Not what I expected to herald my return to posting on Tumblr, but here we are.
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@elaan21
Not what I expected to herald my return to posting on Tumblr, but here we are.
Thanks so much for donating screenshots to naughtybg3confessions! Would you like to be credited if I end up using them?
Sure! I probably have a bunch more once I go through my screenshot folder. If for whatever reason it's easier to not credit, though, that's fine, too.
gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 2: A Meeting
terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!
Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 (Coming Soon!)
/
Synopsis: Daemon returns to King’s Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn’t expecting you - the revelation changes everything.
THANK YOU TO THE AMAZING @elaan21 FOR THE HIGH VALYRIAN TRANSLATIONS - YOU ARE AWESOME AND UNREAL.
Um, I’m sorry for the person I’ve become writing this. Please be warned - Daemon is a feral perv simp. It’s probably NSFW, but given he doesn’t actually do anything, just has weird AF thoughts, I didn’t tag it as such above. Enjoy!
Well - when he said he was looking for something new, he wasn’t expecting it to smack him clean across the fucking jaw quite so suddenly as this.
He had spent the previous few days idly wandering the halls, lost in thought as he considered all that had transpired between him and Rhaenyra, when he catches the metallic glint of a finely-polished breastplate in the sun. Squinting, he looks across the way to see the staid figure of that cunt Ser Cole, Crispin or Colin or whatever his name was. Beating in a knight’s head at a royal wedding wasn’t enough to get the man exiled? He is standing at the entrance to the garden, staring watchfully in at its occupants, and Daemon can hear the sounds of light chatter and laughter. What the fuck…?
Daemon is striding toward the Kingsguard before common sense can rein him in. “Still here, Cole?” he asks, enjoying the look of thinly-veiled vehemence on the Dornishman’s visage. “I’d have thought you’d be an exile after the little stunt you pulled at our dear Rhaenyra’s wedding.” He relishes in the further lines of tension that spread across his visage, knowing of the boy’s long-held desire for his eldest niece - he wonders if she’d bothered to let him into her cunt, or if he was still pining pathetically. He refuses to consider the potential that such a thing would make them more similar than different.
“Her Grace was charitable enough to advocate for my continued presence, Your Highness,” he responds through clenched teeth. “Unlike some, I was seen to have some use yet.” Daemon cannot help it - he laughs, impressed and infuriated and enraged by this juvenile upstart from some little-known region of Westeros. Who does he think he is?
“And indeed you are,” he replies merrily, amused by the spirit of this nobody, this Ser Caspian from House Cole. “A fine guard - of a tree.”
“I am the Princess’s sworn shield,” Cole retorts hotly before catching himself, reining himself in, exhaling a breath and returning to that vacant, accommodating stance that had first tickled Daemon with enough amusement that he felt it worth venturing over to have fun.
“How interesting,” he ponders, stepping closer to the man, forcing him to look up into his line of sight, an exercise of dominance if there ever was one. “I seem to recall you had sworn yourself to the older one, not the younger, for Rhaenyra is safely up in her chambers now.” For whom else could Ser Callen mean if not you, his younger niece?
In three days, he had not seen you yet, always an excuse presented via messenger to the expectant ears of the King at mealtimes. Tutoring, minding your nephews and littlest brothers, or simply nowhere to be found - a whisper on the wind, a person in name only. If it were not for the frequent references to you made in casual conversation across the Keep, he would think you did not exist.
“Allegiances change,” Cole counters, smiling tensely. Daemon quirks a brow at the admission, not having expected such a sentimental acknowledgement from the knight. A change of loyalty, eh? Well, he shall have to see what it is that has turned Caradoc’s head so. Stepping away from the guard with a mocking little twist of the lips, he treads forward into the garden.
What had long been a place of silent contemplation was now alight with chatter; a group of young ladies all sat about on laid-out furs, giggling over grapes and sweet-wine, an endearing display of girlish delight that would have made any other man smile at the scene before him - but Daemon is not other men. Staring upon the scene, he wonders darkly at just how many of them he could persuade to let him slip a hand into their smallclothes, to pry apart their coltish thighs, to wet his cock on their maiden’s blood and hear them scream. He snorts at the thought - knowing King’s Landing, he’d wager at least half of these girls had already trysted with some man or another.
He rolls his eyes at the sight of that crotchety old Septa - Marlow, was it? - the very same wretch to have ruled Rhaenyra’s childhood household with an iron fist and stern voice, sitting undercover with a silver-haired girl. At first, he thinks this is his niece; but upon looking at her closer, he sees the Hightower whore pasted over Valyrian colouring, limbs too long and spindly, features not as comely as the little girl’s had promised to be, and he wrinkles his nose slightly when he realises this must be the smaller one. He cannot think of her name, and nor does he care to know it. Casting his eye across the landscape, he frowns as he fails to see the form of a second silver-haired girl.
“Your Highness!” Ah, fuck. The old sow has seen me. The hag’s eyes are upon him disapprovingly, and it pleases him wryly that he can at least count upon her to remain unchanged by time; Septa Marlow had never liked him, had constantly reproved Rhaenyra for being taken in by his gifts, his attentions, his flattery. He supposes she was right to be so concerned for her naïve charge. “You have returned.”
“Septa,” he says, bowing to her, though he is sure the derisiveness of the movement is not lost upon her - there it is - her eyes narrow, lips pursing as she glares at him disfavourably. The young one tracks the interaction with a tilt to her head, wondering just who had come to disturb the peace of the afternoon. “It is truly a delight to see you once again.” Old cunt.
“Hm,” huffs the woman, and she turns back to the young girl before her. No doubt proselytising about the dangers of letting a craven such as him see so much as a slip of an ankle beneath her skirts. Once it is clear that is all he will get out of the old bitch, he wanders further into the garden, smirking in an affectation of gentility as the girls whisper to themselves, staring at him, likely plotting their way into his line of sight.
As he passes the shade of the tree, he receives his first glimpse of you in ten years.
You are laid outstretched on the bare grass in a pretty summer gown of pale violet, legs folded at the ankle beneath your skirts (he can see the limbs twine through the silken fabric), your wild pale hair spilling carelessly in a halo about your head, your eyes closed and your smile tipped up to the warming sun. Your once-cherubic face has lengthened, defined, and he tracks the familiar slope of your nose, the arch of newly-unveiled cheekbones and plumped lips, a red-mouthed nymphet of a girl become a woman in his absence. Seven fucking hells. He cannot stop himself from studying you, tracing the curve of your bared neck - and why is the sight so fucking obscene, gods help him - the spill of your breasts encased (regrettably) in the cut of your gown and the way your pale little hands clasp together in chaste repose under your bust, highlighting the blooming of your body.
The sight exhilarates him - it devastates him. For who the fuck was this fey being, this Maiden come to life, this princess-shaped doe-eyed dream of a girl? Certainly not the child he had left behind, and he is utterly annoyed with himself at having expected some flat-chested, androgynous approximation of that little girl grown up.
He calls your name, and your startled head whips to face him directly, eyes opening and widening in shock and confusion, a quizzical furrowing of brows disturbing the peace that had smoothed your expression only moments before. You sit up further as he advances towards you, making no move to leap up from your place situated below him, a place for gullible girls with pillow-soft lips and pink little tongues held out in prayer, begging to lap up his milk - but you only stare up at him, an utter lack of comprehension on your face, and it is then that he knows, as only a man who had stolen the virtue of half the ingenues now assuredly selling their wares in the Street of Silk could know. How could he have stayed away for so long, when this unspoiled prize (and oh, he can tell you are fresh) awaited?
“Hello, sweetling,” he says, crouching down beside you, and he feels a vicious sense of satisfaction when your brows uncurl, wet posy petals unfurling into an open-mouthed expression of awareness as you recognise the sound of him, take in the ashen hue of his hair and the long-forgotten features that comprise a familiar face.
“Uncle Daemon?” You ask softly, and he has to fight his cock’s urge to spring up at such a pretty entreaty. Funny, he muses darkly, how it doesn’t rise when I want it to, but one breathy question from his baby niece, his sweetest girl, and it is prepared to cut through steel. He feels the beginnings of self-reproach stir as he takes in the slow-dawning smile upon your face, the look of a little girl who’s favourite long-distant uncle has finally come home. “I did not know you had returned!”
He shifts to sit before you properly, gaze roving over you, taking in the tumble of Valyrian-white spilling from your crown, the dusky lavender-bruise of your eyelids, the deep violet of your eyes. He wonders at the assertion that you did not know of his presence, for he is sure that it is all that the city has been gossiping of since his homecoming.
“I did not announce my arrival,” is what he chooses to reply with. There is something yearning and haunted in that saccharine stare of yours, he thinks, a babe with her arms held out, wailing at the world as it leaves her abandoned in the crib. He wonders if you have been as terribly isolated as he has been all these years, with naught to yourself but a sister and father with their own new families and an old Septa to punish your desire before it is even allowed to spring into fruition.
“You have been gone for so long, Uncle,” you say, kitten-eyes begging for the answers to an unknowable question. Why did you leave? Why are you back? Why were you gone so long? What does it all mean?
“It seems I have,” Daemon returns, his scrutiny once more falling to the figure below the face, the hint of a collarbone as it peeks out from under an irritatingly high neckline, the darling swell of tits playing at the game of adulthood before they have been invited to the gathering, the flare of hips shrouded in damnable silks and satins. “You were a little girl when I left, and look at you now – a woman grown!”
The turn of conversation makes you uncomfortable; he can see it in the way your shoulders stiffen and your spine straightens ever-so-slightly, in the way you break eye contact with him, in the pretty peevish set of your rosebud mouth. “You know, then? What I have been asked by father?” In this, he sees Rhaenyra – the unwillingness to hedge, the direct line of pursuit – though the uneasiness at his inquiry is a new phenomenon. He had never had to coax out a maiden for too long, the allure of his exterior qualities and his Princely title and his roguish charm making even the most pious of virgins a willing whore without much work. He had certainly never had to lead Rhaenyra much, for she was all too eager to follow him to the darkness.
“He mentioned it,” Daemon responds, laughing at the twitch your eye makes at the knowledge; it is a delightful idiosyncrasy that makes you more real, less of a ghostly spectre come to haunt him for the wrongs of the past. “Why, pet – not a fan of being courted?”
You sigh, looking down, twisting your hands in the skirts of your dress, the way you did as a child. “When you phrase it such, it sounds – romantic,” you sigh, eyes fixed on some minute detail past his head, and he is struck by the melancholy in your voice. “But these men do not want me – they want an idea of me, a Targaryen bride with pale hair and Valyrian blood to give them children they will make little effort to raise, to clasp onto and show off at feasts and balls as though possessing me is somehow meaningful. They do not see me.”
It is here your voice cuts off strangely, and he wishes it hadn’t, enthralled by the mournful monologue that paints a picture of the loneliest girl in King’s Landing. It is an eerie echo of a conversation taken place a decade prior, though the lead role lacks the infantile indignation and petulant pouting of the previous star. He finds himself retracing those steps, almost without realising.
“Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa. Dīnakson toliot, gaoso gaomagon kostas,” he murmurs testing, prodding, waiting for what might result from his efforts. Marriage is only a political arrangement. Once you are wed, you can do as you like. The words make your cheeks flush fetchingly and your brow wrinkle once more, glancing back at him apprehensively. Pretty pink girl with a pretty pink blush; how far down does it spread? You swallow; pause; look away, wrestling with a thought; you peep back up at him.
“Se skorverdon ūja avy kirimves mazuerdilza?” You respond, and the words of their Mother Tongue falling from your lips requires him to ruthlessly force back the wave of awakening below his belt once more. And how much joy did this bring you? Having been the only language you spoke as a young child, as all the Targaryen children had spoken from the cradle, it is a relief to hear it from you again, a reminder that the years had not washed away all that is familiar. “Aōhan ābrazȳryz buqilē, riñar daor, merpī īles… Tolī jaelan.” A wife you hated, no children, you were lonely… I want more. He grimaces at the mention of his bronze bitch.
“What is it you want, then?” He asks, switching back to the Common Tongue, the corner of his mouth already contorting in anticipation of the naïve response. True love, a happily ever after… We don’t get to have happy endings, sweetling.
“I want someone who loves me,” you reply, pressing on crossly at the huff of laughter that escapes him. “I never said I would love him back!” The clarification surprises him – it is not exactly what he had been expecting. He tips his head consideringly at you, inviting you to continue.
You hesitate for a moment. “I… They say my father loved my mother. I believe it, but-” You swallow, the corners of your mouth turning down as you mull over your words. “They say he had a choice, when baby Baelon was born; that he could cut her open to get the babe out, but that it would mean her certain death.” Gods above, where in the Seven hells had you learned that piece of information? Viserys had kept the circumstances of Aemma’s death under tight wraps, never even deigning to mention it to his own brother; it was pure happenstance that one of the maids he enjoyed fucking at the time had been present on the unfortunate day.
“I do not think I could ever choose my own life over my child’s – but they say he did not even ask her, that he just… held her down while they – How could I ever trust a man to raise the babe I bore him, if he would be willing to butcher his own wife in her childbed?” Your eyes glisten at the confession. He watches as you clench your eyes tight, set your jaw and exhale a few shuddery breaths. When your eyes open, they are no longer tear-bright, and he suddenly admires you for it, for the way you so ruthlessly suppressed weakness. He wonders how often you have been made to force back your own pain for the good of his family.
“What happened to your mother was a terrible tragedy, sweetling,” he hums soothingly, reaching forward to finally grip your small, pale hand in his. It is cold, and dwarfed entirely in his own. “But you cannot live in fear forever.” You make to pull your hand away, and he closes his grip tighter upon it, coercing you to look up at him properly.
“When hope is gone, what choice left is there but fear?” It is a whisper, carried on the breeze, and the thinly-veiled misery pains him in the chest. I thought that beating thing was black and dead by now, he thinks to himself. You shake your head, smile – the picture of the melancholy maiden fades from view as you affect an appearance of energy once more, gentle and muted as it is. “I know my father loved my mother, and so love is no guarantee of loyalty; but it would be helpful, I think.”
“You see love and loyalty as intertwined then, pet?” He cannot help but to ask, intrigued by the notion proposed by this slip of a girl, his little niece with the curves of a gold-gilded whore and the thousand-year gaze of an ancient, arcane being.
“Do you not? You cannot have one without the other. Loyalty without love makes for an easy traitor; and love without loyalty makes for an unhappy marriage.” He laughs again at the latter part of your pronouncement – a sweet, trusting little filly waiting to be broken in.
“There are many ways to love someone, princess,” he ogles you shamelessly, savouring the affectation of outraged bewilderment painting your countenance. “I imagine you’ll find few of them in the marriage bed.” He waits for you to ask him – to ask him what he means, to ask him to explain, to teach you, show you –
You instead pull your hand back, and it seems you have taken all the warmth from his palm with you. “I dislike your implication, Uncle,” you say stiffly, returning your hand to your lap, nestling between your thighs to retain the heat. Fuck.
“I meant nothing by it, gevivys,” he responds soothingly, watching the blush daub the planes of your throat, not quite travelling up to decorate your cheeks. Beauty. It is an apt title – an underwhelming one, even.
“You never do,” you sigh. Daemon lets the conversation lull, deciding to instead look upon the little revelation before him. You are an interesting puzzle; a strange contradiction of a girl, whose buttermilk skin and pert teats and spit-shine lips should herald as a welcome to sample the delights hidden by the fabric of your lovely little dress, and whose decorum in the face of the gentle compulsion he had so often utilised to get fetching girls to strip bare for him and show off their equally-as-fetching cunts had instead left him lacking. The body of a slut and the mind of a scholar, all wrapped up in wide eyes and honey-sweet words and wild hair the shade of Old Valyria. Of home.
Your attention is diverted by the squeals of a dark-haired boy as he bowls his way to you, throwing himself across your lap with an exultant cry of your name. From the look of him, it is Rhaenyra’s second son Lucerys. Having grown somewhat accustomed to learning the schedules of the lives around him, it baffles him somewhat that the boy is not at his daily lessons, though he knew from talk that the child frequently enjoyed spending time with his little niece. It seemed as though he remained still in the garden, despite the lessons he was meant to have. Had Laenor not intended to come here and fetch the boy as he had in days prior?
Daemon looks up, and he is surprised to see the forbidding expression upon Laenor’s face as he strides over to you and the boy, reaching a hand down to you and arranging his appearance into something a little less – well, violent. You take it, bewildered, allowing your good-brother to tug you gently from the ground beside him, already grabbing at the boy’s hand to stop him running off. Maiden, Stranger and now Mother, too, he muses. Which of the Seven will you take the form of next?
“Would you take Luke off to the training yards, sister?” Laenor begs kindly of you, and Daemon can see a look of vague incomprehension cross your face at the question. At least you sense the oddity, too. Laenor’s head turns down to where he sits, and it is then that it dawns on him that his nephew-by-marriage was very possibly watching him stare at his baby niece’s tits for a time that is sure to be longer than he could claim plausible deniability of. Fuck.
“Of course, Laenor,” you reply sweetly, biddably, and Daemon cannot help but wonder what else you might comply with if gently persuaded. He glances up at you from where he sits still upon the ground, smirking playfully as your gaze turns to him.
“It seems we must part for now, Princess,” he tells you.
“It does,” you respond politely, and it is clear to see he has unnerved you; the notion sends a trail of perverse excitement through him. He wonders what other reactions he might prompt out of you with gentle teasing. “I am glad you are back, Uncle.” The words are honest, free of artifice, and he gazes upon you with surprise – you may well be the only individual in the entire city who would say such a thing and genuinely mean it.
When you make to depart, he calls you back. “What – no goodbye kiss for your beloved uncle?” He taunts you, hoping he will bait you into action. He determinedly ignores Laenor’s huff from above him, eyes trained on you as you swallow with trepidation, before quickly making the short few steps back to him.
You crouch beside him, and he turns his head to yours as you free yourself from the tangle of skirts. Up close, he can see each lash that frames your eyes, the hairs that sprout from your brows, the slick cherry bloom of your mouth. A whisper-sweet gather of plump, plush fruit he wanted – needed – to take a bite from. Would you let me, little girl? He wonders. You gasp, a short little breath of surprise, and lurch away lightly at the closeness. A brave little thing, you return to him, pressing those precious petal-soft lips to the skin of his cheek, covered breasts involuntarily pressing against his arm. Fucking hells.
“Sȳz bantis, kepus,” you whisper, before you depart, bundling the boy up in your capable little hands, murmuring what approximates a farewell to the other occupants of the garden – and when the hells did he forget those – not even deigning to look back as you depart, the Cole cunt falling into formation behind you. Good evening, uncle, in that light little accent of yours, an unintended provocation of his basest desires.
“Care to explain – well, all of that?” Laenor hisses. Right. He’d forgotten again. Daemon pushes himself off the ground, brushing the grass off his arse, deliberately stalling while he thought of a response that wasn’t what the fuck how the fuck when the fuck and why.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he responds idly, slyly, glancing over at the man.
“No!” his good-nephew snaps, leaning forward into his space. He is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone, uncharacteristic of the bumbling, affable Velaryon scion. “You don’t get to do this to her, not this one, not this time,” he bites through bared teeth, the promise of vengeance in his eye at the prospect of Daemon daring to lay hands on his young charge.
“Whatever do you think I plan to do to her?” Daemon laughs, wondering at the answer himself. Whatever would you let him do to you? Laenor sighs, steps back; the girls in the garden are looking nervously over at the exchange, a flurry of whispers and intrigued gossip surely flowing from ear to ear.
“Look,” he mutters lowly, lightly nudging him to walk alongside him as they make for the garden’s entry. “She’s not one of your whores, Daemon; she’s just a girl. She’s not the type to play your twisted little games, so leave her be - please.” He is warmed by the defence of your good-brother, an admission of a rapport of familiarity and care that is sure to have flourished since the man’s entrance into the family some years ago.
“What makes you think I have any intention of – how did you put it – playing games with her?” He responds, and perhaps, if he were a little less honest with himself, he would be affronted by the manner in which Laenor had jumped straight to an accusation; but Lord Fleabottom’s reputation is inescapable, even after a decade of absence. “Perhaps my objective is pure and wholesome, an absent uncle reuniting with his little niece.”
“Right,” Laenor snorts, shaking his head as he folds his hands behind his back. “You’re far more likely to fall in with her horde of suitors than to believably claim familial interest, my Prince.”
And there’s a thought. It irritates him that Laenor of all people is the one to introduce the notion. And why should he not? Viserys has been pressuring him to seek a wife since the untimely death of his bronze bitch, going so far as to give him leave to cloak a highborn Pentoshi girl in red and black, not that he’d sully his bloodline with spicemonger’s ilk. If his brother was truly that desperate for him to wed, why ever would he not grant leave to pursue the best – nay, the only – possible bride for a Prince of House Targaryen? He can see it now – your sweet little face peering up at him, marked with his blood, lip dripping red with the pledge of entangling their souls together in savage Valyrian custom; your pretty little eyes wide with maidenly shock as he breaches your untried cunt, tight and pulsing and hotwetwarm, binding you to him irrevocably; the slow waddling of your gait as you round with child, his child, his sweetest babe bringing forth life of her own, belly ripe with seed and leaking his spend –
“Laenor,” he says slowly, eyes glinting as his lips upturn in a wide grin, “I do believe you have the best ideas.”
/
Read the story on AO3 here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/105793659
/
Taglist (😭 thank you!):
@teenagephilosophersandwich @mamamooqa @kimnamnu @witch-of-letters @my-dark-prince @asseyakire @kahliethefangirl @shady-daemon @blondtwig @anjavuk591 @drewtissong @vaf24 @katiepie67 @allwedoisvibe @dazecrea @omgsuperstarg @caspianobsessed @shelbyteller @schniiipsel @mononijikayu @lovecleastrange @li-moonchild-il @isaxbella749 @sinful-wxrld @issybee0611 @random-human02 @sweetybuzz25 @kaitieskidmore1 @bookish-time-travels @boofy1998 @darkestsoul16 @khaleesihavilliard @mirandastuckinthe80s @brezzybfan @sylphene @mysticalbouquetblr @nyrastargarym @princessmiaelicia @meeeh234 @you-bleed-just-toknowyouarealive @elsyyie @green-lxght @lovelynerdytraveler @cleverzonkwombatsludge
You're welcome for the translations! It gave me the awesome opportunity to tell my friends "translating smut into High Valyrian" when they asked what I was doing lol
20. Fine
It’s okay to not be okay sometimes
Concept: Schoolhouse Rock, but for Fandom Problems. Singing and dancing cartoon characters (they’re probably condoms and dildos and things let’s be real) explain important concepts with songs like “My Kink Is Not Your Kink And That’s Okay”, “And That’s the Difference Between A Trigger And A Squick,” and “If You Don’t Like It Maybe It Wasn’t Made For You (Hit The Back Button)”. Every time the Fandom Discourse starts spinning up again, I can just post the applicable video. People have a hard time forgetting these concepts because the songs are so catchy. I’m able to sleep at night without being kinkshamed.
Fair enough overall concept assuming we’re not talking about reinstating uncritical fandom silence when it comes to romanticized abuse, rape, CSA and incest fic, but there is no difference between a trigger and a squick if we’re really going to be accurate to actual psychology. Squicks ARE triggers. You guys need to stop saying this to belittle other people’s problems.
Have I been misunderstanding “squick” all these years? My understanding was that it was something you found gross or icky and didn’t want to see, but that’s… a far cry from a trigger.
If seeing something puts you in a bad enough place to rant about it and lash out about it, it is factually a trigger and no amount of championing “But squicks!” is going to change that. Triggers exist for more than just PTSD, and they can cause a whole range of responses.
Like… I don’t want to see celebrity news on my dash, I don’t care about that. Even if I am not specifically a rape survivor, I am triggered by content involving graphic rape and “well-intentioned” fandom elders have so “graciously” tried to explain to me and people like me that that’s just a squick - similarly with things like incest, abuse, CSA, etc. It’s… Virtually a useless term as far as I can tell, anyone who’s explained it to me even years back when I first heard it as a little kid, has been unable to explain what makes squicks NOT triggers.
At the very least, let’s say I’m wrong… I don’t see at all what “But squicks!” has to do with improving fandom spaces. Obviously if someone is upset enough about seeing something that they act out, that’s not just a squick and trying to tell them it’s just a squick does not help the situation.
For me “trigger vs. squick” is “harmful thing vs. thing I just don’t like”
For example, even though I’m not personally triggered by CSA or incest, those things are harmful and nonconsensual and upsetting for me to read.
I consider kinks like watersports and furrydom to be personal “squicks.” It can be consensual. It doesn’t upset me emotionally to read about it. I would just really rather not read about it.
Or, more simply: roach vs. spider. Roaches terrify me and I have a weird phobia about them. I’m not afraid of spiders, they just need to not be in my house.
That almost sorta makes sense, but triggers are absolutely things, for example, you just don’t like. Spiders are not problematic or harmful, but I’m arachnophobic. If that makes sense? Using a fictional character as an example, Ellen from I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream is triggered by the color yellow. The color yellow might not be inherently “problematic” in any way, but it is a trigger nonetheless.
Like, when you bring up things like furries and watersports, “squick” as a term makes sense there! I could just be bitter because I remember this odd wave of Tumblr Old folks trying to tell kids they were just being squicked when… They were pretty clearly being triggered, the Tumblr Old folks just didn’t wanna be told their darkfic was shitty or at the very least their defense of it was shitty.
I’m all for survivors coping with trauma however they need to, some of my coping mechanisms are absolutely “problematic,” but I think there’s a certain effort people should go to beyond just tagging when coping mechanisms involve gleefully-written graphic CSA, incest or rapefic for example.
I remember once someone wrote a graphic CSA fic [they thought it was “consensual” to write a nearly-30 year old and a 14 year old banging… Hah, no.] and tagged it as the fandom it was from, the character names, and a ship name. They did not tag it as pedophilia, CSA, rape, anything like that.
It’s an extreme example, but stuff like that is what I think of, or when people DO tag very well, but they tack onto unrelated posts showcasing their love of rapefic as if other survivors are wrong to hate or distrust them for it. I don’t think shame is necessary, just… More politeness than people often give, more mutual understanding between survivors, because survivors of one camp [ex: people who cope with “problematic,” harmful media] are CONVINCED the opposing camp [ex: survivors who cope by avoiding said harmful media, and call out harmful media to try and protect other people] is just fake-survivors or traumatrenders or whatever silly words people are using now - it goes vice versa too with those two groups, it’s really nasty.
I dunno, is this coherent? I’m kinda rambling here, there’s a lot of weird feelings surrounding the term for me ever since people started using it to shut up traumatized, angry kiddos on Tumblr. This became Survivor Politics Discourse Hell.
Like, same here, stuff like watersports is like “Enh, I don’t think that’s sexy, I think it’s kinda gross but it’s definitely not unethical in any way just inherently!” and that makes sense with what people tell me squicks are. I wish people used it that way, but I guess you can’t control what every single person does ^^;; It just gets stressful with the way survivors act with each other sometimes, no one really supports one another.
You’re not rambling at all, that totally makes sense.
It’s super shitty that people tell you what you should consider a trigger, and what you shouldn’t. Like, I believe triggers and squicks are different, but those differences are entirely subjective. Maybe watersports are a squick for me, but for someone out there it’s a trigger. I don’t have any right to tell them not to call it that because it isn’t on the list of pre-approved triggers or because they dont meet my criteria of “traumatized person .” Everyone has different boundaries and folks should be more understanding of that.
Thank you for being understanding about this, and reminding me what a squick ACTUALLY is instead of just having a creepy agenda, survivor Tumblr could use more people like you instead of either side of these very volatile extremes.
I agree with @angrybooklady - triggers and squicks are 100% different, but what's a squick to someone might trigger someone else. So tagging them is a good idea. Besides, I like knowing if a squick is in a fic I'm reading to be prepared. For example: Calling a sexual partner "Daddy" is not a trigger for me, but it is a squick (which certainly can be a trigger for someone else) and it bugs me when people don't tag it because I get into a story and BOOM "Harder, Daddy!" appears. Yanks me right out of the story, particularly in second person ("you") fics because I would most certainly not be saying that. But, by the same token, it's not triggering me. That being said, psychologically, a trigger can be *anything* from something commonly thought of, like csa, to listening to a particular song or smelling a certain smell. The example I like to use is the national anthem. What if a sexual assault survivor was assaulted at a sporting event or some such when the national anthem for their country was playing? Do we warn everyone before playing the anthem? No. It's reasonable to assume that any public gathering, particularly with sports (at least in the US) is going to involve the national anthem. That's like a tag that says "canon typical violence". If you know the canon, you know what to expect. What if a child abuse survivor was force-fed avocados when they misbehaved? A fic that mentions offhand that a character eats avocado or has someone tell someone to eat an avocado could trigger them. But it's not a common trigger, so I'm not gonna automatically tag things for avocado (or any other food for that matter). Because that starts down a slippery slope of tagging *everything* which isn't reasonable to ask of anyone. If it's a sex act, probably a good idea to tag, particularly if it's a kink. If it's a known trauma situation (csa, domestic violence, etc) or known to be associated with it (sex work, derogatory name calling) then tag it. If a character uses slurs, you should probably tag that too (even if it's just "canon typical slurs" tag) But be realistic. Sometimes people miss a tag, sometimes it might be so normalized in their life they don't think to tag it. Maybe they misspell a tag so a filter doesn't catch it. Maybe they did tag it watersports but the reader doesn't know what that means and reads anyway.
So, it was officially said by the man himself. “Negan is totally against rape and loves his women.”
Not that we needed confirmation anyways but glad he said it.
@mypapawinchester @crzcorgi @ladylorelitany @kijilinn @may85 @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash
I've seen the "Negan isn't a rapist" thing bandied about my dash for a while and I feel compelled to get on my soapbox for a moment.
I'm a Negan fan, but let's be honest with ourselves here. It might not amount to a legal definition of rape but the man is clearly using his position to his own advantage. Going off the show (been a bit since I read the comics), he approached a diabetic woman who *needed her meds to live* and was going into "debt" to get them and, instead of lowering the cost of the meds (which he could do), he offers her free meds for sex.
Which is so not fucking cool.
The deal with Sherry is different - she brought that up, she put it on the table. (Also, they were dumb enough to go *back*. It's not like Negan said he'd kill Dwight if she didn't, he was just going to kill him for leaving, which is a whole different can of worms) It seems like Amber just didn't want to do her job anymore. That's fine. Choices were made willingly.
But Tina? He offered her the choice of death or sex. Which is rapey. Now, to be fair, we don't know if her refusal would have cut off the meds completely, but we do know she was desperate enough to take them and run.
So Negan beats the shit out of a rapist. That's called keeping order in the community. It's also called establishing his superiority. It's a lot of things. That does not make him a bastion of consent. If a person feels as if they have no choice but to comply with a sexual "suggestion", they aren't really consenting, are they?
As I said, I love me some Negan. And I'm a firm believer that you can love "problematic" characters. But let's not lose sight of who the man truly is and the role his character serves in the story. He's the Rick that could have been. The warning of absolute power corrupts absolutely. The Sanctuary represents what Alexandria could have been had Rick's moral compass been a few ticks off North.
(As an aside, Negan uses *everyone*, so it's quite possible that he doesn't see what he did with Tina to be any different than what he does to anyone else. That might be how others are viewing it as well. I respectfully disagree).
You may now return to reading Negan smut. Because that's what I'll be doing. :)
Not every character needs to be in a romantic relationship reblog if you agree
THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!
Reminder
If you’ve become so extreme that you’re basically brushing off:
sexism that women face
racism that minorities face
homophobia/transphobia that LGBT+ face
religious persecution against peaceful Muslims
You and I need to have a little chat. Hatred is not okay whomever it is directed against, and that includes when it happens to these groups.
Yes, Tumblr does go way overboard when it comes to a lot of things. But that’s just it; we don’t want to become just like those people who say that misandry doesn’t exist, or that racism against white people doesn’t happen. Because the fact of the matter is, these groups often are the target of hatred. And it’s just as unacceptable as hatred against men, white people, cis people and straight people. Please don’t forget that.
^^^^^^^^^^
I don't know the specifics about the trial, but I can tell you she didn't volunteer. She was appointed.
And guess what? Defense attorneys are required to defend their clients and put up the best case possible. This is a product of our adversarial system. It would be more concerning had she *not* advocated for him. She did her job even though she didn't want to. Even though it was hard. If anyone is at fault it is the prosecutor who did not do their job and get a conviction.
If you disagree with a defendant like that getting representation, that's not on Clinton, that's on the US legal system.
There are legitimate points to be made about her, but this is not one of them.
Science vs. Humanities degree
i love science jokes ok
Depends on the humanities. Behavioural psychology would tell you why it’s a bad idea, postmodern sociologists would form groups advocating for the rights of dinosaurs and protest discrimination against them.
It wouldn’t even be something as sensible as rights.
They’d be arguing that the name ‘dinosaur’, literally terrible lizard, is used to create a negative identity for this marginalised group. That the position of dinosaurs in society is a result of this and not that they are giant fucking monsters.
Within six months you wouldn’t be allowed to use the D word, and they would have gone through three different euphemisms for the humanity challenged.
Raptor jokes would be microaggressions, and Jurassic Park would be problematic.
Did you just misgender my triceratops?
protect lil girls who develop early they’re still lil girls who deserve to enjoy their youth protect these lil girls from men who say shit like “no way she 13” and put the blame on lil girls who can’t help how they look and are just tryna be cute and have fun
It’s not blaming people to find them attractive, even if it is inappropriate. Nice of you to imply men are automatically predators. I met a family with a 12-year-old daughter who looked 19. Only knew she was that young when they told me. Still doesn’t change the fact that she looked 19 and had girl abs and a great rack.
holy fucking shit man that’s straight up pedophilla??
Paedophilia is the attraction to prepubescent characteristics. As I said, she looked 19. She obviously developed much faster than average because she had adult secondary sex characteristics. What kind of paedophile likes tits?
you apparently
Ugh what a fucking freak
yeah uhm if she was 12 she was a prepubescent girl lmao. just because she looked 19 doesnt give you the fucking right to go home and jack off to her you fucking pedo freak!
Actually, at 12 she could have already begun puberty, making her not prepubescent. As someone who started her period at age 10 and had a figure more like an adult female than a teenager by the time I was 13/14, I can say that people can confuse your age. I'm in my late 20s and I don't look much different than I did over ten years ago (as far as body shape, etc.)
I'm not defending people who creep on young girls who look older when they KNOW the girls are underage. Doesn't matter what they look like, they are still kids. Period. And the "no way is she 13" crowd is gross.
But don't conflate that with "no way, she's 13? Holy shit, backing away now."
That said, continuing to insist they have a nice rack is a little pervy. Like, she might look like a grown woman, but her mind is 12. Let's treat her like she's 12, please.
like i am definitely not the biggest fan of hillary clinton on a personal level but ive gained a whole new sense of respect for her because theres no way i could stand on stage next to a giant orange skittle yelling over me for this long and just keep my cool like she is her demeanor is so fucking admirable
Politics aside, she got some sick burns in during the debate.
And then Trump was like that kid who always said "I know you are but what am I?"
MBTI- ENTJ Female aesthetic
Reblog if you have used dude as a non gender specific term.
where I grew up in California not only is “dude” generally non-gender-specific, half of the time it doesn’t even refer to a person at all.
I said it to a faucet today.
I use it to curse the weather.
A woman in my cohort is adamant that no one call her dude because it's gendered. She's German so that might have something to do with it but no matter how many times we tell her it's gender neutral she disagrees.
When I brought up how most female actors prefer the term actor to actress she was like, why can't actress be the neuter term, it's erasing females to use the male term.
We don't call female doctors doctresses. We don't call female professors professoresses. Some professions got the "ess" to denote female and it was usually not a good thing when they did.
I should show her this and the number of notes. People use dude for anything. Words evolve. No language is static.
types as stuff we all do while watching movies
ISTJ: *silence* *silence* "THAT ACTOR WAS IN THAT ONE EPISODE OF THAT SHOW I WATCHED IN JUNIOR HIGH"
ISFJ: cringing at secondhand embarrassment scenes but still using them as reaction gifs for all eternity
INFJ: intensely shipping ships that actually make sense
INTJ: reading way more political and/or whatever other kinds of messages into it than the filmmakers ever cared about
ISTP: giving the villains advice cause wow they really seem to need it
ISFP: getting way too deep in the fandom before it’s even halfway over
INFP: unironically referring to their favorite characters as their children
INTP: laughing at wildly inappropriate moments
ESTP: imitating funny lines in the characters’ voices
ESFP: shamelessly watching and rewatching movies the critics hated because the critics wouldn't understand fun if it punched them in the face
ENFP: "ok but what if this character and a character from that other movie went to hogwarts and-"
ENTP: sarcastic commentary 500% of the time
ESTJ: finding ALL the differences between the movie and the book
ESFJ: comparing characters to people in the room and being scarily accurate
ENFJ: bringing up headcanons days afterward about loose ends that didn’t get tied up
ENTJ: pointing out insignificant plot holes
Look at them
In case anyone needed a daily dose of cute.