon - jaskier/yennefer/geralt

a retelling of bottled appetites but it's a nerdy fantasy music festival, copious drug use, yennefer's sick wizard van, unicorn edibles, golden dragon dildos, outdoor sex, geralt getting pegged and double penetrated, a dialogue only threesome, accidental yearning old friend geraskier tenderness, and someone once told me they wouldn't read this fic because yen had her tits out in the summary and i will always remember that criticism for the rest of my life

as if you were a mythical thing - yennefer/geralt

old married couple, dom/sub dynamics, sex unicorn mention, geralt is very vanilla but loves his kinky wife, and he's too autistic about horses not to ruin ponyplay with horse facts

this one might hurt

long on the road & how light carries on - geralt/jaskier (eventual geralt/regis in the sequel, plus many platonic relationships)

the 80s trucker/hitchhiker au that got away from me, vietnam vet trucker geralt, aging hippie musician jaskier, AIDS crisis, terminal illnesses, dealing with mortality, falling in love, road tripping, copious american geography, period-typical queer community issues, and then... life after loss, aging, grief and mourning, queer and traumatized family dynamics both found and otherwise, finding love again, and watching the sun set on a life well lived

in dark and twisted braids - fringilla &/ yennefer

aretuza school days slumber parties, girlhood crushes, pining, unrequited love, i shook a sorceress and intergenerational trauma fell out, the inherent adolescent horror of making lasting decisions about your future when you are barely 18 but even worse because there's war and violence and permanent alterations to your body and forced sterilization and your little schoolgirl crush on someone you thought was a friend ends in betrayal and bloodshed and you end up on opposite sides of the war and she never even looked your way or thought about you and--

then send down the storm - aiden/lambert, lambert/geralt(/yennefer)

witcher roadtripping, just guys being dudes, horse stuff, winter at kaer morhen polyamory but different, ~trauma~, the mortifying ordeal of accepting you deserve more from life and also of being known, but it's too late (or is it?), grief and mourning and loss and love that was worth its loss, and also, the character death(s) are largely temporary.

aw that just ain't right :/

the witch in her tower - eskel/yennefer(/geralt)

dark fic, fairytale elements, hurt no comfort (mind the tags), morally dubious heartbroken yennefer, pining and years of yearning for geralt eskel, unrequited love, non-consensual mind control during sex, flashbacks to messed up witcher child abuse and violence and cruelty, the inherent horror of mutated and manipulated little boys becoming men who think they can't or shouldn't love paralleled with the inherent horror of enchanted and manipulated little girls becoming women who-- you get it.

the flesh calmly going cold - geralt/jaskier

this one's gross for real, a hunt gone wrong, hurt NO comfort, major character death and it's gross and tragic, gore, necrophilia, organs lovingly described (and jizzed on), basically it's just like that scene in twn where filavandrel exploded but if francesca humped his goo after. sorry.

blood of the covenant (water of the womb) - geralt/&renfri, geralt/stregobor

supernatural pregnancy body horror as revenge, ......pregobor, black sun princess trauma and curses, apocalyptic monster fetus imagery, it's about women and violence against women and evil men suffering for inflicting that violence mostly, and also the evils of standing by and watching evil happen. also, yes stregobor is magical yucky bella swan pregnant and then bad stuff happens to everybody.

[thepinkwriterr]

Capricorn Season Chapter Thirty-Four Part 2

Word Count: 3k Table of Contents:

Peter woke dripping and wet, plagued with sweat. The white cotton of his night shirt clung to his chest. His eyes fell over the A/C unit that spat out perfect cold air. The room was probably 18 degrees. He pushed the duvet off his heaving frame. 

He dug himself from the sheets and crouched down at his suitcase. His breaths were thick and labored. He pawed in his suitcase, looking for two matching garments. 

His hand fell over a chunk of letters. He pulled them out to see Gloria's fluid penmanship. The letters detailed their banal goings-on and Warren's newest interests. Stories from home and school. He was struck by the comforts of home. He was pained. He wanted to call but didn't have time. He wished to hear her sweet voice but couldn't, so he was poisoned by loneliness. He longed for her. 

He wore a dress shirt and jeans. 

 --

He joined the group for breakfast. This was a ritual they started on this tour. They were still working out the kinks. Chief of all these kinks was Gwen. She was tall, reaching mid-chest, with long red hair, and a gap between her large front teeth. She had a Cheshire smile and a loud voice. He was never fond of her, finding her brash and annoying, and his disdain only grew with each day. He knew that she was plotting while he wasn't looking.  It was from the corner of his eye that he caught her--a glimpse of her second face--the one she tried to hide. As his gaze swept across the landscape of a room he would see her morph. Other times, very rarely, he saw her plainly. She would smile and nod as she spoke to him or perhaps others in the group but would lower her mask and taunt him. He didn't know how she did it, but only he could see it. Sometimes he could see her shrouded in fire, her features swept by a glistening image of fury and mayhem. She was a sign of bad things to come.  --

He was raised in South London by his mother, Dorothy, in a small, lower-class household. They were the poorest house on their block. Despite their poverty and absence of help, Dorothy did her best to get by. She felt that she was failing Peter, unable to give him the life he deserved. With no father, no money, and the dark clouds of war looming, she troubled over his future. 

She was terrified of what could happen to them. She was a single Jewish mother. She worried what would happen if they didn't win the war. Her family had come to Britain to escape the Anti-Semitism that began in Russia at the end of the 19th century. The fear had haunted her like a Spector in the rear-view mirror since girlhood. Now it was back, front and center, with no end in sight.

She wished to give him a good education so she could set him up for a better life than she'd had. When the war came to a head, she shipped him off to Surrey to continue his schooling, hoping that it would be better for him. She was promised a world-class education, a fighting chance at white-collar and picket fences.

But it didn't. He returned as a shell of the vibrant and naive boy he'd once been. The older boys were relentless and cruel. They bullied and beat him, draining any sensitivity he had. They called him poor, and a Momma's Boy. The professors were worse—giving him daily caning, whether it was rightly deserved or not. He was left hardened and hollowed. 

He used to cling to her leg and cry into her shoulder, like when he was dropped off for his first day of school. Now he was distant and nervous. The sound of the fireplace crackling or a car starting would sent him into a spiral. It took many years for him to build a callous around the horrors he'd experienced. Even worse was what awaited him at his return. Dorothy met a new man. 

She met him at a bar in Wales. Dorothy had gone to stay with her sister, Sofia, after Peter left. She thought with every passing day that her house would be destroyed. She was delighted at the thought of dissipating this worry in Wales. The countryside was much safer than London. 

Thomas was tall and solidly built with a head full of salt-and-pepper hair. He was sweet in the beginning, as all terrible men are. They met dancing. He had swept her up in a frenzy of feeling. She was charmed from the start. He wasn't Jewish, and she liked that. He wasn't as flat and dry as Peter's father. He was passionate and free. She felt safe with him. 

After the war ended, Thomas told her that he would help to pay the bills and cure her loneliness. She wasn't apprehensive. She said yes right away. She thought Thomas could be a great father figure for Peter. 

They spent their evenings in the small kitchen, dancing by moonlight and listening to the radio. Their love almost drowned out the blitz, bombs, gas masks, and 30,000 civilian deaths. It all changed once Peter arrived. No longer did they have romantic dinners, late-night dances, or even sex. She spent all her time working and fawning over her lump of a boy. 

It didn't take long for things to get bad. It started to heat up two weeks before Peter arrived home and boiled over when he returned. Thomas was jealous. He wanted the attention Dorothy gave to Peter and was willing to do whatever he could to get it.

He became enraged nightly, using his size and volume to intimidate her. Sometimes it would start at the table during dinner and other times Peter could hear the violence melting through the walls. He never turned his rage against the boy, but he was affected still. He suffered frequent night terrors and daily anxiety. Thomas's rage followed him like a shadow, looming over him at all hours.  That was the stem of his anger issues, although he could not connect those dots. He figured the rage was just a fixture of his brain, a product of his South London upbringing or his job. Whatever it was, it helped him become successful. His anger was an untapped flow of power, something he had never felt before entering the entertainment business. No longer would he be pushed around or sidelined. Now he was the one calling the shots and getting things done. It made him feel important.

-   "Good morning, Mr. Bonham," Gwen simpered. Something was churning in her face, "You're looking rather peachy." "Don't you fuckin' start!" Bonzo groaned. He gripped his head. It pounded with a thousand acupuncture needles stuck in his skull.  "Start what?" 

Peter rolled his eyes. 

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. You are always a bitch in the morning. Is it your time of the month or something?"  "Fuck you, John. I was just trying to be nice for once."

"Alright, that's enough!" Peter slammed his hands on the table. This startled everyone and caused them to look over at him. Bonzo's top half was crumpled on the table, his head still in his hands. "I've fuckin' had it with you."

She was beginning to fire him up. His neck was burning, working its way down to his hands and throughout his body. Images forced their way into his brain, scenes of violence and screaming. These images fractured him and caused him to falter. He was flustered and his chest began to cave in. His hands began to sweat and he stood up, forcing his chair to the ground. Everyone was startled again and he spoke with a frightening tone, "There will be no more fighting or I will personally throw you off this tour. I am sick of your constant jabs and picking fights," Gwen opened her mouth and started to defend herself but he steamrolled over her, "I don't care about Bonzo, he's part of the band. I don't care about what he does or says. You are working for him and for me. Get it together or fuck off."  She stood, not as forcefully as him, but placed her hands on the table and leaned toward him, "I actually do not work for any of you. I am providing you with a service, one that is helping your image. So go ahead, try to throw me off. I would like to see you try."  Hot anger flushed through him. She wouldn't back down. She parried his every move. She was a bitch, a ruiner, a killjoy. She brandished an ax and entered the pen that held his prized pigs, ready to slaughter his show hogs. He could picture her surrounded by their blood and relishing in the deafening sounds of their squealing.  After this scuffle, they parted ways. Jimmy and Gwen went to their room and Bonzo followed Peter to his. He was just as angry, his nostrils were flaring and he spoke loudly. "I am sick of this cunt. She is fucking it all up! I want her off. I want her off now!" As much as Peter agreed, he knew she was right. He couldn't just kick her off. Jimmy would go off with her and never come back. He couldn't have the band splinter off. Not now. They had built something so good. They all needed this band in different ways. 

"It's her or me." Bonzo stood with his hands on his hips, lips pressed together in a flat-ironed grimace.  "Don't fuck around with me, Bonz, we both know you ain't leavin' the band."  "I've done it before, I'll do it again. I'm the best bloody drummer in the world and I could easily find another band. In fact, I'll go make some calls right now."  "No, you won't," Peter stepped closer to him, half to intimidate and half to empathize, "I'm going to get her off the tour and you're gonna stay." This seemed to quell the angry drummer and he left the room. He didn't know exactly how he was going to get her out, but he was sure he could.  He was stricken by terrible bouts of feeling, uninterrupted by anger. He felt low like the pits of despair or hell were churning, opening for only him. He heard the familiar demons calling, whispering maddened insults and taunts. Flashes of faces, some of them known, others unseen. Gwen was there, Thomas and Dorothy. A boss from the nightclub scene, and Gloria too. They were chanting, singing, and screaming every way he was a failure and a fraud. The ghosts of his past were unrelenting, visiting at all hours and never leaving. Perhaps he was doomed, he thought. He was destined to be followed until the end of time. He was fated to remain a graveyard. 

- He could hear his mother's voice, prodding and poking him for treating a woman so poorly. He just rolled his eyes and waved her off. It didn't take. She remained, glaring over him as he drove.  This feeling stayed until they got to the venue. The concert hall was large and square, holding up to 15,000 people. The guys hadn't sold out the venue, but it was close. They were charged and excited, just as they always were. The discourse between Peter and Gwen hadn't dampened the mood. Even Bonzo was hyped.  Their joy was infectious. They giggled and jumped around, bashing away excitedly at soundcheck. As Peter watched them he giggled. Even with Gwen in such proximity he was giddy.

-   The next morning they had another fight. This time it was Jimmy and Peter before they had breakfast and barely before the sun came up. "You need to quiet your fucking mutt, Jim. She is going down a dangerous road with me, one that will not be pleasant." Peter was trying to remain quiet but it wasn't working. Gwen was three feet from them, slumbering. He wondered if she really was asleep. But, he figured, if she were awake she couldn't have stayed quiet longer than the ten minutes he'd been here.  "What on earth are you talking about?" Jimmy asked.  "She keeps stirring up trouble. You need to tell her off. Be a man!"  "Tell her off? Peter, it's 1970, we have a partnership. I'm not going to tell her off anymore than she would do to me. You sound ridiculous."  A fury swept his features. It was hard to quiet the flames once they were lit. And she had lit them, all right. She stripped off her clothes and used them as kindling. "No, you're going to tell her off. You are going to tell her if she doesn't stop fucking things up she's going to be off the tour. I don't care if she is our bloody photographer or your girlfriend." He didn't say anything, just looked at Peter with that angsty stare. "You'll tell her or I will. I don't think she'll find my delivery as nice." 

He glared down at the carpet. 

"Ever since she came on board you've had a real attitude problem." He poked a finger into the guitarist's chest. He towered over him. 

"Maybe because she's shown me that I don't like how things are around here." Peter opened his mouth, sucking in a breath, and prepared to scream so loudly the walls shook. But he didn't--- because Jimmy turned at the sound of Gwen's grumbling.  Peter rolled his eyes as Jimmy sunk to the ground next to their bed and spoke softly into her ear. He was growing impatient. They had been working his last nerve since this whole thing started.  "You don't have to do that. I'm getting up soon. I have to mail my film reels so I'll be up and about anyway." She mumbled just loud enough that he could hear her. 

A terrible thought pricked his mind and he spoke up at once, "I'll do that, don't worry." He remembered a conversation he'd heard just a few days ago, a warning from her boss.  Her words echoed in his mind, the ones that told him everything he needed to do. If she missed another deadline she risked getting fired. She was teetering on the edge and Peter was prepared to push her off.  They looked at him in awe. He wondered what they thought and tried his hardest to delve into their minds. Certainly, they were curious as to why he was being kind. He tried to clear their suspicions with a smile. It came out hard-pressed and forced.  "That would be great," She said and dropped her head back on the pillow. 

"No, don't worry, G, I can do it," Jimmy said with an apprehensive glint in his eye.  "Nonsense, I'll do it. A little peace offering."  "I don't care. Someone do it." Gwen mumbled. 

Jimmy shuffled back to Peter and they continued their talk. Jimmy spoke slower now, confused and suspicious of his manager. He was curious about Peter's motives, knowing they were bad but not understanding how.  He snatched the envelope and went downstairs. The sun was dimmer than the day before but it was just as hot. The earth was scorched. The smell of heat in the air. He breathed out a pained breath as he stepped onto the pavement outside. His wisps of hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead. His shirt clung to his torso. He was trying to hurry.  Before sealing the envelope he pulled out his keys and the film reels one by one, peeling the bottom of the canisters off to expose them to the light. His back was turned to the entrance of the building and people filed in, pushing past him but not giving a second glance. 

When he was finished he pushed the bottoms flush to the canister and sealed the envelope. Before he dropped it in the blue collection box he looked around to make sure no one had seen him. He pulled back the hatch and pushed the heavy envelope in. It landed with a thud. He walked through the front door and went back up to his room.

The day was a day like any other. He woke up and went about his business. He had tea, he made conversation, he even had a quarrel. It was nothing special. But, even on a day so ordinary as this one, he ensured the safety of his band. 

It was another day protecting their success and keeping them nestled in a pocket of unbothered glee. Even if Jimmy couldn't, he was going to. He'd made them a promise that he was going to be the best manager they'd ever have. Even if Jimmy couldn't see it now, or if he'd never from his perspective, this was the best choice he could have made. This was the only choice.  So, he laid his head on his pillow and soon went to sleep. And, for the first time in months, he didn't fight with agentless voices or ghostly faces. He didn't see Gwen, or Thomas, didn't see his frowning mother or crying wife. He just saw peace, just fell asleep. 

---

Taglist:

@anothercanyonlady​ , @jonesyjonesyjonesy​   @paginate54 , @seventieswhore , @jimmypages , @jimmys-zeppelin​ , @jimmysdragonsuit13