#typical neil behaviour

[messierthanthou]

Untitled - Bottom!Billy - Rated E - 2.5k Words - Written in Honour of @aggressiveviking !! Enjoy, everyone!

If it wasn’t for Neil, Billy could and would love more. But it has all been beat out of him, scared to ever even think of the things he wants to. Daily life is a masquerade, him in a lion’s mask, the rest surrounding him those of lambs.

It was a long way to the top of the food chain, but even greater would the fall be, if it was that anyone dared threaten his role at the top of the school’s hierarchy. 

Which - perhaps unintentionally - one Steve Harrington attempts purely by existing. Those deep brown eyes that sees past the mask of the still freshly crowned king disturbs Billy on such a ground-shaking level that it is do or die, whether either of them wants to or not, a battle is brewing between the two, and Billy, no matter his pains in life, is not ready to give up.

So he finds himself in the pouring rain, standing just a few feet away from the Harrington mansion, soaked to the bone but it doesn’t cool off his heated temper nor does it calm down his pounding heart.

Billy doesn’t know exactly what he wants, but he can’t let it keep bubbling up inside him at school, because what if he loses it? Exactly what it is he could lose, he doesn’t know, but he does know that he needs to release some of the pressure burning inside him.

Without forethought as to what he’ll say or do once Steve is there, he knocks on the door and rings the bell. He’s angry, he’s nervous, he’s unsure; everything floods his senses all at once, and as soon as the door opens even an inch, he pushes it all the way and stomps inside, past a startled Harrington.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Steve erupts immediately.

“You alone?”

“Why?”

“No reason.” Billy shrugs, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“You can’t just barge in like this, Hargrove. What are you even doing here? Get out!”

The door is still wide open.

“You’d really send me out into the rain? Cold.”

Harrington groans out in displeasure, then closes the door. Billy figured he’d be a good sport. He’s too kind, even to his nemesis, and it makes the fury in Billy boil worse.

“I’ll get you a towel.”

While Steve vanishes to go find that towel, Billy stomps around the place, dripping on the floor as he goes. He knew they were rich, Steve’s parents, but this is ridiculously fancy for Hawkins. Hell, even their family portrait in the living room is an actual painting, and not just an oversized photograph.

Harrington catches up to Billy when he’s neck deep in the fridge, looking for the cold beers that he finds.

“You can’t just-” Steve starts off with, but Billy is quick to crack open the bottle against the marble countertops. 

Then Billy yanks the towel from the brunette’s grasp and throws it over his shoulder before taking a large gulp of the beer, which tastes far better than what comes out of a keg.

“Nice castle you got here, princess.”

Steve avoids eye contact at that, looking to the side and shifting in place. “What do you want?” he asks skittishly.

Billy doesn’t answer right away as the bottle occupies his lips, and soon there’s not a drop left. “I don’t know.”

“You… you don’t know?” Steve scoffs. “You barge into my house, and you don’t know why?”

The blonde shrugs and shakes his expressionless head.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

As a matter of fact, he does.

Steve then looks down at the floor. “You’re dripping everywhere, dry up for Christ's sake!”

Then Billy smirks a little, teasingly so. “Make me.”

He watches as Harrington clenches his fists before they come near his face, and Billy accepts it; the inevitable punch coming his way. It’s possibly what he deserves, he’s unsure of actually what, but a hit might be it. And yet, he doesn’t hurt, instead he feels softness caress his face, going through his hair, as Steve dries him off with the towel.

“Take off your jacket.”

“What?”

“I said take off your jacket,” Steve repeats.

“Why?”

“Because if we don’t get you dried off and warm, you’ll get sick.”

“And why do you care?”

The pretty boy takes a step back, towel still in hand. This time he’s the one to shrug, and doesn’t offer another word, lowering silence onto the two of them.

For a moment too long and quiet, Billy considers why Steve wants him out of his clothes, but perhaps the reason is simply more innocent than what Billy imagines. So he does as suggested, taking off his jacket.

“You can borrow some dry clothes, but once the rain is done you’re out, understood?” Steve sounds so certain of that.

“Sure thing, princess.”

Steve exhales hard enough for Billy to hear it, and is that a slight blush to his cheeks? Or anger at the pet name?

“Come on.”

Harrington’s bedroom is surprisingly barren in comparison to the rest of the house; nothing on the walls besides that shit ass ugly wallpaper, a few pieces of furniture around the room, curtains, and lamps. Billy’s room is a cluttered mess in comparison, but at least his got personality, and this is more like a showroom at a furniture store.

“I’m sure I got something that will fit you…” Steve starts rummaging through the dresser, and as his back is turned to Billy, the blonde starts undressing.

All of it.

And when Harrington turns around, there’s just a gentle gasp from open lips as his eyes seem to be guided like a magnet down to Billy’s limp dick. For whatever reason, Billy gets a kick out of the stare, feeling heat shoot through him to his groin.

“Billy…”

“What?” He grins wickedly. “See something you like?”

Steve looks away, but being naked in the pretty boy's bedroom, it excites Billy beyond belief, beyond understanding. Beyond common sense.

So he takes a step forward, just a small one to test the sudden tension between them. Steve tries to take a step back, but bumps against the dresser behind him.

As much as his heart is beating him into a weak pulp, Billy can’t stop walking closer after that initial tentative step. And he plans to continue till Steve says or does something to stop him. But he doesn’t, so the blonde winds up with his feet next to the other’s, too close perhaps, as he can smell Steve’s body soap and hear his elevated breathing.

They’ve been quiet for too long, so Billy says, “Steve, look at me.”

Without blinking Steve turns his head to look straight into ocean blue eyes, and their noses early touch. He looks concerned.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy, huh?” Billy whispers in a teasing way, almost sensual without intending to be, but the nearness makes it seem like something it might not be. “You wanna punch me, don’t you? Start a fight?” Billy gazes down at Steve’s plump lips, then back up to meet his stare. “Come on then, do it. Hit me. Show me with your fists how much you hate me.”

And for a second time tonight, Steve touches Billy in an unexpected way, as his mouth gently and experimentally presses a kiss against Billy’s.

Who’s stunned. Such a tender act, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and two thoughts cause war in his head.

Kiss him back, or punch him.

The kiss wins.

But his hands don't stay idle either, as they grab the collar of Steve’s polo shirt and pull him into a far more ravenous kiss than what the brunette offered before. And it does things to Billy that he’s unsure of why it does. He’s confused, angry, furious in fact, but also undoubtedly and impossibly turned on. Never before has he gotten so hard so fast.

And when Steve grabs him by the hips he moans into their brutish kisses. It’s almost as if he can’t think any further past this moment, and yet his hands act by pulling at Harrington’s shirt till Steve takes it off. While his hands are off Billy, they go down to undo his belt and loosen the button on his jeans before the zipper runs free.

With his hands back on tan skin, he softly pushes as he guides Billy backwards and onto the bed, where they both fall together and bounce around a little with slight chuckles.

Billy can’t remember when he last laughed in earnest.

But he doesn’t linger in that moment, instead he crawls back till he meets the headboard and a couple of pillows. Then he spreads his legs for Steve, who places himself between Billy’s thighs and leans down to kiss and nibble across his waxed clean chest. The blonde moans when a tongue finds its way to a nipple, and the tip plays with the sensitive bud, hardening it before lips close around it to suck, and Billy’s sounds grow even more elated.

There are no real words uttered past hoarse curses and yes’s, yet Steve seems to understand what Billy wants as he reaches for a drawer in the side table, and brings out a bottle of lube.

The lid comes off with a clear pop, and the clear fluid pours over three of Steve’s digits. But he pauses, both of them out of breath and silent as the cold lube runs down Steve’s hand and drips onto Billy’s chest. Their eyes then meet, and he can tell that Harrington is searching for approval.

Billy’s heart is in overdrive, but so is his lusty need to feel the other inside of him, so he nods just the once, which proves to be enough for Steve to bring his hand down between them, between Billy’s thighs, between his buttocks and into his hole.

It’s not something he’s used to past a few trial runs with his own thick fingers, but Steve’s are thinner and longer, reaching deeper than Billy expected to, and it takes a moment to get used to the sensation.

And what an amazing sensation it is; Billy gets worried that the pure anticipation of getting fucked by Harrington’s cock might undo him too soon, but he resist the urge to touch himself and finish it all so quickly.

After a few thrusts he dares beg, “More.”

The thrill of a second finger makes him louder, more keen on expressing his incoherent thoughts, and when Steve continues to thrust ever so gently, Billy leaks onto his own stomach whilst gripping at the sheets.

Harrington simply stares starry eyed at the expressiveness of the blonde’s expressions of elation.

It doesn’t take long for Billy to need another finger. “Fuck, pretty boy, more…”

The stretch of the third hurts just a little bit, a slight burning sensation of his rim, but on the inside he feels like melting butter, easy and pliable in the brunette’s hands, a moaning, leaking mess of spectacular nerves coming looser and looser, til those three fingers aren’t enough anymore.

“Come on then, princess, give it all to me. Fuck me.”

It’s more uncomfortable being empty of Steve than it was getting fingered by him, but it gives Billy a moment to breathe without gasping and moaning as he watches Steve lather up his cock and guide it up to Billy’s expectant hole.

Slowly, inch by inch, he glides inside with the most tender of movements, and if Billy thought that Harrington’s fingers were long, reaching where he couldn’t himself, his prick goes past that, pushing in till Billy’s convinced it’ll fill him up completely.

It is breathtaking. 

“You okay?” Steve asks him softly once he’s completely inside of Billy.

He nods. “Yeah, I’m fine, princess.”

“Good… Good. I’m gonna start moving, just tell me if you want to stop.”

The blonde understands now why all those girls want Steve. He’s nice. Too nice maybe. Billy can’t stand looking at him, turns his head to the side and nods.

So Harrington starts, pulling out carefully before pushing in again, and Billy swears he’ll meet a swift end to this experience if he doesn’t hold back, for the feeling of getting fucked so gently is beyond excellent. Every motion, every inch, it consumes him with blinding and deafening lust, all of which he gives clear sound to by the way of moaning and gasping. 

Then Steve leans in to kiss his neck, somehow finding soft spots Billy didn’t know he had, and it helps in the worst way. 

Minutes pass this way, slow thrusts and kind kisses, so tender it might just ruin the war between the two for good, make Billy fall head first into growing a crush on Harrington, something he’s sure he doesn’t want, but doubt comes in with every near loving touch.

“Billy…” Steve mumbles and it sounds perfect coming from him.

So the blonde turns his head to meet those brown eyes gazing dearly down at him.

“Please, keep looking at me.”

Oh it brings forth buried feelings like it’s golden treasure that Billy has been trying to find for so long. Something he didn’t know he even could find within himself. So he looks at Steve as they go through this gentle time together. Billy didn’t think it possible that he and the brunette could be like this. Normally he’s so calculative, thoroughly thinking every word before saying them, practicing in the mirror for hours, but this all came so naturally once he was naked in Steve’s bedroom.

This is easier than hating and fighting him. This is it. Completeness.

“Faster,” he pleads.

And Steve complies, increasing the pace of his thrusts, and every time he bottoms out inside of Billy, the blonde calls out louder and louder, the heat in his gut building up till it engulfs him with fiery passion that can undoubtedly be heard all throughout the woods surrounding the mansion. 

“Billy, fuck!” Harrington hasn’t been completely quiet throughout, but now he’s becoming wilder with his voice, calling out the blonde’s name, telling him how amazing he feels, how incredible this is.

All the praise is what brings him to climax, his dick untouched by hands but rubbed between their stomachs proves to be enough friction, making him moan as his body tenses up and his cock empties out in the space between them.

“Don’t stop!” he calls out, riding the wave of ecstasy for a while longer than what masturbation brings him to. 

“I-I- ah!” Steve tries to speak, but is cut off as he too reaches the peak, which Billy can tell from the way his thrusts become erratic and his whole body shivers and trembles, then it stills, then collapses onto the blonde with his entire weight.

And Billy releases his grip on the sheets that he’s been choking out this entire time. Everything is peaceful and soft and he doesn’t want this moment to end, ever. 

Steve breathes out from exhaustion, and says, “How about a shower?”

Billy hopes that Steve can’t see the little secret smile he has when he responds with, “Sounds great.”

[intothedysphoria]

Going from a social outcast to seemingly universally desired was a change that Billy found himself sorely lacking the capacity to deal with.

It felt like barely a year ago he was just the fat kid with the asshole dad. The kid who was more comfortable speaking Irish than English. The weird kid who couldn’t sit still in class and had “outbursts” that would leave a classroom completely overturned.

Now he’d lost weight (not by choice), had to speak English if he didn’t want to be uprooted for a third time and was supposedly taking his adderall post ADHD diagnosis. Neil was still an asshole but that would never change.

He was desirable now. A hot commodity. Had the approval of everyone apart from his own fucking dad.

In short, Billy was absolutely miserable.

He missed California a lot. He missed Belfast even more. He missed being fat. He missed his mam and grandad. He missed everything.

Showing any signs of weakness was how it started though. So Billy did what he always did. He adapted.

Harrington was weird. Taking the crown from him was almost too easy. For all the talk he’d been fed about King Steve, what Billy got was a teenager who couldn’t make eye contact, spent an hour reading two pages of a textbook and walked like a penguin when nobody was watching.

Good thing Billy didn’t mind weird.

The usual taunts didn’t really work. All it really achieved was getting Harrington flat on his back on the gym floor and that got Billy thinking about sex which wasn’t helpful.

Harrington just stared up at him with these big startled eyes. Like a damn deer. The pointed star he wore around his neck swayed as Billy let him up. Jewish maybe. Billy felt his hand unconsciously drift down towards his own pendant, the one his granny had given him.

The one that would help him find his way back home.

They fought within a week. Arsehole had Max holed up in a strangers house. It made Billy’s skin crawl just thinking about it. Especially after having to flirt with Karen Wheeler just to get any answers, All he could remember was that he was winning then the world started going black.

When he woke up there was a dead something in the fridge. He probably hadn’t woken up at all then. His body took that hint as a sign to collapse again.

He woke up again. A small woman with mousy brown hair and a nervous tic was cooking. Billy could hear The Clash drifting from another room. Christmas lights were scattered across the wall. It was the first place in Hawkins that had actually felt like home.

The woman’s name was Joyce. The house he’d found Harrington and Max and the nightmare in had been her house. She was dressed practically and smelled like paint and reminded him so much of his own mam that his heart hurt.

She was a good cook. The soup wasn’t like anything he’d ate before, probably Polish but it was fantastic. She asked if he wanted to stay the night. He said no.

Neil would be waiting. He always was.

Neil had burned the damn book. The one Billy had wrote when he was seven, colouring all the words in orange and white and green. It hurt more than any punch every could have.

He was under house arrest again. Only let out when Max needed a fucking taxi to a Christmas dance. Harrington was a couple of cars away, fussing over a boy of about thirteen who could have been his younger brother.

They weren’t biologically brothers. But Henderson was his cousin. So they were in spirit. Those were some of the things Billy learned from a few strained sentences of conversation.

He apologised in a way so Billy reluctantly returned one. Apparently he hadn’t realised how fucking dodgy he’d looked with Max.

Billy was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Neil kicked him out of the house on Christmas Day for hanging an Irish flag on his door. Billy went to the Byers. Joyce’s family didn’t exactly celebrate Christmas but she still gave him a present.

She gave him gorgeous Polish cakes which were fucking delicious and some of Jonathan’s old vinyls which he didn’t listen to anymore.

That day Billy discovered The Specials and tucked the vinyl under his weed stash in the Camaro boot. Somewhere Neil would never think to look.

Harrington was tolerable after Christmas break. Tolerable in an infuriating way because Billy still wanted to fuck him. The queerness wasn’t something he’d told anyone about though apart from Patrick McKinney so he kept those thoughts to himself.

He spent more time at the Byers, learned what Shabbat was, came out to Joyce in a flood of tears, kissed Harrington, wrote a letter back to Ireland for the first time in two years and made a plan to get the hell out of Hawkins Indiana.

Harrington managed to pass high school with a lot of bribery and tutoring and kissing at his place. Jesus but Harringtons house was a bloody mansion. Billy had spent his first eight years in a terraced shared accommodation where his entire extended family had lived. Harrington had five bathrooms and his own television. Not even in black and white.

Billy got his predicted mix of A’s and B’s so he was happy and spent most of the weekend post graduation floating on his back in the Harrington pool, beer in hand. He couldn’t afford to slack off completely though. So he got a summer job.

Working at the community pool was fine. As long as Billy didn’t think about the middle aged women staring at him like a piece of meat. Fucking perverts. Heather was fun though. Funny. The only lesbian he’d met in Hawkins apart from Buckley.

Neil had started acting even weirder than usual after a night Billy had slept over at his boyfriends. He’d taken to ice baths and Billy swore he’d seen the man drinking bleach. Ugh.

Max was pretty obviously freaked out though so Billy slowly phased her into spending most nights at the Byers or the Sinclairs or Steve’s. Susan wouldn’t budge. Something in Billy’s chest felt a bit sick about that.

The Fourth of July they were in the mall, the one Steve worked at. Something even more hellish than the thing in the fridge stood above them. And Neil just stood by with blank, hateful eyes and let it happen.

He died. Billy killed him. Stabbed him in the chest then the monster went away.

Steve was gripping his shoulders as he stood there, Neil’s blood on his jacket and he cried.

Susan left.

Social services took Max. Billy cried a lot that day. She was living with some family in Michigan. They promised to keep in touch.

Billy went to therapy twice a week. A guy from County Mayo who Billy trusted immediately.

There was no point really in Joyce adopting him as he was over eighteen. Besides she didn’t need to. Billy knew who his family were.

A letter came back from Belfast. Inviting both him and Steve back to his grandparents house. Steve had never left the US, had never really left the Midwest actually. Billy wanted to show him everything.

The years went by and Billy regained weight. He stopped speaking English as much and was determined to teach Steve Irish. He still sometimes forgot to take his adderall and had awful nightmares but Steve was there to make it better.

He was alive. And life was pretty ok.

[tallerthantale]

Neil and Amanda's Fake Therapist

I originally gathered information relating to Neil's fake therapist in a bit of a messy hyperfocus flurry that included some initial errors, followed by various erratic updates, so I wanted to put the main points together into one coherent place. Some of what I'm putting together here was found by others on the subreddit post.

I once again find myself skirting the edges of my typical rules for myself about analyzing public figures, so disclaimer: this is personal opinion, I'm not scientifically or clinically evaluating anyone based off public appearances / statements, I am commenting on what personal impression I am getting off things, and leaving most speculation about internal states out.

Man does this guy make it hard to stick to that though.

The person I'm talking about here is the supposed 'therapist' that Scarlett interacted with while Neil was (allegedly) pressuring her to say the allegations weren't true. His behavior there (with a paper trail according to Tortoise), and what I was able to gather from Amanda Palmer's podcast made it clear to me that he was not operating within the acceptable behaviour of a therapist, so I decided to see if I could prompt a review of his license. All indications at this time are that he does not have one. But it gets worse.

He claims to be a minister, but like the therapist claim cites no qualifications or organizations in his website's bio. This combination of therapist who isn't a therapist and minister who isn't a minister potentially creates a legal nightmare scenario. I am not a lawyer, this is not legal advice, but I'm going to give you my best estimate of the situation, which has involved looking up the law and reading some cases.

As long as he isn't claiming to be a mental health professional, he may be protected in calling himself a nonspecific 'therapist.' He can probably argue it as some kind of spiritual therapy. But because he isn't actually a mental health care provider, he is not subject to mandatory reporting. Generally therapists have a legal obligation to proactively report when someone is a danger to themselves or others. He does not have that requirement. He isn't bound by professional ethics, since he is not a member of any organizations and has no licenses. Moreover, it seems to be the case in New Mexico that if a person reasonably believes you to be a minister, that kicks in clergy-penitent privilege whether or not you actually are a minister.

The origin concept of clergy-penitent privilege is that the law cannot force a priest to reveal what was said to them in confession. The First Amendment means all religions get it equally and it doesn't have to be part of a specific Catholic ritual. In New Mexico, it covers anything that was not said publicly or intended to be passed on regardless of the surrounding context. That means anything said to or by this guy that is not said in public or explicitly intended to be forwarded cannot be used by the legal system for any purpose, no matter how documented or incriminating it is to the client or to him personally. There is no mechanism to remove that privilege form him for being misused because it is derived from his representation of himself as a minister, not his actual status.

According to his linkdin he received a Bachelors degree in creative writing from the University of Rochester, in New York. He then got a Masters degree in Divinity in Organizations from Harvard Divinity School, 1982-1985. These are the only points of education claimed anywhere we have seen. He lists no psychology or mental health qualification anywhere, and is most known as an author. His bookselling success might be due to a claimed promotional appearance on Oprah.

His personal webpage has a long 'client list' or list of 'collaborators' who have hosted speaking engagements. This list was last updated in 2012. The events on his calendar page have no year. I think I recall seeing a section of his website that was only accessible to those who were 'fully committed,' or something like that, but it doesn't seem to be there now. It's possible I'm misremembering, it's possible it got taken down when the reddit thread got popular, I don't have the right skillset to check. He won an award from the Institute of Noetic Sciences, which looks to be engaging in pseudo scientific spirituality in a manner similar to Scientology.

From what I can gather from the video's I've watched, the advice he 'preaches' is a mish mash of bits and pieces of metaphors and perspectives from a variety of religions and philosophies that he probably didn't fully understand. (My speculation.) There are pieces of genuine insight that are lifted from others and that can give the impression he knows what he is talking about to vulnerable people even if he doesn't really understand them himself. He doesn't seem to have any genuine religious beliefs or connections to any religious congregation or organizations. It is unclear if he is or is not technically ordained, but that is something anyone can just do online, and he doesn't even claim it.

Particularly noticeable in his talks are traces of Jungian psychoanalysis (which is the nonsense Jordan Peterson seems to have got caught up in, and it has antisemitic and fascist origins) some Buddhist resilience concepts that have been misused by westerners a lot, and Christian (I think) concepts about universal love and togetherness. They end up mashed together into a message that I believe will influence most victims who hear it to blame themselves and remain in toxic situations, while making perpetrators feel better about continuing to perpetrate. Not saying that was the goal, but if a person had that goal, this patchwork philosophy is what you would put together to achieve it. I'm not going to be specific because I don't want to be like, putting out a guide for people on how to do this.

Amanda says she met the guy before she had a child, but after she was married. That is somewhere between 2011 and 2015. Amanda says she met him at something resembling a TED conference, where all sorts of people got together to do various (rich people nonsense.) She had a mental breakdown in a horse paddock, and the fake therapist was the guy with the horse, teaching about horse whispering.

"And since then, he’s been my therapist, and he’s also become a true friend, to me, and to my family, and to many other people in my life that he’s taken on, and helped out, in some of their darkest hours of need, and he is my emergency phone call. And in a way, he sort of picked up where Anthony, my old mentor, left off, and I don’t find it a coincidence that Wayne walked into my life right around the time Anthony walked out. "

This is not what a therapist does, this is cult leader behaviour. This is pure speculation on my part, but I wonder if Neil might have known him first and orchestrated their meeting. He is an author with connections to an organization similar to Scientology. It might actually not be a coincidence. Again, pure speculation.

Amanda describes seeking advice from him whenever she was having trouble with Neil, and that talking to him would make her feel like everything was fine again. "Even just to have someone to talk to, to remind me what I’m struggling with, what’s going on, what is home, why does this feel so disorienting, what am I doing? And I can say right now, when I shifted my internal feeling within myself, within my relationship with Neil, around where I was, my feeling in my own house transformed. Because I went, oh, right, none of this fucking matters."

In June 2019 Amanda Palmer has the Portland, OR incident where she tells her fans they need to forgive their r@#ists.

In 2019 the fake therapist did a series of webcasts with The Santa Fe Center for Spiritual Healing over a few months. At times he is titled "Rvrd", and at times he is titled "Dr." there is no reason to believe he is either. In the first one, the host reads a bio she found online, that she says he asked her not to read (she appears to think he was being humble.) This version of the bio claims that he was a Senior Scholar at the Fetzer Institute. When he comes on after she read it, he makes odd comments about whoever might be watching the video online and appears very shaken. The Fetzer Institute has no mention of him on their website. That connection is not listed in his current bio.

In his last video for the Santa Fe Center he claims to be working on an upcoming project in D.C. with a co-facilitator who was famous for brokering a truce between the crips and bloods. He also comes across like he has been asked to stop working with the center and is being super passive aggressive about it. (My speculation.)

His appearance on Amanda Palmer's podcast is recorded in July 2019, about a month after the last Santa Fe Center webcast, in upstate New York. In the descriptor she says it was recorded after a week long retreat with him she set up for 60 of her Patrion supporters. There is a nearly two year gap between the recording and posting, which is not explained. She describes him as a minister, therapist, leadership mentor, and her personal therapist. In the episode itself, she also describes him as her and Neil's relationship therapist. In the description she promotes his books and his website, and says he is still readily contactable there, but to be patient right now because he is mid move. (The description was posted when the podcast was posted, in 2021. As mentioned earlier, there are features of his website that have not been updated since 2012.)

The fake therapist tweeted about Neil being a 'dear friend' in late 2020. He has under 100 followers, not really what you would expect for a best selling author / therapist / minister / community leader / mentor / horse whisper. While I make references to cult leader behaviour, a genuine cult leader would probably have a larger following. But somehow I don't think he lacks for money. I expect there is a market for pseudo-therapists you can freely talk to about the crimes you are actively committing. You can even involve him in the crime, and it still privileged.

The events of Scarlett's allegations date to 2022, about a year after Amanda posted the podcast episode. Sometime in March is when Neil manipulates Scarlett into saying the allegations are false with what is essentially a su!c!de threat, then asks her to repeat her assurances that it was consensual to the fake therapist. Amanda had recently received a scorching message from one of Scarlett's friends about what was done to her. It seems like Neil is doing this to win a fight with Amanda in their "relationship therapy." Scarlett gets a message from the fake therapist.

Tortoise describes it as him "saying he'd be happy to speak to her in complete confidence because he had heard that she found herself in his words 'in the midst of relationships, stories and narratives, not alas necessarily of your own making. Sadly, this is not a surprise. Two creative dynamic people can easily draw others into their orbit unaware of how powerfully the magnetic pull of their influences can have on others.'"

My perception of this message is that it plants the suggestion to Scarlett that her friends are brainwashing her to think she was r@ped by pulling her into 'narratives not of her own making.' I could see how people might interpret the later lines regarding magnetic pull as being about accidental power dynamics abuse, but I read it more as him saying Scarlett's friends are opportunistic manipulators looking to make a name for themselves by taking down a famous person.

Either way, there are a considerable number of things happening there that an actual therapist would not ever do, for a variety of very good reasons. Tortoise's attempt to call him to ask for comment was thwarted by the fact that his phone has been specifically programed not to accept voicemails. Not like, the voicemail box was full or something, he went out of his way to do that. Which means Tortoise can't quite claim that he didn't respond to requests to comment, because they couldn't leave a message. Other organizations probably run into similar difficulties establishing evidence that they have contacted him. It's not a smoking gun, but I don't like it.

A year later Amanda Palmer makes her post on the Russel Brand allegations, where she argues the solution to serial predatory behaviour is to try to get them to stop doing "stupid shit" by trying to heal their lacking and fear with love and compassion and forgiveness, because that the ONLY cause / motivation for abusive behavior. And some unarticulated hope for non-specific accountability vibes.

This post looks to me like the perspective of a person who has been continuously exploited, and manipulated into thinking it is their personal responsibility to heal people who have no interest in being healed. It reads to me like a person who has been justifying staying in a toxic situation to themself so long it has warped their entire worldview. It reads to me like the inevitable end result of this fake therapists preaching.

I don't think that absolves her of what ever her role has been in facilitating access to victims, or actively promoting these views to her audience, but it is something to keep in mind.

There is a broad rage of possibilities for what is going on with this guy. The spectrum runs from deeply misguided fool to deliberately exploitative criminal. Either way it looks like he is charging people money for the service of turning them into the "this is fine" dog. This is not fine. This is not ok. Unfortunately it probably is legal.

[darklinaforever]

Typical Tumblr shitbrain behaviour; convincing themselves that screaming at random bloggers for daring to say “I don’t have enough information to form an opinion on this situation yet” is going to save sexual assault victims. Sorry you got yelled at by someone who spends too much time doomscrolling as if any of the women who came forward are going to read your blog specifically.

Exactly what I was trying to explain. What difference does it make for the victims that I, an anonymous person on the Internet, do the research in my area, then wait for the whole affair to be complete before exposing the opinion that I would have formed and which will have evolved, strength of the next information that will arise ? But apparently that just means that I don't believe the victims, that I necessarily think that Neil Gaiman is innocent, that my opinion will not change and that apparently I will never speak truthfully on the subject. 🙄

[jewishbarbies]

one of my favourite authors (Neil Gaiman) just got accused of sexual assault and while I’m reserving my thoughts for more information to come out, people are already using the “he’s a Zionist, this is typical” “typical Zionist behaviour” “he believes Israel should exist” rhetoric. Like why does his Zionism and Jewishness have to come into play

I was just looking into this and it doesn’t look like legitimate accusations to me. apparently there’s a lot of people who feel that way. the story broke from a media outlet that is far right, Boris Johnson’s sister is the main “investigative journalist” on the case, and they use the article to promote their podcast episodes about which is behind a paywall. there’s a lot of theories that this might be a smear campaign bc Gaiman is pro trans, etc., and allegedly the outlet has a history of faking things and blatantly lying in articles. until it’s confirmed and fact checked by a legitimate news source, I’m not buying it.

it doesn’t surprise me that leftists would use this as a “gotcha” for their antisemitic rants. they’ll leverage literally anything to try and make their side look better, bc that’s all it is to them. it’s just a big war of optics.

[chrisbitchtree]

The One with the Birthday Lockdown

For Harringrove Week day 2

Prompt - To be happy

2.1k - T (tw: child abuse)

***

Billy stands, pacing the short length of his bedroom. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until he’s sure he’s soon going to wear a hole in the ancient wooden floorboards. When that gets old, he sits cross legged on the bed, then lays down, taking deep breaths, trying to resist the urge to scream.

***

It’s the night of Billy’s 18th birthday. He should be out with Steve right now, having the best night ever. Steve had planned a whole evening for the two of them, although that’s all he would say, unwilling to tell Billy what his plans were. Billy had been riding the high of excitement for weeks.

That had all come crashing down when he’d talked back to his father the day before. He knew now, thinking back on it, that it had been a trap. Neil had agreed way too easily when Billy had asked to spend the nights out with friends for his birthday, forgoing the usual intense round of questioning about who he’d be out with, where they were going, and what they’d be doing, on top of stipulations about when he could leave an when he had to come back.

Instead, when Billy had mentioned going out with friends, Neil had readily agreed, slipping Billy a twenty and telling him to go have a good time. Billy should have been suspicious, but he’d been too blinded by excitement over Steve’s secret plans. Then, at 7pm the night before, while Susan and Max were out shopping, Billy’s father had called him to the kitchen, where he’d demanded to know why Billy had left dishes in the sink.

Billy had protested, which was his first mistake. He knew that he hadn’t left the dishes, but even if he had hard evidence to prove that it had been Max, his dad would still blame him, so he should have just confessed to having done it and washed the dishes. But no, he’d just had to open his big mouth and tell Neil to ask Max about it when she got home.

His dad had immediately flown into a rage, hurling a frying pan at Billy, just missing his head. There was a dent in the wall behind him, along with a trail of thick, brown sauce. Clearly unsatisfied with the results of his throw, Neil had proceeded to throw a spatula, spoon, and coffee mug at him.

The mug was thankfully another hit, shattering in almost the exact same spot as the pan had hit. Neil was yelling so loud that Billy’s ears were ringing as he started to clean up the shards of glass from the floor. After he was done sweeping, Billy scrubbed the wall and washed the unbroken dishes as his father continued to yell at him.

He told Billy that he wasn’t to leave the kitchen until it was spotless, then he was to go to his room for the remainder of the night. Billy could take all that. This was typical Neil behaviour. He started to lose his cool when his father told him that he wouldn’t be allowed to go out the next evening for his birthday, as punishment for leaving the dishes and then talking back.

Billy took a deep breath, knowing that talking back anymore than he already had wouldn’t get him anywhere. He could only hope that he could somehow get in touch with Steve, since Billy wouldn’t have access to the phone in his bedroom, and the next day was Saturday, so he couldn’t even run over to Family Video on his lunch break to let Steve know.

***

An hour later, Susan and Max returned home. After a couple minutes, Billy heard a knock on his door. Too peppy sounding to be Susan, it had to be Max. Clearly she hadn’t noticed that the lock on the outside of his door was locked.

“Go away,” he called, sounding miserable, even to his own ears. He was upset about how being able to go out, but still pretty pissed at Max for leaving those dishes.

“I just want to…” she replied.

“Go away!” Billy shouted, drowning her out.

She stayed as persistent as ever though, knocking again before Billy could hear Neil guide her away from his door, telling her in a loud enough voice that he could be sure Billy could hear that Billy needed some time to think about respect and responsibility and was to be left alone.

Not ten minutes had passed before there was a quiet knock on Billy’s window. For a  brief moment, he got his hopes up, thinking it might be Steve, and was disappointed when he opened the curtains to see Max’s face staring back at him.

“What the fuck do you want?” he growled, sliding the window open as slowly and quietly as possible.

“I just want to know what you did to make Neil so mad that he said you can’t go out tomorrow night. I heard him telling my mom.”

He glared at her dumb face, resisting the urge to shout as he responded. “Maybe you should ask yourself that, Maxine. You’re the one who left dishes in the sink for him to find!”

“That’s not true!” she protested. “You made breakfast this morning, and we did those dishes together, then my mom picked me up right from school! When would I have dirtied dishes?”

Neil, that fucking bastard. Billy had absently thought about the fact that the frying pan only had sauce in it, with no food besides. His dad had planted the dishes in the sink so that he had something to get Billy in trouble for.

One recent night, when Billy was up getting a glass of water late at night, he’d overheard Susan and Neil talking about Billy. Susan had told Neil that she thought Neil was being too harsh on Billy for nothing, so now he was clearly inventing reasons to get mad. Jesus Christ, Billy had to get out of there sooner rather than later.

He sighed, flopping back on his bed, leaving Max hanging through the window frame. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to sooth himself and stop the headache he could feel starting at his temples.

“I’m sorry, Billy,” Max said, mournfully. “I know it doesn’t really help, but I brought you this.” She placed two cookies on a napkin on his windowsill. It wasn’t much, but chocolate chips could always make things at least a little bit better.

“Thanks, Max,” he said through a mouthful of cookie, giving her a small smile. “Could you do me one more favour and bring me your walkie?”

***

Steve was kind and empathetic throughout their entire conversation, telling Billy it was no problem at all to postpone their plans for another week, asking Billy in a worried tone if he was ok. He didn’t even complain once about not being able to hear Billy properly, as Bill whispered into the walkie under the cover of his blanket, hoping it muffled the sound from anyone trying to eavesdrop outside his bedroom door.

Eventually, the battery started to drain, Steve’s voice fading in and out, until Billy had to let him go, trying not to tear up as they said goodbye. He laid in bed, hugging his own body under the covers, willing himself to fall asleep. The faster he could fall asleep, the faster he could wake up and get through the next day.

***

Billy wakes the morning of his birthday to loud banging on his bedroom door, and his father shouting at him to get up for his birthday breakfast. He dresses quickly, scrambling to the bathroom then to the dining room table, where Susan serves pancakes, smiling weakly at Billy as she slides a couple onto his plate.

Billy’s dad gives a speech about how his son’s now a man, ready to make his own way in the world, and for a second, Billy thinks between the breakfast and the speech that Neil might actually be making an attempt to do something nice for him after punishing him so severely, but then he sees it for what it really is, an attempt for Neil to show Susan what a great father he is, even when Billy’s acting like a piece of shit. The pancake syrup suddenly tastes bitter on Billy’s tongue, and he wants nothing more than to be locked back in his room, where he can at least be alone.

***

Billy gets his wish, immediately being ushered to his room after breakfast, and told to both stay in there and stay quiet. He complies, picking up a book he has to read for school and getting lost in another world for a while.

At first, it’s not too bad, pretty much the same as every other quiet Saturday he’s forced to spend at home, except this time he’s not in charge of monitoring Max and her every movement. Susan drops off his lunch outside his door, knocking softly and scurrying away before he opens the door. He eats his bologna sandwich and apple in silence, continuing to read his book.

As late afternoon rolls around, he starts to get restless. That’s when the pacing starts. As he walks the length of his room, his anger starts to build. This was supposed to be his big night. He’s finally a man, and he finally has someone that loves him, but he’s still here, rotting away in his bedroom.

Evening falls, and as the sun starts to set, Neil knocks on Billy’s bedroom door, telling him he’d better use the washroom before Neil and Susan go out for dinner and a movie. Billy’s blood boils as he pictures his dad and Susan out at Enzo’s while he’s stuck at home, separated from Steve.

He uses the washroom, and as soon as he closes his bedroom door again, he hears the padlock click shut. Fuck Neil, he starts to think. Fuck him and his stupid rules and mind games. Fuck what he’s put Billy through. Fuck Susan for letting it happen. Fuck his mom for running away and leaving him here. Fuck everyone who isn’t Max or Steve.

He’s on the verge of tears, trying to contemplate whether sneaking out is worth the punishment he’ll receive when he almost certainly gets caught, when there’s a knock at his bedroom window. He expects it to be Max, bringing him a snack, or if he’s really lucky, a message from Steve, but when he throws open the curtains, he finds Steve himself.

Steve’s standing in the hedges, holding a box of pizza with a lobsided birthday cake balanced on top of it. He’s wearing a paper party hat on his head, and there’s another one dangling by the string from his hand. Under his arm is a wrapped gift, and there’s a soft, crooked smile on his face.

The floodgates do open at that point, Billy so overwhelmed by this turn of events that he can’t even be bothered to hide his tears like he usually does. He just lets them flow as he takes the cake and pizza box from Steve before ushering him in through the window.

“Steve, I can’t believe you…” he manages to choke out before the tears overtake his ability to speak.

Steve pulls Billy into his arms and rubs his back soothingly. “What, you thought I was going to let you spend your birthday all alone in here? You underestimate me, Hargrove.”

After a couple minutes, he pulls back and hands Billy a tissue from the box on his side table so he can wipe away his tears. Billy blushes thinking of what they usually use the tissues to wipe up, late at night, bathed in moonlight when Steve’s snuck in, telling Billy in a whisper that he couldn’t bear to be apart from him for another moment.

Billy laughs when Steve places the party hat on his head, only grumbling slightly when he snaps the elastic under Billy’s chin, and he moans in delight at the first bite of hot, cheesy pizza. When Steve goes to sing happy birthday to Billy, he realizes that he never brought a knife to cut the cake.

They call out to Max, who brings them one, running around the side of one in hand, and Steve invites her, so she stays and she and Steve sing to Billy together as he grins at them, his two favourite people in the world.

His 18th birthday isn’t exactly what Billy imagined, but it’s not often that things pan out the way he thinks they will, and honestly, it’s ok. He's choosing, in this moment, despite it all, to be happy.

One day, he’ll look back at this day, and he’ll barely remember the way Neil tried to sour it. He’ll just remember his boyfriend, his sister, and the sweet taste of chocolate cake.

[backstage-if]

Not the divorce!!! That's okay if you don't want to write this(just ignore it if you don't haha)! but can we please go with classical what if MC did this to protect RO's(and kids if they have any)? Like maybe MC has some crazy stalker(with typical stalker behaviour: silent calls, signs that someone was in their house, ect) and was getting threat's telling them to break up with RO's for a few months before divorce. And now some time after divorce stalker got caught but RO's get a call from the hospital because MC was stabbed/hurt(but they're alive)?

Might revisit this prompt someday, it could be nice to explore in a drabble 🧐

Needless to say, all the ROs would rush to the hospital instantly and want to be with MC while they have to stay there, but the afterwards would be a little different between them.

I think Joy and Spencer would simply want to forget the whole divorce/stalker situation and focus on the healing. Joy tries to distract MC and make staying at the hospital a less agonizing experience, while Spencer is the worried spouse who has a lot of questions to the nurses and doctors.

C and Neil are... conflicted. They're relieved that MC is now safe and they understand their reasons — but at the same time they thought their relationship wasn't a place for lies or omissions like that. They're a little shaken up. Both are (badly) trying to ignore the feeling for now, tho.

And A, oh, they're disappointed. Happy that nothing... worse happened, but definitely disappointed after the initial shock. I even started to write about it.

[nualaofthefaerie]

Hey, I love your vibes, but I haven’t read the sandman comics yet. What about nuala/dream makes you ship it so passionately? I keep getting your stuff on my tl and dash, so I’m curious.

Hello!

Very glad to have you around!

Uhm, I'm not used to being on Tumblr for a long while, but I will try my best to explain. Also, I'm sorry if the explanation is rather long and confusing, I never really had to gather my thoughts in one place.

First and foremost, my favourite Sandman character is Nuala, probably my favourite character in all of fiction. Bear with me, LET ME PAINT YOU A PICTURE.

When you read the comics, I wish not to skew anyone's perception of the sandman characters, but Nuala is one of the very few clear-cut protagonists of the story. Dream is no protagonist, he is instead a vessel or just an existing complicated entity, but Nuala? She is a protagonist. Even in her moments of utmost brattiness, which she does possess, she is consistently kind.

Despite everything, she is put through, and no little amount of that is Morpheus's inability to communicate, she remains kind and compassionate to everyone around her. I think that with the corporate influx of "girlboss" female characters, who do not understand that women do not have to turn around at any stop and make a SHOW out of their ability to be strong women, the Sandman has a plethora of great female characters. Nuala to me is extremely special because she is a character who shows that kindness isn't weakness. Usually, even in reviews of the Sandman she is treated as a weak girl, that Morpheus only ever uses, but I strongly disagree with that notion. She is extremely kind and sometimes, yes, caves to Morpheus, but I hope you will read through the comics itself and see that despite her treating him with a superior title, she responds to him and never lets him belittle her. There is a great moment between them in volume 7 "Brief Lives" where she stands up for herself in front of Morpheus in a way not many characters in the Sandman do.

I have always had a weakness for light/dark ships and I believe it was during volume 8 "World's End" where Neil, whether intentional or not juxtaposes Nuala as Morpheus's pollar opposite. There is a line of Nuala's that directly challenges everything Morpheus had been preaching about himself. In that same volume Morpheus grants Nuala a personal favour without asking for anything in return. Upon finishing the entirety of the comic, I went back in the whole series and annotated every time Morpheus and Nuala interacted and came to a rather weird conclusion: this ship that I had made in my head actually made sense to a higher degree. In reviews of the Sandman or fan conversations, people mention they don't understand how or why would even Nuala fall in love with Morpheus, but throughout the entire story Morpheus treats Nuala differently - he explicitly makes the effort of commending her on doing a good job, he does her a favour in "world's end" he had NO reason to do and tbh Morpheus is a fickle being, he only ever does whatever he wants to do. Again in "World's end" during a certain characters dream sequence Nuala appears in that characters dream and she is given a really cute fairy appearance that is not the one she usually has in the Dreaming, meaning at least to me that Morpheus has allowed her to look in people's dreams as beautiful as she wishes to look. Of course, "The Kindly Ones" is where they get into their confrontation where Morpheus rejects her DESPITE giving her a boon, something he is not famous for doing as well.

There is also a conversation between Titania and Nuala that confirms that Morpheus' behaviour towards Nuala is not typical. There are serious notes of jealousy in Titania's way of speaking to Nuala.

Overall, I think it's the fact they represent light and darkness, that they are almost exclusively opposites of each other and I think they were purposefully not made canon because Morpheus is incapable of comprehending light and dealing with it in a romantic way, hence all of his canon relationships having a note of toxicity to them.

There are a lot more instances and I think a lot more depth that my 12:00AM brain cannot fully explain right now, but that is a good reason to do a deep dive post sometimes. Because even though I do love them, Morpheus's behavious towards her is still unacceptable at times and HE DOES deserve to be slapped across the face for it.

Love,

Li

P.S. Also my biggest ship is HobxMorpheusxNuala as a thruple since i believe they can be literally the best dynamics in the universe of fictions. :D

[scumbag-monthly]

The Young Ones - Flood 💧

Original air date: 14.12.82

Reviewed by: @neil-neil-orange-peel

It’s too difficult a task for me to pick my favourite episode of The Young Ones. I honestly think it depends on my mood. As things stand, I think I’m able to break the twelve episodes into four quarters, ranking wise, and Flood is definitely in my top quarter.

As the finale to series one, we might have expected an episode more like the previous one – Interesting – to take Flood’s spot. That is, an episode with a massive cast to take the show out on a high in case a second series was never commissioned. By contrast, Flood is a far more intimate affair – with the main cast closed off from the rest of the world and any other characters they might have encountered by rapidly rising water. This forces the focus on to each of them and their interplay with one another even more so than usual, showing us how they react to being trapped in a life or death situation. So, maybe not the high of a party, but a high stakes plot… y’know, if we squint past the silliness, which of course we’re not supposed to do.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. When Flood starts, it’s only raining. I’ll just mention here that I’m in agreement with Zoe about the first series’ opening credits being superior to the second series’. I know both look dated now, but the first series’ ones give more insight into the characters’ personalities and the flavour of the show. But anyway: Flood!

The episode opens outside on a rotten, dreary, drizzly kind of day. To add to the mood, we have a cast of medieval peasants, monks, and soldiers chanting “Dominus ad nauseam”. The posh knobs who’ve had a private education and can speak Latin (plus anyone else who’s bothered to check the Wikipedia article for Flood) will know that this means: “Discussing the Lord to the point of nausea.” There’s the first joke, concealed though it may be, and I think anyone non-religious who’s been forced to sit through a church service will see the funny side.

This first scene doesn’t involve the main characters – it’s a cutaway segment. Though it’s raining hard, and their faces are partially covered, you can spot Mark Arden and Stephen Frost as the peasants. Frost’s character gets the honour of being the first this episode to be hit over the head. Leading this group is “His Holiness” – a character credited on IMDB as the Witchfinder, played by Peter Wear. I think his attire and credited name point to him being a parody of the 17th century Witchfinder General, Matthew Hopkins, which makes the collection of historical figures gathered here a bit anachronistic. That said, it doesn’t matter a jot. This is The Young Ones, after all.

The group are gathered in a graveyard to carry out an execution. They’ve dug a pit – “The finest pit we have dug this morrow, for it is in truth the only one.” – to cast the prisoner down into. Thanks to the weather, it’s more of a muddy bath now. The soldiers prove themselves to be a few vegetables short of an allotment when they misunderstand the Witchfinder’s instructions by casting themselves into the pit. Exasperated, the Witchfinder asks the prisoner if he knows the crime he has been found guilty of… and then, exasperation breaking into irritation, prompts him to tell us what it is. It is now, as the camera zooms in and he pulls out a microphone, that we can see clearly that the prisoner is Arnold Brown! From The Comic Strip! And his crime?

“Being Scottish and Jewish – two racial stereotypes for the price of one. Perhaps the best value in the graveyard this morning.”

After Brown gets his catchphrase in (“And why not?”), Neil (Nigel Planer) appears and hits himself in the face with a frying pan. Typical bloody hippie behaviour, tsk tsk. We discover this graveyard doubles as the lads’ back garden and that Rick (Rik Mayall) has seemingly been watching the cutaway segment from the window. Or has he? No, no, he’s just been watching Neil.

Inside the house – where the set lighting in the kitchen is stark, adding to the gloom of the day – Mike (Christopher Ryan) tells us Rick has been looking out of the window for three hours. As we TYO nerds already know the truth behind this, I’ll just point out now that Rick voluntarily standing with his face pressed against a window for three hours is kind of impressive, if also extraordinarily pointless. He’s so desperate for attention that he’d put himself through that uncomfortable tedium just in the hope of being able to crack a criminally unfunny joke. Long live the People’s Poet. Mike’s casually callous comment about making sure Rick doesn’t break the window when he tears his face off it is indicative of the house hierarchy and also demonstrates that Mike is a funny character actually. The standout line from this exchange is of course, however, Rick’s line about the superglue being a joke he made up that the others fell for like the fascists they are. His face is just so wonderfully animated as he says it.

Vyvyan (Adrian Edmondson) starts this episode sat on the sofa reading "SS Death Camp Criminal Battalion go to Monte Cassino for the Massacre", a comic of high cultural and intellectual value, I’m sure. I don’t know if it’s intentional or not but his hair looks a little messy in Flood, as if it’s been dampened by the rain. Rick and Vyvyan soon start their fighting – largely, though Rick would never admit it, to placate his own boredom. Yet more attention seeking behaviour from Rick sees him spouting some awful freeform poetry: “Marrow! Meringue! Boomerang!” The writers putting as many words with the “R” sound as they can into Rick’s lines is always amusing. That is what triggers their fighting.

This is one of my favourite scenes between Rick and Vyvyan. Not only is their conversation about the standards the youth should be expecting from their comics and what constitutes “being poofy” hilariously immature, it’s one of the longer periods the two have in the show where they speak without actively trying to kill one another. Vyvyan doesn’t even turn to violence when Rick shoves his bottom in his face – and he’s got a pretty big knife! The clash of personalities is where most of the comedy in the sitcom – in fact, most of the comedy in lots of sitcoms – comes from, so I usually think of this scene when it comes to a concentrated, verbal example of that for Rick and Vyvyan. Their positioning on the sofa makes for some good shots too.

There are a couple rule of three jokes at play in this first section of the show. The first of these we see when Neil enters the house and hits himself in the face with the frying pan (again), the second is started here when Vyvyan decides to check how hard it’s raining. When Vyvyan turns back from the window to break the fourth wall, TYO does what is does best and presents us with a glass of disgusting yellow gob. The studio audience audibly reacts to this.

“It’s only spitting,” Vyvyan says. Clever stuff.

Despite his protestations about how “reactionary” the comic is, Rick still tries to read it after Vyvyan rips it up. This leads into the next cutaway section. All I Have To Do Is Dream by The Everly Brothers playing signifies we’re taking a trip into the delusional world of Rick’s mind, where a comic strip featuring the racist policeman from Boring (Jim Barclay) plays out with Rick as the hero. Notably, Rick is wearing his Demolition getup again here, which suggests maybe this section was originally intended to be part of the pilot. Arden and Frost’s appearances would corroborate this, as we’ve already seen them this episode while they were absent from Demolition. This is also the last time Rick will treat us to some of his poetic verse, as interestingly enough series two features none.

“You gay, black bastards! We’re going to victimise you!” is such a funny line within the context.

The fantasy ends when Neil returns to the house once more and pours a pan of rainwater on Rick’s lap, before hitting himself for a final time. This startles Rick, who can’t figure out where the water came from – a similar joke to this will occur in Bambi. Neil’s near invisibility to the other three is fitting, particularly as we never do find out why he was hitting himself over the head with the frying pan. It’s another discarded plotline to add to the show’s fickle nature. So, while no one is in the slightest bit interested in Neil’s latest take on self-harm, they do want food. Of course. Neil moans that he can’t go to the shop because his hair will lose its shape, but we know this is just an excuse as he’s spent the opening of the episode outside without any kind of hood. The reoccurring question of money comes up and the reason Vyvyan has a knife suddenly becomes apparent. Cat lovers, avert your eyes!

A “kitty”, for those who don’t know, is a slang term for the money gathered by a group of people to be spent on collective amenities – such as in a student house. TYO interprets the name literally, managing to create surrealism from this new concept of a real-life cat containing money… or a, uh, working man’s club comedian puppet cat. I know the rule of comedy is not to explain it! Don’t dissect the frog! But it’s pretty obvious that incongruity in bits like this is what helps create TYO’s oddball humour.

The cat escapes – and for some reason I find it sweet that they’ve got a cat flap for it – but not before shitting out some dosh. Neil begrudgingly agrees to go to the shops and they set about making a list. Vyvyan amps up his taunting of a now blazered Rick by faux apologising for eating his sticky-labelled food. There’s a gifset somewhere on Tumblr for Rick’s rather animalistic reaction. Neil takes another opportunity to try to guilt trip everyone about how he does all the chores around here, guilt tripping which would work a whole lot better if his housemates were capable of being guilted. Upon opening the fridge, he pulls out Rick’s green globule on a saucer – “And I’ve spat on that, Vyvyan, so I wouldn’t advice you eat it!” – and the can of Coca Cola disguising Vyvyan’s utterly brilliant potion.

Let’s talk about Vyvyan and his potions for a moment. Presently, the only other example I can recall of one is from Interesting – the one that makes all his hair fall out. Vyvyan is a medical student and, if the first series’ opening credits are anything to go by, “mad scientist” was on his list of possible career paths when he picked his course. I love whacky coloured drinks in TV shows. In TYO, it’s usually Vyvyan who drinks them – see: the aforementioned blue example from Interesting, plus the bright green tea with bits floating in it from Demolition. We don’t actually see what colour this potion is, but if I had to wager I’d say a bright, hot colour like red. What else is going to turn you into an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac?

Foreshadowing is a device used in storytelling of all mediums, so naturally this show pokes a bit of fun at their employment of the trope: “You know, I just bet a bit later on somebody does drink that and turns into an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac.” Neil gets this line and Nigel delivers it so well, it really amuses me. Gee shucks, I guess it’s just inevitable. Oh well! Neil gets to wind Rick up in this scene too, though much more subtly than Vyvyan, by beginning to list mundane items like “wallpaper” when Rick snaps at him that they need “everything” from the shops.

As Neil leaves the house wearing his old lady’s waterproof bonnet, The Day the Rains Came by Jane Morgan begins to play. This is the second ‘50s tune in Flood – the episode that has no live music. We get our first shot of Codrington Road this episode now, which is used as a segue way for the next cutaway sequence. This time, we’re in a house across the road where two bespeckled men all in black are spying on the lads, who they seem to think are aliens. Understandable conclusion, to be fair. They’re played by Rik and Ade and remind me of the Dangerous Brothers in a much tamer way. I think it’s just that Rik’s character is the dominant one – refusing to let Ade’s character take the lens cap off because they’re not real “binocoliers” – and Ade’s character asks that most stupid of stupid questions: “Lip nip nip nip bip?”

In a mix-up, Rik’s character ends up lobbing the not real “binocoliers” at someone who isn’t the milkman and they end up in Vyvyan’s glass. He’s once again gone over to the window to test the rain and has returned with a pint of piss. There’s the second variant in this running joke. We saw with Neil hitting himself with the frying pan three times how they heightened the third one by having him spill water on Rick first – as we’re about to see with this rule of three, they decide to subvert our expectations of something more disgusting than spit and piss being next with something quite the opposite instead. First, though, Rick is shouting again.

RICK: Okay! That’s just about the bloody limit! I mean, I only put it in there on Wednesday – it’s not as if they grow on trees or anything like that!

MIKE: Rick, what have you lost?

RICK: I had half an apple in there!

The studio audience gives this line a big laugh, and so they should. As Rick and Vyvyan start up their squabbling again, we can see that Mike has begun pampering himself with an old-fashioned beauty mask and hand fan. When Rick asks if he stole his apple, Mike responds with one of his better-known lines: “Well, if you’re gonna sin you might as well be original.” I love this little quip and I love the fact that even Mike has no idea what he’s on about.

A vengeful Rick takes off to Mike’s bedroom to search for pips, only to be met by Bobby the lion tamer and his several angry, man-eating lions. Because why not. The lion tamer was the cabaret replacement for the live music in Flood and reminds us of how old this show is. The dodgy greenscreen effect reminds us of this too, but that kind of adds to TYO’s charm. Naturally Rick screams and runs off, and In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle by The Tokens plays over footage of the lion tamer at work. I’ll be honest, with a 21st century perspective it’s not the show’s finest moment – those lions look pissed – but the last shot of the male lion roaring does function as a good transition for the next scene, where that rule of three about the rain finally pays off as Neil arrives home with a collection of adorable kittens in his coat. I think it’s fair to say cats of all kinds are a recurring theme in Flood.

It turns out Neil’s forgotten what he went out for in the first place, much to the chagrin of Mike and Vyvyan. In a surprising twist, Rick defends Neil and tells Vyvyan he should go to the shops himself if he’s so hungry, to which we get Vyvyan’s great line about not wanting his forehead to rust. This is the point at which the episode’s title starts to bear fruit: the rain has gotten so bad that Vyvyan’s Ford Anglia is floating about outside. Poor Rick is on his last nerves after the shock of the lions in the loft and is close to tears as he berates everyone for their immaturity… and suggests a game of hide and seek to pass the time.

Talking heads have said before that they found the lads playing hide and seek sweet – not like those awful kids these days, with their phones and trendy laptop pads! Grr! The truth is that actually Rick, Mike, Vyvyan, and Neil are all just overgrown kids. That’s part of why, despite their horribleness, you like them anyway. There’s a warped innocence to their sadistic violence. Rick is the seeker in this game – presumably because he insisted on it after coming up with the idea – and while he’s (allegedly) counting to 2,500 Neil has his encounter with the lions. We see Vyvyan hastily exiting Rick’s bedroom, which we know will have consequences later on.

Mike is the first of them to be uncovered when Rick opens the kitchen cupboard. If there’s footage somewhere of Chris climbing into there, I’m sure it’s hilarious. Mike’s insecure ego won’t let him be the first caught, so he tells Rick to go away and find the others first. This is one of Rick and Mike’s funniest interactions in the show. Once again, the household dynamic is highlighted when Rick shuts the cupboard door before knocking and complimenting Mike’s hiding skills. When he turns away to find the others it’s obvious that he’s really very cross, but he won’t show that to Mike. Oh no, not to Mike. Brilliant.

Vyvyan’s found smoking at the bottom of the stairs which I’d never endorse but can’t deny he makes look very, uh, appealing. Rick never has any issues showing Vyvyan his temper but gives him an extra five seconds to hide himself anyway. There’s another good shot of the two of them glaring and yelling in each other’s faces here, with Vyvyan on the stairs and Rick on the floor. Once the five seconds are up, Vyvyan’s vanished into the wardrobe they have in their hallway. Rick screeches one of his best renditions of “BASTARD!” – topped maybe only by “THE SELFISH BASTARDS!” from Summer Holiday – and storms up the stairs. Meanwhile, the reason for the presence of lions and so many other cats in this episode becomes clear: Vyvyan is going to Narnia.

I think it’s one of TYO’s most memorable parodies, alongside The Good Life in Sick. David Rappaport returns as Shirley, joined by Justine Lord as the White Witch. The White Witch calls Vyvyan a “manchild”, which is about right. The first thing he does in this new world appears to be taking a slash in the trees. The White Witch invites Vyvyan over for some Turkish delights, mirroring her literary counterpart, but an argument soon breaks out over who’s responsible for a fart smell. Shirley takes off his beard and pipe – a funny little joke suggesting that the characters are aware they’re in a sitcom – and confronts Vyvyan.

“That’s revolting. People like you should be put in little boxes tied up with string and left in small, dark rooms without any electricity… for a month.” Very… specific…

Obviously, Vyvyan is having none of this crap and manages to intimidate Shirley into backing down. Once he finds out he’s called Shirley, he’s got even more ammo. This could be called hypocritical coming from a man named Vyvyan, but we all love it when Vyvyan’s got the upper hand, don’t we? Don’t lie to yourself!

After finding himself thoroughly unimpressed by the White Witch’s lack of kebabs, Vyvyan helpfully moves the plot along for us by getting back to the game of hide and seek. He asks the two fantasy characters not to tell Rick where he is and hurries off to hide in a tree – the tree that doubles as some sort of slide portal to the house’s cellar. It’s the unacknowledged surreal nature of the house that makes TYO that bit more exciting than it already is, for me. The rules change and no one is ever even that surprised. When Vyvyan lands in the cellar, he finds an angry Rick riled up at his inability to find anyone and the two of them finally have a physical fight.

All things considered, Flood hasn’t been an incredibly violent episode thus far. We never saw the Witchfinder’s prisoner die, Neil only targeted himself with that frying pan, and the lions haven’t killed anyone (yet). This isn’t the most violent fight Rick and Vyvyan will ever have either – that honour is probably reserved for the Virgin Fight in Time – but Rick does manage to ram his biro into Vyvyan’s skull and, if not for Neil arriving, Rick might have found himself chopped up into several pieces. Neil’s come to warn them that Rick’s bedroom is on fire – Vyvyan’s hasty retreat from there earlier did indeed have meaning. Trust this lot to start a fire in an episode entitled Flood!

Now it’s Alexei Sayle’s turn to show up. He enters the house to the sound of wailing sirens as Jerzei Balowski. Perhaps some more foreshadowing? At this point, we haven’t seen Mr Balowski in person since he hassled the lads for rent at their old house in Demolition. He says he has come for a party but he can’t find anyone. What he does find is the coke can – “Coca Cola, symbol of free West.” – containing Vyvyan’s potion. At the time, one of Alexei’s comedic signatures was random, insane noises. We could have a whole essay dedicated to ranking each of his appearances as members of the Balowski Family, but I think his scenes in Flood might just be my favourite. The blending of his calm searching for the lads and his screeches and yelps as the potion takes hold of him are just really funny. He wanders off into the wardrobe, inadvertently retracing Vyvyan’s steps.

Up on the landing, Neil tells Vyvyan it was selfish of him to set fire to Rick’s sociology file when he was hiding in Rick’s bedroom – he could have given him away! A panicking Rick rushes into his room – and we get some more quality greenscreen effects – and yanks open the window, immediately letting in a tide of water to drench the place. It doesn’t even put out all the fires. He sits next to his bed with a fish waggling in his blazer, ranting at a gleeful Vyvyan about the havoc he’s caused. Ade is sat quite close to the fire on Rick’s bed, but then we know he’s got massive balls.

Mike returns and lights up a cigarette. He’s got a suitcase with him and is here to point out the obvious: “I don’t want to be a wet blanket or anything but, if this house is a bottle, I’m the one with the message.” Rick, Neil, and Vyvyan don’t really get metaphors. “Simple: London has flooded.”

This was obvious to anyone with half a brain the moment we entered Rick’s bedroom, but then we have to remember which characters we’re dealing with here. The logic of London flooding and the entire house being buried underwater… but somehow not flooding itself, not even when Rick opens a window, is a great example of the kind of suspension of disbelief this show requires of you and is perhaps why some people think it’s too daft. I like how the physical laws of TYO’s world are slightly different to our own. It adds to the cartoonish, slapstick feel.

The lads react in different ways to the news that London has flooded and they’re trapped. There’s a note of finality in Mike’s voice and he seems to be preparing to go. Where or how, I’m not at all sure. Neil, the depressed hippie that he is, accepts the news with the degree of casualness you might of a much less dire, less life-threatening turn of events. Vyvyan doesn’t seem too bothered – but when is he? He called the “flying shark” outside the window “the most completely brilliant thing [he’s] ever seen”. His own potential demise doesn’t phase him. Rick, however? Well, stress of any kind is where the real Rick comes out to play – the right on anarchist persona is dropped in sheer terror, replaced by the little boy who wants the authorities to jump in and fix everything, no matter the cost.

RICK:  Phone the police!

NEIL:  But they’re fascists.

RICK:  Well, never mind about that now! Telephone, Vyvyan!

When the telephone is no use – pulling it off the wall will do that – the group try the radio, hoping for a public information bulletin. Instead, a music show is on, and this is where we get our last cutaway segment with real people. Featuring Ben Elton as a very punchable DJ and Cindy Shelley as a musical artist who’s been in the biz since lunchtime and has amputated her arms to fit the aesthetic of “urban alienation” chosen for her by the men with money, this is a scene that honestly feels just as relevant today as it must have done in 1982. The artist’s interview is cut short when the studio starts to flood, with the DJ shoving her aside and complaining about not being warned about this on the radio.

Back in the house, Rick turns off their radio to stop it flooding – magical logic, I love it – and projects his fear of drowning on to Vyvyan by telling him off for building a submarine. He seems to realise after he’s said it that this is actually quite sensible behaviour for Vyvyan and switches to enquiring terribly unsubtly about whether there’s any room in it for him. There isn’t, Vyvyan tells him bluntly. Vyvyan wants to see him drown. I know Vyvyan’s submarine is tiny and made of cardboard but, hey, in the TYO universe, who’s to say that wouldn’t have done the trick and saved them? Unfortunately for Vyvyan, SPG sabotages him when he realises there’s no room for him either. After a quick beating, Vyvyan opens the front door – again, the house doesn’t flood – and sends his beloved pet out to “play with the sharks”. The shark from Jaws is out there, so SPG asks for his autograph.

A couple of tiny things to note about this drawing room scene include the last appearance of the mysterious fifth housemate – we see them swimming outside the front window. Do they drown? Do they swim off to student houses anew? We shall never know. The other thing is something I only noticed myself when analysing this episode and is something that just goes to show how much more attention I should pay to Mike. Though he has no lines, he spends the scene sat in the middle of the room on the sofa, packing up his blow-up doll. The fact he’s doing this in the open, in front of the others, would suggest he thinks this is curtains. It’s the last episode of the series and they’re all going to die. Heh. That, or they knew we and the other characters wouldn’t pay enough attention to Mike to spot this. For the eagle eyed? Or the people who can just bloody see what’s in front of their faces, more like! Sorry, Mike!

Mr Balowski fully succumbs to the potion after drifting through Narnia and into the cellar. Now an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac, he finds the axe Vyvyan was going to use on Rick earlier and Flood starts its second major parody: The Shining. The violence metre is about to crank up a notch.

Neil is blowing up water wings, employing the same standard of life preservation technique we saw with his fallout shelter in Bomb. He sows the seeds (HA) for his own almost-demise by pointing out how terrible it would be if they ended up having to eat each other. Rick, just for a change, is panicking – he’s smoking like a chimney – and doesn’t appreciate the thought. He isn’t actually doing anything to ease the situation, unlike Vyvyan and Neil’s ultimately pointless efforts, but that’s Rick all over. Mike steps up to take charge: they’re going to eat Neil.

As if they’ve been cannibals all their lives, Vyvyan, Rick, and Mike pin Neil to his bed. Rick makes fun of Neil’s terror because he’s a bastard and there’s another rule of three where things keep temporarily preventing Vyvyan from slicing Neil up with a chainsaw. The noise of the chainsaw nearly obscures it, but there’s a line where Rick points at Neil’s crotch and tells Mike he’s got bagsies there. The pervy! Then, well, then Mr Balowski arrives.

“HERE’S JERZEI!”

Things have become quite chaotic, as things in TYO often do. Most of us probably already know the story about Alexei almost catching Rik on the head with the axe when he got a little too close to the door. Mike makes an attempt to hide under a bedsheet, like a ghost. The shot switches to the landing to reveal a chair and a sign for the Half-Time Report. Alexei momentarily chills the fuck out: “Well, we’re half-way through the show and it’s time for Half-Time Report.” Considering we’re in fact nearing the end of the show now makes this comment ironic as well as funny. In an episode full of parodies, this is another quick one about football commentators at half-time. The way this lets the actors break the fourth wall and take the piss out of themselves has always cemented this scene as gold in my mind. Alexei delivers it excellently.

Soon enough, the highly serious acting has resumed. The lads give Neil over to Mr Balowski as a distraction while Vyvyan cuts through the remarkably paper like bedroom wall. The four of them escape up into the loft and hide, pursued by their rabid landlord. They trap Mr Balowski in Mike’s bedroom with the man-eating lions as soon as he enters the room. There’s a scream and a roar. And thus, the young ones have killed together – a truly bonding experience if there ever was one. It’s the only way to deal with bastard landlords, right? Mr Balowski meeting the lions was also the third time someone had this episode, so there’s another running rule of three at play.

In the last scene, as they descend from the loft, Vyvyan remarks that it was lucky Bobby was here with his man-eating lions and Mike offers Rick Bobby’s hand when he says he’d like to shake it. RIP Bobby. The lads look out of the window and discover – thank Cliff – that the waters have subsided. They peer out at something on the water: it’s SPG, who swims towards the camera as the credits roll, a rainbow in the background. A cheerful end. The closing credits are still the usual theme, but with the music played faster and lighter. At the climax, they swell to a crescendo. That was The Young Ones! Did you ruddy enjoy it or what?

Personally, I think Flood is a fantastic end to this crazy show’s first series. If it had ended here it would have been a shame, knowing what we know about the brilliance to come in series two, but I think it would still have felt complete and whole. Going through the episode in detail has made me appreciate the absolute comic genius behind it even more and has been a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Happy 40th to the lads!

I know my review has really lingered on a bit too long, so I hope I haven’t put you to sleep. I’m done now. Fin. Thanks for reading!

[aussieausie]

Are our kids being brainwashed?

I hear stories of teenagers being kicked out of home, sent to mental institutions and made homeless living on the streets. And I have to wonder, is it because of their chosen behaviour which doesn’t meet the rules of the parents, or behaviour caused by brainwashing, that is, repeated abusive and negative expectations of parents or partners?

Why do I keep hearing, oh that’s teenagers for you, tut, tut? Is so-called typical teenage behaviour largely the product of constant psychological verbal abuse? So how much are drugs, depression and suicides caused by the same constant verbal abuse? It’s a tragedy. I’m appalled.

Wake up to the damage you’re doing to our kids. This is not discipline, it’s mentally damaging and life changing. Life destroying. Soul destroying. Unfairly judgemental.

These are young souls, maybe old souls, who are coming to terms with their own destiny, which lies before them. Let them be free to explore their own destinies. Not yours. The world is changing fast.

They deserve to have a chance to face the new world in their own ways. Instead of yours. Please, let’s save our kids, our vulnerable teenagers, from long-term psychological damage. We need to honour and respect these new souls. Our children will inherit the Earth.

Love and peace. Neil the Smith.

[mzannthropy]

Okay, let's go (I have a tendency for unpopular opinions, although in LMM's case, I don't think it's anything that horrible):

I have a difficult relationship with parts of the Emily trilogy. Don't get me wrong, it's good, but I just can't stand how at times LMM gets so preachy when she breaks the fourth wall to tell the reader how Emily's behaviour is inexcusable (as a reader I prefer to make up my own mind, I don't need the author to be telling me that, besides, I don't think Emily ever behaved badly). I loathe Aunts Elizabeth and Ruth, to me they are abusers and I think Emily was a fool not to take that job opportunity at the end of Climbs. Those chapters at the end are some of the worst I've ever read.

OTOH I kinda like Quest the best bc it shows the consequences of Emily's decision - if she got out of that environment, she'd be able to meet new people in the writing business and would not take so much stock in Dean's words, and thus not burn her manuscript.

I've always been disappointed in Philippa's choice of a husband. Why a minister? Bc she repeatedly says she must marry a handsome, wealthy guy, it's presented as twist that she married the opposite, but I still wish she didn't. I also think she might be a lesbian. (Actually, come to think of it, she would have been great as an unmarried rich aunt, a la Josephine Barry. The Anne with an E version, maybe?)

I don't know why the hell Anne & Gilbert had to have six kids, nobody in the whole world needs six kids...

I agree with those that say Rilla should be a separate book from the rest of the series. In fact, I think LMM wanted to write a WW1 book from the POV of women at home, which could have featured any characters and picked the youngest Blythe child bc the Anne series already had a readership. Anne and Gil appear so little anyway, there's more focus on Susan than on them. I'd like to know more about Gertrude Oliver, though!

Jane of Lantern Hill needs more attention! It's only the only book that makes no excuses for the narcissistic caregiver.

I think LMM was primarily a short fiction writer - she wrote tons of short stories and many of her books are filled with little episodes (Anne especially), but I understand that it's near impossible to discuss them bc there are so many.

I enjoyed reading Anne of Windy Poplars the most in my teens and early 20s (back when I was in home country), and now when I look back at some of those little episodes, many of them feature abuse (Little Elizabeth obvs, but also Pauline's mother and the dude who keeps his family in terror over the dinner table, although this is presented as a comedy)

Everyone probably agrees that Kilmeny of the Orchard is LMM's weakest book (I've not read the Pat series but I take it for granted it's better) but I think it's good to see how much LMM improved, and how she found that typical style of hers, instead of writing such melodrama. Also I think Neil Gordon might be her answer to Heathcliff.

So, L.M. Montgomery fans - gotta know do you have any hot or mild takes on Character's or story lines? I'm getting a renewed interest in the Fandom thanks to the #bluecastlebookclub ...

[tallerthantale]

ppl don't tag random posts with neil gaiman's name, that tag should be reserved for his sexual abuse of 5+ women

As I commented on the top of the post, you might want to jump to the end note. It was not a random post. But I'll copy the end note here for more efficient visibility.

Due to a series of unfortunate events (or two), there was a considerable delay between the bulk of my "What does Aziraphale Actually Believe" series and the last instalment. While I initially felt very negatively about that, it also presented a particular opportunity, as I found myself reviewing the final draft details of The Metatron's manipulation tactics and how they messed with Aziraphale's mind at the same time as I was following the allegations against Neil Gaimen.

As things currently stand I find the allegations against Neil Gaimen very credible and very damning. Information is still coming out, but the odds of something being reviled that would change the gist of my opinion are very unlikely. I don't consider that to be cause to stop engaging with the fandom and analyzing the story. A lot of people who take that position frame it as separating the art from the artist. That is not the framing I use.

Typically I try to keep considerable distance between myself and anything that looks like psychoanalysing public figures. This because of a psychology ethics rule that I take on a broad interpretation of. The gist of it is to not form professional opinions about the psychology of specific people based on their public statements / works. Because what follows is skirting the edges of the spirit of those rules, I want to emphasise that it is my personal opinion, and I am coming at it more from literary analysis than any kind of Sherlockian attempt at deductive reasoning about the workings of a particular person's mind.

The narrative arc of Aziraphale's religious trauma, the way it plays out, the way his opinions bend and reform, the way he gaslights himself in the presence of The Metatron, the way The Metatron wields his power imbalance with a friendly disposition, the way the threats that are never framed as a threat mess with Aziraphale's mind, the way he convinces himself to be happy about what he is being forced into, the way his mind flips back and fourth based on the pressures of the people around him, the particular ways he is vulnerable to being subtly manipulated into appearing complicit in his own exploitation, the detail in how that plays out, these things were all written very well.

Or I should say, they were written very accurately.

The motivation I had to write the "What does Aziraphale Actually Believe" series was that a lot of the ways those features of exploitation were accurately depicted weren't picked up on by the general audience. Because they rang so true to life to me, but were not followed by so many, I sought to explain my understanding of Aziraphale's behaviour to people who weren't sure what to make of it. These mechanisms are often very counter intuitive, not understanding them is pretty normal, and the Final 15 stood out to me as having been written with a very unusually high level of understanding of how exploitative power dynamics operate in real life.

Which is to say…

If the author of Aziraphale's Season 2 narrative arc came to me, and told me that he just didn't realize how power disparities impact people, that he was trying his best and he just didn't understand, I would tell him to go fuck himself with a rake. I can get behind wanting more to be investigated, wanting more information to be corroborated, wanting to see the actual screenshots and emails. I have respect for people who still want more documentation. What I want to push back against is arguments from people who believe the conduct happened, but either think that it wasn't a big deal, that Gaimen could not have been expected to know better, or that he made an unfortunate mistake. Someone that oblivious would not have been able to write the story of Season 2. Someone getting called out for their abuse of power absolutely would claim they didn't know any better as an excuse, it's the most obvious excuse to make.

People who abuse power knowingly are often still able to create a pocket fantasy universe, conjuring sections of time during which they can believe their own lies. They can sit better with themselves and their own actions that way. That isn't the same as not knowing better, it is the most willful of all willful ignorance, and it can flip on and off like a switch. I haven't read Sandman, but the people who have may be able to say if it seems like the work was written by a person who understands that people can create their own pocket realities to live in, and jump into and out of.

One of the common things expressed by those coming forward is that they want people to know that they are absolutely confident Gaimen understood what he was doing. There was a moment in the "Am I Broken" podcast where the survivor made that point, and the host either didn't process what they were being told or dismissed it at the speed of light, pivoting to hoping this would be a learning opportunity for other clumsy people in power who are probably making the same mistakes. It was a very frustrating moment.

I understand it is confusing that the people who engage in serial predatory behavior can rationalize themselves into their fantasy narrative of events while simultaneously engaging in an intentional strategy. But it is what people do. Getting to believe they aren't doing the very thing they planed to do is part of the strategy, and part of how they are able to gaslight people so effectively. The answer to "do serial predators believe they are innocent or do they do it as a honed deliberate tactic?" is yes. Knowing that is key to spotting these patterns in real life.

[sunflowerharrington]

My Favorite Poison - Chapter One

overall synopsis: billy meets a girl. billy and said girl hit it off. but like most things in life… they don’t always have a happy end. 99% of the time they don’t, but he’s holding onto that 1% like his life depends on it. and then everything goes downhill.

content warnings: swearing, fighting, cheating, arguing, typical highschool behaviour, n*il hargrove, implied sexual content towards the second half of the book, more content warnings to be added

author’s notes: please, be kind. it costs nothing. billy’s backstory is inspired by nate jacobs’ but billy actually turns out to be the good guy unlike nate. italics are thoughts (mostly). get your popcorn and enjoy watching these idiots bicker over a school project and other things —bee.

i’m super nervous about this one, i hope at least one person likes this story…

tagging: @myobmaya @steveslittlesunflower @thisishellfire @friendly-neighborhood-ghoul @hellfirehaley @corrodedhawkins @quickiesgirl @taecube @eddies-bat @wzrlds @fxllfaiiry @liviawritesthings @eddiebillysteve @fleetwood-mac-demarco if you would like to be added, please let me know!

masterlist and playlist coming soon!!

part two

please do not copy or repost to another site or on your own blog, i have spent so much time on this

chapter one: cigarettes and new faces

AUGUST 29TH 1984, HAWKINS, INDIANA

He held the flame of the lighter at the end of his second cigarette of the evening, listening to the flick of metal hitting against metal. He inhaled deeply, leaning back against the cold wall behind him, his legs tucked up to his chest as he sat on the window cill. The boy let his fragile eyelids flutter shut, images of waves, sand and the bright sunlight coursing through his mind, reminiscing about his time in California. Wishing he could go back to his home.

Nothing could kill Billy quite like being stuck in a boxing ring in his own home, where he was the punching bag. His quote unquote “home” was practically a jailhouse. Not a home, but a house. But this was just four walls, four people, four fights every night which the person who actually started them all always blamed Billy for starting them. Everything was in fours for Billy Hargrove.

Until one person disrupted those even numbers. Ruining the order in the Hargrove household, ruining everything. According to Neil; a very unreliable source, who then began taking his anger out in a heinous way.

So Billy turned to drinking alcohol and inhaling toxic fumes from the cigarettes. Smoking that amount would kill him one day. It would eventually make his pearly whites rot and fall out and his jaw would also dislocate and fall off. But he didn’t give a shit. But he would in the next hour.

He’d rather die than be in Hawkins.

And exhale, blowing the smoke back into the bathroom, watching it brush against the cloudy window panes and the cracked mirror hanging on the door at the opposite end of the room, listening to the hustle and bustle of the outside world and god-awful music from a nearby car. The hardest part about it for him was the long exhale after inhaling the death threatening substances. He hated letting go, he hated relaxing.

But it didn’t matter what he was breathing in, he hated it. He would do anything to cut off all air circulation… Letting himself exhale and let go was what led him to be thrown into this hell on Earth, Hawkins, for eternity.

Sometimes Billy thought back to the day that everything changed in his house. He was twelve years old when his dad turned on him. Neil wanted to keep everything in order and was quite obsessive, but didn’t want to do any of the work. He was the man of the house after all, and whatever he says, goes. So he forced William to start working.

When he turned thirteen he started going by Billy. Around that time he also adopted healthier habits, except he started smoking and began consuming too much alcohol. At thirteen. He also adopted a rigid diet consisting of carbs, protein and cheap cans of beer from the fridge when his mom and Neil weren’t looking. His workout schedule included surfing, swimming and running the length of the beach.

He joined the Lenora Hills basketball team as a freshman, coming out as not only the star player at the year’s end, but the team captain too. And he loved it. He loved the attention and his mom’s praise, until Neil kicked her out of the house for reasons unknown to Billy at the time, and until Susan Mayfield and her daughter, Max, showed up.

Max was a fuck-up. Billy could tell Neil didn’t like Max; didn’t think she had guts, or a brain or half a fucking clue about anything in the world except how to skateboard and be a disappointment to everyone.

He didn’t talk to Neil all that much after the switch flicked in Neil’s mind to start inflicting his anger and pain onto the child. Billy didn’t like Susan either. She was weak and a pushover. Plus, she was an alcoholic and didn’t take care of herself. What a waste. Susan could have been his saving grace.

And inhale… breathing in the smoke and letting it fill his lungs, letting it calm your senses, and then exhaling slowly. He watched with half-lidded, slightly dazed eyes as the cigarette smoke filled the small room, coating the already thick air around him.

Susan insisted on him going out for the evening, so he found himself trudging to the nearest gas station, picking an unopened box of cheap cigarettes off the ground on his way. He’d gone out to buy some, so getting free ones was a win in his book.

He kicked open one of the bathroom stall doors and locked it behind him, taking a seat on the window cill with a thin coat of chipped white paint on it that had turned a murky yellow color due to… how long it had been there, he thought.

Billy moved to Hawkins with Susan, Max and Neil after Neil kicked Billy’s mom out. Moving into a new house that was a ten minute drive from the local middle school and high school. Though he would rather work out all day and swim in the community pool, working on getting his lifeguard training certificate, than going to school. He’d rather read a fucking Shakespearean tragedy aloud than attend school. He'd rather marry somebody he hated than attend school.

And now he found himself walking down a dark alleyway, freckles of blue sky peeking out from behind the clouds full of angel tears, a street lamp flickering above him, which was surprisingly more comfortable than locking himself up (leaving the door open three inches, he wasn’t allowed to close his door) in an almost empty bedroom that might as well have been a foreign country. And exhale again.

He’d heard stories about this town; about how two young kids went missing in the same week but only one survived, about how one man was forced to look after said child and his friends because their deadbeat parents were as useful as the pythagorean theorem outside of school. But he chose to believe none of it. Max on the other hand believed everything. Her lack of brain cells allowed her to do that.

Though her IQ still wasn’t as bad as Neil’s receding hairline.

And inhale. Inhaling this shit never burned as bad the second time around… Well, not as bad as the burn he received when he tripped down the stairs in his next door neighbour slash best friend’s house, when the bare skin of his thigh dragged and scraped along the carpet. When the only person who didn’t laugh at him could barely help him because they’d both smoked one too many purple palm tree delights that day.

And so is where he was now; leaning against a damp concrete wall near a girl his age and presumably her younger sister, who looked to be around Max’s age or slightly older. As he breathed in the cool air of the autumn evening, he watched as they completed their daisy chains using the flowers from the tiny patch of grass by the flickering street lamp.

The older of the two girls noticed him out of the corner of her eye and gave him a warm smile, one that slowly began to melt his heart without him even knowing it, little creases forming around her eyes. The little girl waved at Billy, but he didn’t have it in him to wave back. He felt like he didn’t deserve it after all the shit Neil said he did; after that time at the police station when Neil accused him of abusing his own step-mother and step-sister, when in reality the real monster was Neil.

But he couldn’t help but look back at the older girl, who had wrapped her arms around the little girl’s shoulders. She had long, ash blonde hair and pretty amber eyes. Her sun kissed skin had been injected with bright, colorful ink, and the drawings covered the entirety of one of her arms. A tattoo-covered hand moved to cup the younger girl’s cheek, her thumb wiping away a stray tear.

Panic set in for Billy. Did he make her cry? Was it because he didn’t say anything to her? Should he buy her an ice cream to cheer her up? A magazine? A movie from Family Video? He flicked his lighter out of boredom and to distract himself from his thoughts, blowing smoke out into the darkness of the late summer night.

It would be better if he didn’t say anything.

His cigarettes tasted like shit but they calmed his ever growing nerves. So he kept them up. The shitty doctor he went to with his mom told him that the injections they were going to give him would fix his addiction and calm his nerves, but boy were they far from right. They just made him even worse.

They did fucking shit to help him.

“It’s the pretty boy from the pool!” He heard the younger girl, the brunette, say quietly into the blonde girl’s shoulder. Muffled, but clear and loud enough for him to hear almost crystal clearly.

The tattooed girl smiled, pressing a kiss to the little girl’s forehead. “You’re right, El! You wouldn’t know who this is, but he reminds me of James Dean, in a way.”

Her voice was sweeter than candy, and it made Billy’s skin crawl. It was the first time she’d uttered more than a word. He couldn’t tell where she was from; the sing-song tunes of a Gaelic drawl mixed perfectly in with Midwest American that warmed him more than the sun beating down on his blonde curls in a hot summer in California. And he hated it.

James Dean? Wow…

Billy grinned, smirking as he heard the little girl, El, say that she thought Billy had heard what the girl with the sweet tatties had said. The older girl hid her blushing face in her hands while the other giggled, teasing her. “Why is your face pink?”

“It’s not!”

“Is too!”

“Is not, El!”

His heart sank as the little girl ran up to him. Should he apologize now? Should he compliment her daisy chain bracelet? Should he ask her about the brown-haired girl? Should he—?

“My friend thinks you’re really pretty,” she said, bouncing up to him, now standing not even a foot away from him, practically leaning against his body. His ears perked up at the sound of her voice.

Okay. They’re not sisters.

“I know I am,” he replied plainly, flicking his cigarette again, looking down into her glassy, deep brown eyes. Eyes that made him instantly relax, the tension in his shoulders disappearing as he sighed a quiet “thank you,” to her.

El beamed, but Billy hadn’t noticed, too busy looking at the other girl. He shifted in his spot by the wall and stared, admiring how she flicked her nails together. Maybe it was a nervous thing? However, she was a stunner. Skin like soft cashmere with a sunkissed glow, gleaming amber eyes and a full plush mouth. She had her almost pin straight hair pulled into a high ponytail with her bangs falling over her forehead, her ponytail secured with a blue scrunchie; Billy’s favorite color.

She also looked strong, her arms muscled but not as much as his, with her colorful sleeve, and she had the kind of full swishy hips a boy would love to grab a hold of. And she smiled like a pageant queen.

Billy hadn’t noticed that his fingers had tangled together, kneading each other like bread dough. He hated how pretty she was. She was so out of his league, and he hated that. He hated how he wouldn’t be able to sweet talk her into a date, hated how he wouldn’t be good enough for her even though he hadn’t even spoken to her yet.

Her glossy smile wavered, and she laughed, a sound that jingled in tune with the dangling earrings she was wearing. Ones that looked almost identical to Billy’s. The sound rang in his ears louder than anything ever had before.

Is this fate?

“Come on, El,” she said, beckoning the girl back over to her, her eyes locking with Billy’s for a moment. “I’m sorry about her, she gets really excited around boys.”

Billy opened his mouth, uncharacteristically unsure of what to say. He lived by the philosophy that regrets were for another day, not today. Or, at least for a minute after he’d said something that made him sound like a fucking idiot.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. I get that excited around pretty people too.”

Her smile broke, laughter bubbling in her chest. The sweetest sound in the world was worth looking like an idiot for.

“You do? I guess that means you’re not excited right now,” she said, her voice dropping, trailing off. “I mean, why would you be? El’s pretty but she’s twelve… But whatever you’re into...”

Billy shrugged. “What if I was talking about you?”

“You were?” Her pretty mouth fell open, letting out a short gasp. Billy’s brows furrowed; she was surprised he said that?

As Billy nodded, a huge smile broke on her face, pulling at the corners of her glossy lips. However, he felt his heart beginning to shatter as she tried her hardest to conceal that beautiful smile. Each time her smile broke, so did his heart.

And he fucking hated it. He hated how easily this girl had made him crack. He hated how she didn’t see herself as beautiful or worthy. He hated how she didn’t see herself the way he saw her.

She flicked her light gaze in his direction, the force of her smile so bright he almost had to physically rub his eyes to adjust; instead he just squinted them shut for a second longer than a normal blink. That was exactly how she looked to him: a vision. One so beautiful it could bring a tear to somebody’s eye. She had the beauty of Venus, the power of Aphrodite, the grace of la primavera di Botticelli and a smile with enough adoration it could power an entire twelve lifetimes of perfect, puppy love.

“Of course I was, doll,” he replied with a chuckle from the bottom of his stomach. “Have you met yourself?”

Billy smiled back at her, running his skilful tongue over his top teeth and bottom lip, which for whatever reason looked hot. Any time she tried, it looked weird and creepy. He made it look so effortless and so, so… so…—

Billy watched as a scarlet blush crept onto her cheeks, tucking a wayward strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, biting the side of her bottom lip to distract herself from… something. Anything. She could feel herself faltering under his intense gaze.

Billy also had to look away. The longer he looked, the more he felt like he was falling. He couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t just because she was too good looking for her own good. He’d met plenty of beautiful girls in his life, maybe a few who looked even more gorgeous than her, but nobody, in his entire 17 years of life had managed to knock him sideways like that that fast.

When he finally opened his mouth again, he was so busy trying to smooth talk her, that he may have insulted her. Fuck. Telling her she looked like somebody who would balance out his prettiness even after he called her beautiful. God, why won’t he stop fucking talking?

He was digging himself a grave 8 feet under instead of 6. Every word was more stupid and more flustered-sounding than the last.

But she laughed. She laughed at his stupidity, which was better than her running off with tears falling down her beautiful face. He’d take anything he could at that point.

He slowly walked over and sat down next to her, pulling his knees up to his chest as he’d done in the gas station bathroom. Bold move.

The swift movement only made the blush on her cheeks grow even more, and she now had no choice but to let him see that.

“What’s a sweet girl like you doing out here almost all by yourself anyway?” He asked after she failed to fully falter under his gaze. There was a party down the road

“I could ask you the same thing, Stud,” she replied, breath hitching in his throat as she scooted closer to him, his boots and her converse touching, something of a small spark igniting between the two as her right knee and his left knee briefly touched.

“You think I’m a sweet girl?”

“You know what I mean!” She laughed. Oh he liked the sound of her laugh.

But no. He hated it. No. Hate. Hate. He wasn’t allowed to like anything so why should he start now?

You don’t like her. Get that in your fucking head.

“What’s your name?” He asked, filling what might have been an awkward silence.

“What’s yours?” She challenged, her lips matching his cheeky smirk, politely deciding a cigarette from him when he offered.

He got to work attempting to roll a blunt from the back pocket of his jeans with his shaky fingers on the surface of the slightly damp ground next to him, cigarette dangling from his plush lips. He noticed her pushing her thighs together tighter than before, but never said anything, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable.

“Are you gonna make me annoy the shit out of you until you tell me, Stud?” Shit. Fuck. Double and triple times fuck. He forgot about that.

“It’s Billy,” he said, exhaling, the area around them filling with a soft haze of gray smoke, clouding both of their minds even more.

“Sloane,” she replied. “Got a surname?” I wish I didn’t. “…Or are you just Billy?”

His stomach leapt at the way his name rolled off her tongue so perfectly, and he gulped, covering it up by pulling his cigarette. The sound of her saying his name… It was cheesy as fuck but it sounded better than any song he’d ever heard. “It’s Hargrove.”

“Mitchell,” she said, slipping something into the pocket of his denim jacket, patting the fabric twice. “Always nice to see new faces around here, Hargrove… Well, I think you’re new, I’d notice a pretty boy like you a mile away.”

Pretty boy, huh? Looked like Billy was off to a great start.

…Until he fucked it all up. Just like he did with everything he ever went near. He was destined to not have nice things.

[whump-town]

With the blunt tips of his nails, Derek runs his fingers up and down Aaron’s spine. His vertebrae protrude against his akin, his back and hips misaligned as he lays in the crumpled heap he’s found to be the most comfortable. His face turned into Derek’s neck, his hips leaning against Derek’s. He’s draped like a blanket over Derek’s body, weighted and warm. Derek’s completely content to lay like this the whole afternoon. Given the grown man pinning him in place, whose breathing has eased softly into nearly a snore, he will be here all afternoon.

Derek takes a healthy pause to clear his throat, laying the book print down on Aaron’s back to reach for the nightstand. For the glass of water, Aaron took to bed with him last night but never finished. It’s lukewarm but does wonders for his dry throat. Jack is too old to request being read to sleep anymore so it’s been a long time since he’s read-aloud for such a prolonged amount of time.

Aaron shifts, not as asleep as Derek had thought he was. His cold nose brushes under Derek’s chin, his lips just barely moving as he rasps a barely audible, “done?” He stretches his neck, wiggles his toes in his socks, and tucks his fingers under Derek’s back. Trying desperately to warm the freezing digits.

Derek grunts at the contact, feels like Aaron’s just shoved ice cubes against the small of his back. He pics the book up, moves his hand back into position. “No,” he promises, kissing Aaron’s temple. “No, I was just getting a drink.” He hums to himself as his eyes scan the page for where he left off. Most of the book has gone by without him noticing, he’s heard Aaron read it aloud enough times and Derek’s read it over his shoulder, to find the whole novel familiar but altogether elusive. Especially in the sense that Derek can not figure out why Aaron loves the damn thing so much. “Where was I?” he mumbles, more to himself than anything.

Aaron hums, smiling sleepily as he shifts a little more. “Mmm, you are not entitled to know mine,” he answers.

Derek rolls his eyes but pushes his glasses back more comfortably on his nose. “Yeah,” Derek replies. “But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this, ever induce me to be explicit.” Aaron grumbles and Derek smirks, making sense of the noise and starts to rub his back again. “Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?” Derek clears his throat, dry and tight again.

“Derek?”

He hums, “yes?”

“Can we do Mary Shelly next?”

Derek bites down his first instinct which is to poke fun at how much of a snob Aaron is. He’s surrounded by bookshelves everywhere in this house. He’d expect to find every one of the hundred and some odd books James Patterson claims to have written with a few sparsely hidden Tom Clancy novels -- you know, typical James Bond and murder mystery enthusiasts stuff. Not sections of Bradbury leading into Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, and even a few Neil Gaiman novels. No true crime. No spy novels. Aaron likes complex romance and apocalypses and theology.

“Frankenstein?”

Aaron groans, “no. No, The Last Man.”

This time it’s Derek’s turn to groan, “but I don’t like that one.”

“Two chapters?”

“Fine, fine.” Derek knows he’s stuck, he’s whipped. Aaron’s got him wrapped around his finger. “Stop distracting me,” he chides, going back to rubbing Aaron’s back and hunting down the spot he was reading from. “Ugh,” he finds it and repeats the last line but quickly, skimming. “Ugh, never. Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?” Derek has to admit that maybe the book is just a little interesting. “ ‘Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me.’ Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied: “The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other --”

Aaron’s breathing softly again.

Derek moves his hand to his head, lightly distressing Aaron’s hair as he moves his fingers through it. He’s in the middle of a line when Aaron nudges his calf with his foot, making a soft groaning noise as he moves his head. “Want you to rub my back,” he grumbles.

Derek rolls his eyes but wordlessly moves his hand back. Whipped, he thinks to himself. But he’s just entirely in love with the most stubborn and stupid man he’s ever met. He pulls his shoulders up, moves Aaron’s head closer, and manages to kiss just the very tip of his nose. It makes Aaron smile so he does it again until he’s close enough he can kiss his cheek and, finally, his smiling lips. “You drive me crazy."

Aaron tilts his head up, wiggles his hand out from under Derek and cups his cheek. "Derek?"

"Hmm."

"Shut up and read."

"You're insufferable."

"You're supposed to be reading."

[heartsburst]

that one aaron/neil fic in question:

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Neil Josten/Aaron Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard

Characters: Neil Josten, Aaron Minyard, Andrew Minyard, Nicky Hemmick, The Foxes (All For The Game)

Additional Tags: Mentioned Drake Spear, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealousy, Self-Hatred, Unrequited Love, Recreational Drug Use, Canon-Typical Violence, aaron minyard is just a very sad boy, you can't hate him more than he hates himself, vague voyeuristic behaviour

Summary:

"Their arms brush when they reach across the sticky table at Sweetie's and Aaron feels the sensation to the roots of his hair. Neil barks out a laugh when Nicky spills ketchup down the back of Kevin's shirt and Aaron is winded by the sound."

--------

Aaron craves something he can never have. It isn't an unfamiliar feeling.

literally this is the aaron-centric fic ever and i am unwell over it. this is the best characterization of aaron i have seen. this is like canon to be. i am unwell over this forever and all of these statements are hills i am prepared to die on.

i think it's time for me to reread that one aaronneil fic and cry!!!

[bloody-wonder]

just some thoughts on aftg, aspec rep & acephobia

so last weekend i went to my first pride and it’s strange to think that i wouldn’t be here now, identifying as queer and understanding much more about myself, without aftg. i mean, i guess i would’ve found out about the ace spectrum sooner or later but i don’t think i’d have realized i’m on it if i hadn’t met neil and experienced this story through his pov. which is why in this post i want to address the so-called acephobic scenes in aftg and how they factor into aftg as a book with aspec rep.

the scenes in question are basically some casual comments made by aftg characters about neil’s love life (or rather absence thereof), most notably nicky repeatedly refusing to acknowledge that neil doesn’t “swing”. i don’t want to list them all bc i’ve seen other people do it already, and although these fans are doing the lord’s educational work out there, in all the instances when i’ve seen these posts they seem to imply that aftg is acephobic either for featuring these comments in the first place or for not having the characters who made them explicitly called out by the story. this made me think about why i wouldn’t prefer it any other way.

so the first argument i just want to dismiss out of hand bc it’s kinda childish - having x-phobic statements in a book doesn’t automatically make this book x-phobic. besides, nora is aroace and although people can have internalized phobias of their own identites i don’t think that’s the case here. moving on to the second argument which is “you’re only allowed to have x-phobic comments in your book if the narrative explicitly frames them as wrong, for example by having the characters who made them be punished or learn to do better”. i can see where this one is coming from and yet it still reminds me of a first grader picture book storytelling formula. 

when i read aftg for the first time, even without knowing anything about the ace spectrum i still perceived these comments as wrong. during subsequent re-reads, after a bit of research and self-discovery, i undetstood why exactly they seemed wrong to me but i’ve only ever felt good about them being there bc they showcase vividly what it feels like to be subjected to casual acephobia in day-to-day life. and it has never even occured to me that these scenes might be harmful on the meta-level just bc the story doesn’t draw out attention to them and say “kids don’t do this, this is wrong” in a stern voice.

however, i do understant that the purpose of these lines can go over many (most?) readers’ heads or be misconstrued by them - just bc they aren’t in the know about the ace agenda. that’s why i think it’s important to write fandom meta about them. no one can know everything all the time and it’s okay to rely on other more knowledgeable people for additional information. but the question is, should this educational work instead be done by the book itself? is it a moral obligation of authors to put disclaimers before any potentially controversial scene lest some readers think the book normalizes problematic behaviours? does aftg normalize acephobia bc at no point in the story do the foxes learn about asexuality and apologize to neil? i guess you can tell from my tone that i believe the answers are no, no and no. but that’s only bc, for better or for worse, i have faith in human intellect and critical thinking skills.

since i started identifying as aroace, i’ve read several other books with aspec rep. one thing some of them have in common - with each other but not with aftg - is that labels are used on page, typically in conversations where the aspec character has to explain to the others what all of this means using phrases like “oh it’s when you don’t feel sexual attraction to any person of any gender”. and i don’t want to criticize these books or imply in any way that they do aspec rep wrong, to each their own, but i must confess, when i imagine myself from two years ago reading such a book with an ace character who feels more like a wikipedia entry, i just go hmm,, okay ://

by contrast, with neil you don’t know that he’s on the ace spectrum unless you know. neither the characters nor the readers are owed an explanation or a label by him. neil just exists, he lives out his identity, his aceness is in everything he is and does - and you either get it or you don’t. it’s like an inside joke, the kind that would only be spoiled by explaining it.