#alice deserves someone to stick up for her

[izfrogzy]

Soft and Innocent Part II 18+ Aemond x Sister Reader(OC.)

Warnings: 18+ content eventually, this part is a bit angsty and a lot of pinning and longing, a bit sexism and such as what is expected of a woman and girl of the time period and world like Westeros and there's mentions of foot fetish (Due to Larys mention.)

A/N: .Mostly soft fluffy and angst at this part, for the most part a bit Angsty and such lots of hugging and seeking comfort from the Broody Brother. New to writing these sort of things for readers to read I am down for good criticism I try my best and never intend to offend or upset anyone with my writing with that being said enjoy...sorry for any bad grammar and punctuation :) I do apologize for any inaccuracies for certain characters just think of it as AUs scenarios.

Aemond was returning from the training yard. Sweat and dirt covered his clothing. His hair was sticking to his face with sweat and sweat also glistened off his skin. The only thing he wanted to do was have a bath and rest. He let out a tired huff. But as he walked past his sister's room. He heard crying which seemed to peak his curiosity. He raised his head and began to walk towards her room which his walking turned into a sprint.

Seanna glared as Alicent, Their mother, sighed trying to appease upset Seanna. “It is your duty Seanna to marry." Alicent said and Seanna sobbed and threw things at her mother. “But it had to be him of all people!” She cried out and sobbed.

Seanna inhales and exhales glaring at Alicent, though the queen, She was more then willing to defy her mother, Aemond entered the room upon the middle of this argument between his mother and little sister.

“I don’t want to marry him, he's old and he walks funny and he’s he’s.” Sobbed Seanna 

His gaze went to his sister as he tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. His expression went from cold and hard to a slightly concerned and sympathetic one as he saw her in tears. He knew how she felt. Having to be married off to someone who she does not like. It wasn't fair to her. She didn't deserve that. Aemond's expression darkened slightly as he turned his head back to his mother. Who seemed so uncaring and cold to her own daughter.

“Larys Strong is the Lord of Harrenhal and he has acquired a mass fortune after his….” Alicent tries to make the situation sound better but Seanna speaks up. “You think I care about any of that Mother?!” She sobbed and sat up scowling at Her mother, Queen Alicent.

Aemond's hand tightly clenched into a fist at his side when he heard the name of the man who he sister was betrothed to. His whole body tensed....a wave of anger, sympathy and protectiveness filled his entire being. Larys Strong was not a good man. He was a perverted old man who only cared about wealth and power. Not love or family. Which made Aemond's expression darkened even more and his jaw clenched at the thought of the pervert being near his little sister.

Seanna says more to her mother trying to reason with her, “Plus I heard he has a foot thing mother would you really subject me to such a man and how he acquired his inheritance is no secret either…Hells I'd rather marry some Greyjoy or Bolton then the likes of that decrepit man.” Seanna said frustratedly from the top of bed clearly very worked up by the whole situation.

The thought of her being married off to a Greyjoy or a Bolton did not ease Aemond's darkening anger. It still would not be a happy ending. But it was slightly better than Larys Strong. Aemond's jaw clenched again at the word foot. Knowing what his little sister meant by that....it made his stomach do twists and turns in anger that his sister had to be tied to such a man. He was a pervert and a murderer.

Alicent sighs. “It has already been arranged." She said and Seanna started sobbing. “No! I won’t marry that man, Mother! I won’t!” Seanna wailed and threw her last pillow at her mother.

Aemond's hands slowly curled into a tight fist as more anger filled his being. The way his so-called loving mother was making his sister cry and treating her like she was some commodity to trade. He gritted his teeth and then grumbled out. “Isn’t there a better match mother ...or can't such a match be held off for a while? mother?” Aemond's tone hardened at his mother which made her turn her head to look at him..

“Aemond, you know we all must do our duty and it is about time your little sister did her part for this family….as you know alliances have to be made in case…” Alicent said to him and she looked at Seanna. “You will grow accustomed to Lord Strong ... .children become the greatest comfort.” She said trying to assure Seanna who shook her head and sobbed. “Is that all I am mother?” Seanna said and hopped off the bed and stormed up to Alicent. “Like my Beloved sister Helaena I too must be one of your broodmares to offer up to the highest bidder?” She said angrily in tears and Alicent's eyes widened and grabbed her daughter. “Enough of your childish tantrum Seanna! You will marry Lord Strong and that is final!” She snapped and Seanna sobs and yanks herself away pushing Alicent out of her way and storms past Aemond without a second glance, as she runs out of her bedchambers in tears and Alicent sighs and looks at Aemond. “Duty always requires sacrifice Aemond even you know that.” She said in a serious tone to her beloved son and she sighed “It’s about time Seanna learns as well.” Alicent said a bit coldly trying to be stoic in this decision.

Aemond's jaw tensed as he began gritting his teeth once more. The anger burned furiously in his body as he listened to his mother speak in such a cold and uncaring manner. He watched as his sister tried to argue and cry only to be treated like a child by their mother. He saw the push and he watched her run out of the room crying. He let out a slow and harsh breath through his nose to stop himself from screaming at his mother's seemingly cruel decision.

“I understand the demands of duty, Mother.” Aemond said with gritted teeth as he crossed his arms. His gaze was hard and cold as he stared at his mother. “However you don't seem to understand the concept of love and care.” Aemond said in an accusing tone as he continued to look at his cold hearted mother. “My sister is still a young lady who has her whole life ahead of her. And you treat her like a pig to be sent to slaughter.” Aemond said as his jaw tightened more.

“Aemond…..Larys Strong is lord of the Strongest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms ... ..as you know. plans are being made in case your father dies and we must solidify our household…..in case.” She said approaching him. “I don’t like it anymore than you do but Marrying her off is for the greater good….to strengthen the crown and house Targaryen.” Alicent said in a lowered tone of voice.

“I know all of that.” Aemond said, slightly agitated as he let out a slow breath through his nose. “But why him?” He asked in a hard and cold tone. “Why must you marry her off to such a creature as that. Why can she not marry someone else? Someone who would love and care for her. Why, someone like him?” He questioned as his jaw clenched and he began gritting his teeth again.

“You Mean Someone like you?” Alicent asked outright as if she knew what he tried so hard to keep hidden. “Aegon and Helaena are already wedded we must form alliances not just keep our bloodline to ourselves Aemond….I see how you feel obligated to her….how you wish to keep her safe….I am no fool at what I see…..But….Duty comes first Aemond.” Alicent said calmly and she placed her hand on his shoulder as if to give him assurance.

Aemond's jaw clenched further and his breathing became much more labored as he stared at his mother. How was she so good at reading him? He was always good at hiding his emotions. But with her it was different. She always managed to figure him out. Aemond stayed quiet...he almost felt as if he had been exposed of his secret feelings.

“If I had it my way it would have been you and her who were married instead of Aegon and Helaena but it was not Aemond.” Alicent said to her son.

Aemond's eyes widened slightly at the sentence his mother had spoken. So she has figured his secret out long before he even realized it himself. He would have been better fit to marry his sister. 

“That would not have pleased father right?” Aemond asked as he looked away from his mother. His expression became cold and stoic

“Your father could care less.” She admitted, looking away. “But for the realm arranging proper and good alliances and marriages for his remaining children is ideal.”

Aemond's face remained cold and stoic but inside he was feeling a mix of different emotions. He understood the concept of duty and loyalty, and why they had to arrange marriages...but the thought of his sister being sent off to such a vile person had his blood boiling. “And this is the best you came up with.” Aemond hissed out as he turned to look at her again. “Larys Strong. That creature…” He said bitterly to his mother, the Queen.

Alicent sighs and averted her eyes and nodded, “He asked for her and I owe him…our family owes him for his loyalty.” She admitted.

Aemond let out a huff and looked away again. He clenched his jaw yet again as the anger filled his body. She not only arranged his sister's marriage to a disgusting man but because the crown owed him. It was almost as if they didn't care about her being sent off to a perverted man who had a foot fetish. In Aemond's mind....it made her seem like she didn't care at all for her daughter.

Alicent approaches Aemond as she knew he was filled with anger at this decision, and she rubbed his shoulder and sighs before speaking, “Larys promised to be kind and gentle with her, that is all I can hope for your sister's future.” Alicent said to Aemond but her son gave her an agitated look. 

Aemond's hands slowly curled into tight fists as he listened. He didn't believe that at all. “And you believe such an empty promise from a lecherous man like him?” Aemond asked as he looked at his mother in anger and disbelief.

Alicent showed some hesitation to answer when he asked and she sighed and swallowed her motherly instincts and spoke “We must for the greater good Aemond.” She said simply looking at her son.

“The greater good?” Aemond's expression was full of anger as he looked at her. What greater good was there for marrying off his sweet sister to such a perverted man. “Why not another Lord? A good man who can give her a happy life. Surely that would be better for the realm than selling her like a pig to be slaughtered?” He asked and Alicent grabbed his arms so he would look at her “It has been final Aemond…..if I was to withdrawal there would be drastic consequences for our family.” Alicent said, trying to convince her son to accept the decisions made.

Aemond's hands clenched even more. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to compose himself before speaking again. “If you will not change the betrothal. I will.” Aemond said his voice was hardened and cold. As he walked past his mother and opened the door to step out to where he knew his sister had run off to. Leaving his mother to stew in the room behind him.

Aemond knew exactly where to find his sister. He walked quickly down to the Godswoods. He began to hear sobbing. He followed the sobbing and finally stopped as he found his sister sitting on the ground sobbing. Aemond slowly walked up to her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Hoping to give her some comfort. “Seanna....sister.” Aemond said softly as knelt down and looked at her. “Shhh.”

Seanna looked at him and sniffled. “Oh Aemond I don’t want to do it.” She cried.

Aemond gently wrapped her in his strong arms and gave her a soft warm embrace. “Shhh.....shh...I know sister. I know…” His heart shattered as he saw how distraught and upset she was. He wanted to see her happy and cheerful. Not sobbing on the ground in tears.

“Why does it have to be him?” She sobbed. “How could mother do this to me?” She asked emotionally. 

Aemond continued to hold her in the embrace as he gently patted her back in a soothing manner. Trying not to think about how he would have treated her if they were married nor if he was to have her in his arms. He gently moved one of his arms to the back of her head and gently cradled her.

“I don't know...but....I promise to you. Once the time is right I won't let you be married to such a horrid man. No matter the consequences.” Aemond said his voice was soft yet filled with so much promise and conviction.

Seanna whimpers and clings to him. “I won’t marry him, I don't care what mother says or does to me.” she sobbed nuzzling into his clothed body.

Aemond holds her close as she clings to him. He rested his chin slightly atop her soft hair. He felt a sense of protective affection and love for his sister. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted to see her smile. And he knew there was no way in the seven hells that he would allow her to be married to such a horrible man. “No you won't. I promise you that.” He said as Aemond nuzzled his face into her hair.

Seanna sniffled and turned her face up and looked up at him with her pouty face and tear filled eyes. “You really promise?” She asked gently, her voice trembling.

He looked down at her. Seeing her tear filled eyes and pouty face made him want to kiss her...but no. That was not, be allowed this time. He gently placed a hand on her cheek and softly held it. A small yet warm smile spread across his face as he looked at her. “I promise my little sister. With my whole heart. I will not allow that creature to take you. No matter what.” He said though it sounded more like a vow and oath to her which made her smile slightly though still feeling upset.

 Seanna looked at him with her large eyes and rosy cheeks she sniffled. “Really?” she asked, tearing up again.

Aemond gazed back into her large eyes. He felt an overwhelming sense of love and adoration for her as he gently held her small face tenderly in his hand. He gently rubbed her chubby tear stained pink cheek. “Really. I promise. There is no need to cry or be scared. I will be by your side and I will protect you. You are my little sister. It is my duty to do so.”

She nodded. “I love you Lēkia.” She said Lēkia meaning older brother in Old Valyrian in a soft light innocent voice looking at him with her violet doe eyes.

And I love you, sweet sister. Aemond replied, still looking at those wide eyes of hers which he loved looking at so much. He gently cradled her face in his hand and then gently leaned in and placed a gentle, yet loving kiss on her forehead. The love he had for her was far more than what a brother should feel for his sister.

She clung to him and sighed totally content with her Lēkia.

A/N: Part III is a bit more saucy and will be short but.....the small series will get steamy I promise Also named the OCSister I will do Reader or Y/N eventually but y'all can still imagine yourselves in OCs shoes obviously.

#asoiaf #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen smut #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon au #aemond x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #Aemond x oc #ai image #ai generated art #prince aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #aemond fic

[maidragoste]

Cloack

A little drabble into the past with Harwin Strong.

It is part of the universe of "The Queen and Her Husbands" but it is not necessary to read it to understand since this happens when Reader and Aegon are kids

Reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated. I hope you like it 🥰🥰💕💕

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes. I'm also posting this while I'm half asleep.

Harwin had just returned from his patrol. It was still early so he thought of stopping by your chambers to give you the sweets he had bought you during his patrol. When he arrived at the door of your chambers he heard your crying. Normally he would have knocked on the door before entering but this time he entered without hesitation, letting himself be carried away by worry and panic thinking that someone had managed to enter your chambers and was doing you harm.

Honestly, Harwin didn't know exactly what he expected to see when he entered, but he was relieved to see that there was no dangerous intruder…There was only Aegon. You were kneeling in front of the fire. There was a burning smell but he couldn't find anything in sight that was on fire. Your cheeks were stained with tears and Aegon held your hand carefully.

"What happened?" asked the captain of the city guard.

"The fool burned herself" replied the prince with a frown.

You released yourself from Aegon's grasp, then shoved him with all your might. You caught him off guard so he ended up on the floor. He didn't even have a chance to get back up when you jumped on top of him and started punching him in the chest. "It's your fault"

You are not an aggressive person so both the prince and the captain were surprised by your attitude. Harwin was quick to react and pull you on top of Aegon. The last thing Rhaenyra needed was for you to end up hurting the prince and enraging the queen. The relationship between Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent was already tense enough, and the last thing he wanted was for it to get worse.

"Hey, hey, that's no way to solve problems," Harwin reminded you as he gently grabbed you by the shoulders. "Do you want to tell me what he did to you?"

"I didn't do anything to her," Aegon said, offended that someone thought he would be able to hurt you. "All I did was prevent you from burning further," He said looking straight into your eyes hating being the reason for your anger and sadness

"You burned the cloak I made for Aemond!" you said furiously as you tried to hold back your tears.

Oh sure, Harwin knows which cloak you were talking about. You had been making that cloak for weeks, whenever he came to see you you proudly showed him your process and asked if he thought Aemond would like it. You took the trouble to learn how to embroider a sword and a dragon. Even he heard Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey complain that you didn't want to play with them because you were busy sewing. You had put too much dedication into it for Prince Aegon to burn it like nothing. Now he understood the reason for your anger.

"It's just a stupid cloak! It wasn't even well made, surely Aemond would have been embarrassed to wear that!”

Aegon was still angry and surprised at how you didn't hesitate to stick your hand into the flames in an attempt to save the cloak you made for Aemond. You could have gotten badly burned just because of that stupid cape.

Harwin was surprised by the prince's words and actions. He knew that normally Aegon wouldn't do anything to hurt you. It's not like it's a secret that Rhaenyra's brother had a devotion to you and he seemed ready to do anything you told him to. So Harwin did not understand why the prince's attitude.

"Good, then I'll save you the embarrassment of wearing yours!" You walked over angrily and grabbed the other cloak you'd made before throwing it into the fire.

"You made me a cloak?" asked the prince with a choked voice and red cheeks.

"I do." you answered with a frown"But you're an idiot and you don't deserve it"

Now the one who seemed to want to jump into the fire to get the cloak was Aegon. Harwin wanted to laugh as he realized the reason for the prince's attitude. Kids could be such jerks sometimes. Aegon had only burned the cloak out of jealousy because he thought you hadn't done anything to him and he was jealous that his brother had something of yours and he didn't. The prince wanted to be the only one to have your attention and your gifts. He didn't want to share you with Aemond.

"My prince, why don't you go find the maester so he can see the princess's burn?" Harwin asked to save Aegon from further embarrassing himself. Now that the fire had completely consumed the cloak, he looked as if he were about to cry.

"I'm sorry" the prince murmured before almost running out of your chambers.

The next day Harwin wasn't surprised to see Aegon with a black eye and how he looked like an abandoned dog because you ignored him and stuck to Aemond.

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[divine-donna]

courtship - hotd cast

i have done a variety of similar posts for a different fandom. so i thought i’d try my hand and do something a little more laid back than a fic. anyways, have fun with these! i hope they’re satisfactory for you guys. (and if there’s someone missing that you would like me to add, feel free to tell me. my brain can be a bit scattered when writing these.)

these are all inherently gender neutral, by the way. i aspire to be as inclusive as possible when it comes to writing fandom pieces. i understand there are structures in place within the world of westeros. for the sake of this post, however, i am forgoing them. everyone is deserving of a courtship after all!

ser criston cole

ser criston’s courtship is very straight forward. of course, he makes sure he has the blessing of his queen to pursue you first. he is a gentleman. makes good conversation, always asks about you. you do wish he would be a little more romantic with his gestures however, he has appearances to keep up. his honor is always at stake, front and center. and sometimes, it can definitely feel like your courtship with him is a secret he must keep hidden.

“and how was your day, my liege? i hope it was bright despite the clouds.”

daemon targaryen

daemon’s courtship with you is also very straight forward. he’s honest about the way you make him feel and there is also a lot of witty banter happening between you two. he’s not much of a traditional person though. traditions are boring after all. but if you insist on keeping with tradition, he will put his personal feelings aside to accomodate them. as long as they aren’t ridiculous. he does love giving you physical affection and surprisingly is very touch starved.

“i missed you today. i can’t even begin on how woeful it was without you, my love.”

rhaenyra targaryen

rhaenyra is the princess! the heir to the iron throne! and essentially, she can court whoever she wants. her father did tell her to just pick someone after all. if she is going to marry, she’s going to pick someone that lights a fire within her and makes her smile. so of course, she chooses you! you’re brave, smart, witty. and most importantly, you know how to make cake. the best moments of your courtship come when you visit her in her room, holding a cake you made specifically for her. and she gets to eat it while you talk about your day. afterwards, she lays her head on your lap, looking up at you. sometimes she kisses you. other times, she just holds your hand and traces your knuckles with her fingers.

“you must tell me the secret to how you keep your hands so soft, (y/n). soft like the cake you make.”

alicent hightower

when it comes to courtship with alicent, it is you who must make the first move. she is rather busy, preoccupied, and a little nervous. she has a habit of overthinking things when she shouldn’t. so you make the first move and make many gestures of romance. you leave books at her desk, books you think she would like. you give her flowers when you see her, sticking one in her hair. sometimes, if you have the time, you go out of your way to buy a blank book where you press flowers in between the pages and you make beautiful arrangements within them. she holds that book of pressed flowers close to her heart.

“you give me so many daisies, (y/n). and i am a fool to just learn that it means you are saying, i love you truly.”

aegon targaryen

aegon is very blunt. courtship with him is...messy? messy is an understatement. and he is a prince so people only watch. they don’t bother to comment on it. what matters most to aegon is not his grand gifts to prove his love, but rather it’s the way you sit and listen to his woes. he feels they are not taken seriously enough and he loves laying near you and having you listen. you’re the first person to truly listen to him when he tells you that he has no interest in being royalty. in fact, he’d rather fake his death. and run away.

“you wouldn’t be opposed to running away with me, right (y/n)? it could just be the two of us. i like that idea.”

aemond targaryen

aemond is a cordial man. he sticks with tradition and does very thorough research if you particularly have certain traditions for courtship with your family. he woos you not with any grand gifts or proclamations or songs, but with his gentle touch and sweet words. he is surprisingly a big fan of physical touch, your pinkies intertwined, a hand on your shoulder, a small kiss to your cheek. he’s willing to do anything for your approval and he has the means to do so. but the best moments, in your opinion, are when you two are just alone. it’s you, aemond, and a source of light in a room.

“it may be the morrow, my love, but my mother does not call for me yet. so please, let me lay with you a little longer.”

helaena targaryen

helaena is a quiet girl and tends to prefer solitary activities. but for you, she was willing to get out of her bubble. she starts with talking to you. it’s small talk, but you enjoy it. and when she apologizes for accidentally going on tangents about her love for bugs, you encourage her. you sit and listen to what she has to say, asking questions to further increase your own knowledge. she feels guilt for speaking so much but you reassure her it’s fine. she also loves hearing you talk about what you’re passionate about and asks questions as well. the two of you build a collective of knowledge together. you also go out of your way to do things for her, like finish her embroidered spider or give her a drawing of a new bug you found. she has many of those drawings tucked away for they are sacred to her.

“i found this lovely creature yesterday. it reminded me of you (y/n). i cannot decide if i want to name it after you. i thought i would ask for naming suggestions as well.”

jacaerys velaryon

jacaerys most definitely asked his mother for some advice on courting you first. after all, he has seen you two talk frequently (apparently it’s because you remind her of herself when she was your age). he asks if he can take you on small walks where two talk about the weather, the scenery, how your days have been. you have a fascination with dragons, so he will take you to see vermax. sometimes, if you’re feeling up for it, you propose that when vermax is big enough that you ride together. he is also, surprisingly, a good artist and when you sit and contemplate, he draws you. the portrait is lovely and you keep many of them even if they are of you doing mundane things.

“perhaps one day, i will capture you riding vermax. but i do not believe a drawing of you can truly capture your beauty.”

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd headcanon #ser criston #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #aegon the usurper #aemond targaryen #helaena targaryen #jacaerys velaryon

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

If my OC was Canon what God Awful Fandom Hot Takes would their be for them?

Ohhh what do you think they would perceive Aldreda/Alicent?

Not the ask I expected, & I'll be honest I've thought about this more with the Roycegaryens, so it took a minute but I think I've got a good thought process going here. I'm gonna tackle it first with Aldreda herself, because I think that's a lot of important context, & then I'll talk about Aldricent. [Also, content warnings for below the cut: mentions of sexual abuse, discussions of violence, mentions of emotona abuse, general unhinged fandom bs]

Aldreda would be fucking divisive. There's no way around it, I know she would be. Because she's only Gender Weird & not a man, she'd get viewed more negatively than someone like Daemon or Aemond, who are also divisive in their own ways but get more positive attention. She has all the makings of getting seen like a girlboss (she fights & raids, all her hobbies are masculine, she's “sexually liberated”), but she has way too much grit to get boiled down to that unless you want to be really fucking delusional (& trust, I know a lot of fans of HOTD are/can be because of how young a lot of them skew). She's mean & petty, early on in her arc she pretty obviously objectifies other women (regardless of how nice & respectful by comparison she is), she revels in violence if she's the cause of it, & she really quickly turncloaks in The Dance because wrong place/wrong time & getting captured & offered the position of Aegon’s Master of Ships in exchange for her & her remaining men's lives (nevermind she personally was determined to be neutral/wasn't really engaging with the war before getting conscripted by Team Green). Because she's not easily sanitizable & on the less popular side of the war, she wouldn't be getting any favors from a lot of fandom. And that's not even touching on how, like, way hard-core Team Green stans would feel about her, I cannot even fathom if it would be positive or negative (if anyone has thoughts there lmk, I'm curious).

So, just in general Aldreda would be getting hot takes about how she's not really one of the Ironborn & making up all kind of shit about honor & doing a disservice to her whole House & culture (like Sansa got/gets about Not Really Being Northern), & about how she should have either let herself get killed or have somehow murdered her way out of being surrounded by trained soldiers who'd disarmed her & were literally only leaving her unharmed/unacosted because they watched her rip a man's ear off with her teeth. Really vindictive Aldreda antis would come out with hot takes about her deserving all the emotional neglect & emotional incest & sexual abuse from her backstory & how it should have been worse, or that she should have “shut up & married her cousin instead of getting involved in the war & sticking her nose where it doesn't belong/betraying Rhaenyra [whom she has never fucking met].” There'd probably be a pretty vocal minority that ships her with her abuser/cousin just because he's “hot & possessive,” & that is a very rancid hot take. People would victim blame her & also claim she was the direct reason her murdered/not dead by happenstance brothers got murdered.

Aldricent, I don't think, would be super popular outside of tumblr. Like, Aldricent just is for the tumblrinas because it's “becoming less toxic yuri marriage arc,” & that would speak to the tumblr-flavor-chronically-online girlies (gender neutral).

I approach this next bit as a Rhaenicent Enjoyer, but a lot of hate for Aldricent would come from there, imo. Aldreda would get called “bargain bin Rhaenyra” due to the places their stories kinda overlap, & depending on which bias you approached the ship from would determine your hot take from there. It'd either be “Alicent is replacing Rhaenyra with Aldreda who's a lesser model, & she'd probably leave her in a heartbeat if she came to her senses & started supporting her girlboss one true love” or “Aldreda is sexually manipulating Alicent & is literally only one step above Larys or Viserys due to her issues/trauma surrounding female sexuality that she's obviously never going to grow from/improve upon. Criston should kill her.” Before the growth arc, there'd probably be hot takes/jokes about Alicent being a pillow princess & finally getting to nut, & some of them would probably come from a good place, but it's still a Bad Hot Take to me because Alicent's lack of active participation the first time they fuck is an Aldreda choice.

There'd probably also be hot takes about which one of them is fixing the other with their magic, problem solving pussy or w/e, because that's how relationships work 🙄 (whoever you think is fixing the other is determined by who you like more &/or whoever you think is worse, I suppose. Pick your poison/bad take).

#asks #oc: aldreda farwynd

[ladymelisande]

I remember when I read Fire and Blood, I loved the character of Alicent. She was the type of big bad girl we love to hate. She is even in my personal top of the best villains. And then HOTD came along. At first, I was happy to see Olivia Cook, an actress that I adore, to play Alicent. But when I saw that there was a change of age and then saw the series itself... Well, I might as well say that I was extremely disappointed. What the fuck did they deliver?!

Honestly, Alicent is the character that has been ruined the most in the show after Daemon, even Rhaenyra wasn't as completely butchered as this great antagonist was. The way she has been written makes me want to cry as someone who likes writing in villains' heads.

But worse is that, when it comes to visuals at least, I could see young Alicent somehow becoming more like her book counterpart after the time skip and I was frantic for them to do that because rewatching I noticed that Emily Carey, dumb comments aside, did nail some of the bitchiness and expressions I would expect in the younger version of Alicent:

And this vapidness should have grown, she should have got worse but because these writers feel Alicent is right and justified on her bigoted rubbish and that she is a poor victim being gaslighted by Evil Rhaenyra, what we got in the second part can only be described as Olivia Cooke's crying face, not as Alicent Hightower:

Here is her crying face when Viserrys is telling to shut the fuck up about Rhaenyra's kids because she is putting their lives in danger.

Here is her crying face after her 'accidental' order to murder Harwin and Lyonel. because you know she is not a fucking queen or an antagonist, she is a stupid ninny without agency that can't even have her own spy network without being a victim.

Here is her crying face when she is about to stab a child.

Crying face after she totally apologies about stabbing Rhaenyra because not even the only thing she has done by herself can stick. Nope, she has to cry it out.

Here is her crying face in the episode where she should be taking the throne and organising the Green Council by herself.

It's like the directors really wanted to bait for an Emmy this season, so they told the actress to do the same crying puppy dog face to be caught by the camera in nearly every scene in every episode, and since the writers sucked the soul out of this character, she is as menacing as a lamp and frankly boring. I have been commented about my Aliicent POV in my fic but when I write her I honestly can't imagine Olivia as her for the life of me, because my Alicent has agency and is an actual antagonist... I don't even know what that thing in the second part of the show is, but I can't call it a character.

They delivered a bland self-insert, basically. We wanted an antagonist and they delivered a crying little puppy.

And honestly, Alicent Hightower deserved better.

#may answers #alicent hightower #anti hotd #asoiaf

[bohemian-nights]

"Such reasons are Ryan's self-insert, Aemond"

Where did this come from? Ryan mentioned Ramsay and the Mountain in the same sentence with Aemond and hinted that Aemond will reach their level in villainy lmao. Aemond is framed as a villain in most of his scenes as adult (at least in the scenes with the Strongs). Ryan talked about his love of Aegon 2 but I don't remember him saying that about Aemond. And he seems to really love Rhaenyra and Alicent, why do people act like Aemond is his fav because he is more complicated than he is in the book so far? He killed Luke accidentally, but the showrunners literally did a similar thing with Cole and Beesbury, and Alicent crowns Aegon by a misunderstanding. Most characters were whitewashed, not just Aemond, even Daemon was whitewashed and has been made much cooler cause he is not a pedo for starters, he is obsessed with his brother, not just power-hungry like in the book, and he is shown as the most badass character in many scenes, like at the Stepstones or in the scene with Vermithor that exists just because.

😬 Respectfully I’m going to have to disagree.

Ryan says a lot of stuff, but I tend to look at actions rather than words because words are ultimately meaningless(especially in regards to this show)

I like Aemond, but in book canon, he is quite something. I straight up dislike Rhaenyra and think that everything that happened to her in the end was deserved(I will be cheering Aegon on when does her in), but even I would will admit he’s misogynistic towards her(he's the one who should be calling her a whore and not Ser Vaemond).

He’s never bullied in the books for not having a dragon(adding that in the show feels like a justification for his behavior; the strong boys keep taunting him so of course he’s going to defend himself). Obese Gollum (aka book!Viserys) literally offered to take him to Dragonstone to find a dragon egg, but he didn’t feel a dragon egg was good enough when he could have Vhagar.

He’s arrogant as hell while in the show it seems like he was a bullied kid who was trying to stick it to his bullies.

The Cole and Beesbury(let’s be honest no one cares about him) thing isn’t really a good comparison.

Originally they were going to keep Luke’s death book canon but somewhere in production, it got changed to it being an accident on Aemond’s part. I suspect that the reason why this was is because Luke is Missy Anne’s beloved son.

Having Aemond kill him in cold blood(especially when Luke is so small in comparison) makes him look outright villainous rather than settling an old debt.

So taking all of that into account if Ryan was going to make him into a psychopath he’s already failed at that and I doubt Aemond will ever reach Ramsey and Mountain levels. (Nor should he because Aemond, even book Aemond who should be in therapy, isn’t an actual psychopath like the other two).

There are some key moments where they could’ve worked in Aemond being two seconds away from a genocidal manic, but all they’ve shown is a boy who loves his mama, a victim of ostracization, bullying, and parental neglect.

I really do get your point, because in a way everyone on this show has kinda been screwed over, including Aemond, but I think that with Aemond they tried to make him into someone you would root for despite his oopses.

All I will say about the Aegon situation is that you don’t make characters you love into outright rapists when you are trying to humanize them and make them likable. They could’ve taken out the rape bits and shown him as a man boy struggling to deal with parental neglect so he’s turned to alcohol to cope. It’s not perfect, but people can empathize with that. However him being a rapist is where most people will draw the line. Ryan may not have said he loved Aemond, but he did a lot more to mellow him out than he did for Aegon.

In regards to Daemon, he definitely has not been whitewashed. If anything he has been made worse. He’s still shown to be a pedo(creeping on Rhaenyra ashen she’s 15) getting with someone he considers a child(Laena cause she’s even younger than Miss Maegor). He killed his first wife in cold blood, neglected Laena(who was his most beloved wife in the book), and choked out Missy Anne.

Let’s not forget that Nettles, the person whom he loved without an ulterior motive, who shows he cares for more than just the throne and isn’t just a heartless Valyrian supremacist, is MIA.

He’s also the voice of reason on the Black council and isn’t just trying to rush into war, but that was axed in favor of Let’s attack the Greens because they killed my walking corpse of a big brother🤪

All the good parts of Daemon have been stripped away to make him into the big bad man(so far). I won’t disagree that Daemon has been shown as a badass in the show, but he’s a badass in the books as well(ex. Six men or Sixty; The Battle Above the Gods Eye; challenging Laena’s betrothed to a duel and winning her hand, etc).

That’s literally the only thing they haven’t taken away from him.

Being a badass is great and all, but that’s not a positive trait(How many villains can you name that are badass? Darth Vadar anyone? Scar, Thanos, The Joker), especially when you combine it with all the other stuff Daemon has done.

He’s not just supposed to be a badass brute. He has a personality. Ryan Condal is severely limiting him.

#bnask #bnasks #anti hotd #daemon targaryen #hes being done wrong #aemond targaryen

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

Different Jervises : he finds a song that he liked when he was younger on the phone and plays it with lyrics trying to sing. While doing it he slowly realizes "Wait… this is sex song."

"This is a sex song?" Hatter Party Ask

I hear you and I'm going to raise you specific sex songs for each Hatter. Fun fact: one of these I actually didn't realize it was a sex song until I was well into adulthood. You can have fun guessing which one.

TW: explicit lyrics, Suggestive

BTAS

"Afternoon Delight" By Starland Vocal Band

This Jervis is one for the classics. 60's and 70's songs really hit that sweet spot for him because it's things he remembers well from canonical childhood years.

"Thinkin' of you's workin' up my appetite

Looking forward to a little afternoon delight

Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ingite

And the thought of lovin' you is getting so exciting"

This song is pleasant, it's something that played a lot and it's not overtly sexual. Just subtle and veiled enough that if you don't pay attention, it can be easy to miss. You can rather just put it on and sing along.

Which is exactly what Jervis was doing while he was sewing. You see, his darling f/o taught him how to use Spotify (I know the time frame is loopy, just go with it), and now he has a lot of his favorites ready to play whenever he wants! You would think it would be simple for him given his work but applications are not his strong suit.

Afternoon Delight comes on and he sings. It's around halfway through the song that he's mouthing the words and has the epiphany.

"Oh." A slight blush. It's still a fantastic song, he's just a little flustered now as he's rediscovering it in a new light.

He might need to show this to his f/o... It's giving him ideas :)

Arkham

"Come on Eileen" By Dexy Midnight Runners

This song is one filled with joy and bouncy vibes. It's a song to dance to! It's genuinely difficult to hear it and not feel a little happy/pumped up... So of course it's one he's exceptionally fond of.

"Come on, Eileen

Oh, I swear (what he means)

Ah, come on, let's

Take off everything

That pretty red dress

Eileen (tell him yes)"

Between the accents and the fast beat, it's easy to miss the words. Plus it's not graphic at all- More about seeing someone you haven't in a while and realizing oh wow they're... very hot now. Having dirty thoughts about them...

It suits his coy nature in a way, actually. Yet he has no idea of this until it's playing on the radio. Someone in the room mentions the song being about sex. At first he pays no mind. He has other things to focus on!

Yet, as with most random tangents he comes back to, it lingers as an itching thought in his brain. Several days later he'll find himself looking it up to satisfy his own curiosity. Really, he probably bothers someone else to look it up, but the result is the same.

He's got this goofy sort of delight singing it after that, thinking about his Eileen "Alice" being sung to.

Gotham

"lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off" By Panic! At the Disco

In my opinion, the idea of Gotham Jervis Tetch being a little emo youngster just tickles me. No, it's not based on anything in particular other than that. Emo pop bands like Panic! At the Disco were a staple.

"I've got more wit, a better kiss

A hotter touch, a better fuck

Than any boy you'll ever meet

Sweetie, you had me

Girl, I was it, look past the sweat

A better love deserving of

Exchanging body heat in the passenger seat"

It's one of those songs that when you're young it's cheeky because there's CURSING and you kind of vaguely know what it's about but you know you're not really listening to the words as much as the music. Or you weren't paying much attention and thought to it.

Picture Jervis putting the song on, sort of half singing while he's doing something- He pauses. Wait. It all sort of hits him at once- The song, what it means, how obvious it is and him not realizing until just this now.

No one else can know about this. Certain parties (Jerome, Edward) would never let him live this down.

It strikes him as particularly crass now as an adult but of course that's the sort of thing he wanted to listen to as a teen. He had things he needed to be angsty about! And this was it!

#Mad hatter party ask #btas mad hatter #arkham mad hatter #gotham mad hatter #foxwriting

[jimblejamblewritings]

i should hate you | part 2.

Summary: Y/N Lestrange felt like her life was a set-up since birth. The entire school hates her thanks to her mother and father. Worst of all, she finds herself liking a Gryffindor… the one whose parents were tortured by hers.

Warnings for the Series: angst, fluff, some smut

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x black!reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Previous Part | (Series Masterlist)

“Our son came by last week.” Mrs. Longbottom started as one of the healers brought out an assortment of tea and sweets. “Norman.”

“Neville,” you corrected.

“Oh right, do you know him, (Y/N)?”

You blinked. It was already incredible that they remembered they had a son. But Alice just said your name and it was correct. Mrs. Longbottom dropped another sugar cube in your tea— you didn’t want one but forgot to stop her.

“Well, do you know him? He’s in Gryffindor. You two are the same age.”

“Yeah he is. Um, I kind of know Neville.”

“That’s nice.”

You nodded and took a sip of your too sweet tea, trying not to make a face. There’s no way that Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom would ever return to their former selves but maybe one day they’d be able to get out of St. Mungo’s. The healers told you that they couldn’t remember a thing for more than an hour. The pain had been so excruciating that it basically fried their brains— it was a miracle they remembered that they were wizards and met at Hogwarts. But it had been a week since you last showed up and they remembered your name, they had a son, he was in Gryffindor. That was the first time in the four years that you had been coming by for that to happen. Your hope was echoed as you signed out and Marlon spoke to you.

“It’s you talking, you know.”

“Huh?”

“Their son and his grandmother come just as much as you but it’s too close to home. They can’t tell them about their days or their weeks, too upsetting when Frank can’t remember his mom’s name. But someone that can just talk is working, no attachme— well, no familial attachment. Frank actually told us about Neville dropping a rememball in first year. Got his name wrong but a lot of it was right.”

You set the quill down. “I told them that story again two weeks ago, trying to repeat them.”

“It’s good. They might actually know his name tomorrow. See you next Friday.”

“See you next Friday.”

You got back to Hogwarts, completely forgetting that there was a quidditch match again. Slytherin had been out of the rotation for a while after the last game against Ravenclaw that you completely forgot you were against Gryffindor. You could already see people coming back and realized that you missed the entire thing. Blaise came running past you as Slytherin was causing a racket, this time about losing. He pressed a button into your hand. You read the words ‘Weasley is Our King’ and heard everyone laughing. You sighed and put the button in your pocket. There was excitement for a game and then there was poor sportsmanship. This fell into the latter category. You went to go find Draco and the rest of the team that were either still on the field or in the locker rooms. Mainly, you were going before Draco could stick his foot in his mouth. You couldn’t lie. He wasn’t like Lucius but he was a little douchebag. You could hear him before you spotted the team.

“We couldn’t fit in useless loser into the song either…”

You saw Ron head back into the Gryffindor changing room. You passed by Luna on the way, complimenting her lion hat to which she didn’t respond. You could also hear a large commotion outside and saw Fred— or maybe George— punch Draco. For once, you couldn’t even try to defend him. He probably deserved it. From what you did hear and based on the button Blaise gave you, they probably went too far and said something about the entire Weasley family.

Draco only provoked because your family was so messed up that he hated anybody, especially those he considered ‘blood-traitors’, having a happier home life than him. He needed a better outlet than bullying and you kept trying to tell him that but he just chuckled and walked off each time. You shrugged as you headed into the Gryffindor changing room. One day, Draco would get punched one time too many and finally change. Until then, you would just try to make sure he didn’t get beat up too badly.

Ron was angrily tearing off his gear. You stood a good bit away and cleared your throat, already prepared for whatever look he gave you.

“What the hell are you doing in here, Lestrange?”

“Apologizing. The song and badges weren’t cool, I don’t agree with them by the way.”

Fred and George came storming in. “We just got banned for life by Umbridge! What the hell are you doing here, Lestrange?”

“You got banned?”

“Get out.”

“What did you—”

“Bloody hell, get out!”

Fred slammed a fist against the locker that was next to him. You jumped and walked out— practically ran out. You went straight to your room, not bothering to wait for Draco. The weekend didn’t make it any better. You tried to get others to stop singing the song but that only made your table sing it even louder. Eventually, you left the table rather than be associated with the bad apples of your house. You decided to give everything a rest as well. A week off from seeing your face or hearing you was probably what everyone needed. The only unfortunate part was that it meant you didn’t have a good story on Friday for Frank and Alice. So, you retold them about Neville helping Harry last year during the Triwizard Tournament.

“And Neville was freaking out for a moment because he thought Harry—”

“Harry Potter?”

“Yes, Mr. Longbottom.”

“We knew James and Lily, didn’t we, sweetheart?”

Mrs. Longbottom nodded. “Yes, we did. They were lovely. They have a son now?”

“Uh, yes. He’s in our year… Lily and James are dead.”

Mrs. Longbottom tilted her head. “Did your parents do it?”

“No, You-Know-Who.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that, then,” Mr. Longbottom said with a firm nod. “Neville was helping Harry?”

“Yes! He gave him gillyweed and it helped so much. Harr— oh, I’ll get us more tea.” You motioned for Mr. Longbottom to sit back down.

St. Mungo’s was weird. Particularly, the Janus Ward. It was half-muggle half-wizard as if they didn’t trust their patients with the full use of magic. And that meant waiting for the nurse on staff to fill up the kettle and tea packets and add the tiny sandwiches back to the tray. You made your way back, Mrs. Longbottom already taking one of the tiny sandwiches off of the tray before you could fully sit down. You took off your scarf and jacket, tucking your wand into your boot. The sandwiches weren’t the best but they were enough to aid in enhancing an entertaining story.

“So, Harry won because of Neville?” Mrs. Longbottom asked through laughter at you mimicking Neville’s ‘I think I killed Harry Potter face’.

“Well, he tied. We had one boy, Cedric Diggory, who came back first and performed a really good Bubble-Head Charm so they gave him first place. But without Neville and the gillyweed, Harry would have been last.”

“I like that story.”

You nodded and made a note to tell it to them again next time. Lots of little anecdotes sprung up in your head but none of them seemed good enough after the gillyweed. You finished chewing your sandwich and poured everyone some more tea.

“He casted a near perfect Riddikulus Charm when we were in third year.”

“That seems like something we’d love to hear… this story needs chess.”

You watched them walk away to get the chess set. It would be at least ten minutes. They were particular about playing on only three sets and would wait until a game was finished if all three sets were being used. The classic wizard’s chess set, the set where the pieces were red and white, the set where all the pieces were black and you really had to pay attention. You had yet to beat Mr. Longbottom on the all black chess set.

“Get away from them.”

You turned when you heard a low voice. Neville stomped over and ripped your tea kettle from your hand. You sat there in your chair, frozen on the spot. The only thing you could do was blink. This wasn’t when he came to visit his parents. It was Friday. You were sure of it because you just had Potions class a few hours ago. He didn’t visit on Fridays. That’s what made the schedule so perfect to avoid running into him. You looked at the large calendar on the wall right next to him… it was the anniversary date of the torture. You cursed yourself for not thinking to check about that.

“Neville, I’m so sorry, I didn’t k—”

“Get out!”

You quickly booked it, not even bothering to get your outer layers that you had taken off. The chill from the cold air when you reached Hogsmeade didn’t sting anyway. Not when you were trying to get over the sting of the way Neville looked at you with such vitriol.

~~

The DA could hear noises coming from an empty classroom on their floor. They were wondering what you were doing as you paced around. Seamus made a joke about practicing a different Unforgivable Curse since you were probably already so good at the Cruciatus. They noticed pretty quickly after that Malfoy was sitting on top of the desks.

“Do you think he’s like a fruit platter? Is that appropriate for Christmas? The Longbottoms really liked when I came with one.”

Malfoy laughed. “You’re going to try and win him over with fruit?”

“I’m not trying to win him over… Draco, stop laughing!”

“Then what are you trying to do? Because this is the fifth or sixth victim of Aunt Bellatrix that you tracked down.”

“I’m just trying to apologize! It wasn’t right what she and father did and it isn’t right that those people never got a sorry.”

“You think people want it from their daughter?”

“It’s not like it’ll ever come from them. They seem to accept it good enough since everyone thinks I’m just a mini version of my mother.”

“If they all accept it then why are you still sneaking to St. Mungo’s?”

“Because they got it the worst. You should’ve seen what she’s done to them… the healers used to be worried that they would never be able to leave but a tiny baby step was made.”

“Then the healers are doing their job, why do you ne— Merlin, you’re not actually trying to see if you can help fix them? Is this because you like Longbottom?”

You whipped around so fast that you almost fell over. A heat rushed to your face inside the classroom and the same happened to Neville outside of it— only one was embarrassed and one was angry.

“I do not like Neville!”

Draco snorted. “No? Was like not good enough? You fancy him, then. Is that it, Pygmy Puff? You stare way too hard in class, I’m surprised he can’t feel it.”

“I-I don’t fancy— I just think that no one should have to grow up without their parents, that’s it. That’s why I want to help… Mrs. Longbottom remembered my name last time I went. That’s a step, even if she’s forgotten it by now. Probably has, I haven’t been back since I ran into Neville.”

“I should rip his head off for thinking he could talk to you like that.”

“He had every right to. Those are his parents. I don’t think he ever wants me back there so I’m going to respect that.”

“Not even try to sneak around?”

You shook your head. “Nope, no cunning tricks this time. No Slytherin style. I’m going to honor his request… you never answered me about Bagman!”

“Yeah, whatever, he’ll like your stupid fruit platter if all the others did.”

You nodded and began to leave the classroom, making the DA scramble to get into the Room of Requirement. The next time they caught you in the classroom it was without Malfoy. They realized that you had no clue they were there and also came to the seventh floor because of the lack of classes. Before the First Wizarding War, Hogwarts was full and also had lots of exchange students. Every floor was used and the staff was massive. The world shrunk though and never seemed to recover. You found the seventh floor’s emptiness perfect for the same reason as Dumbledore’s Army— no one to spy on you. The desks were pushed aside and they could see you pull out your wand. You swished it down and then held it in front of your face, duel style.

“Mother, Father, who would like to be defeated first?” You asked the empty air with a tilt of your head.

“Father?”

You called out spells as you straightened and bent your arm. Jets of light flew from your wand tip to hit nothing. You smiled in satisfaction at the ending to an imaginary duel and turned to another empty space.

“Just you and me, mum.”

Of course, no one responded. The spells went flying again— almost all of them defensive. You had a thing about learning offensive spells.

“Stupefy!”

You frowned when the orange light simply fizzled out from your wand. You walked over to the desk with the large textbook on it.

“The stupefy spell is particularly useful against non-humans…” you muttered as you read over the book. “Mmm hmm, blocked with many charms… move your wand in a straight line from top to bottom. Alright.”

You went back to the large space.

“Stupefy… stupefy! This is utterly stupid… Stupefy! UGH!”

“It’s a short flick with your wand, not a long line!”

You jumped and instinctively yelled out “Colloportus!”

The door slammed itself closed. Realizing you caught a glimpse of Harry before it shut, you scrambled across the room. The DA heard muttering and a door rattling followed by ‘oh right, Alohamora’ before suddenly the door was open. You stuck only your head out, stunned into silence at seeing more than just Harry there. You squeezed yourself through the space from opening the door a little wider. You couldn’t look at any of them knowing what just happened.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go ask Peeves to drop a chandelier on my head.”

They watched you turn around, tucking your wand back into the waistband of your skirt as you walked away. The twins snorted as you patted your body when you realized that you left your robe and textbook. You shook your head because there was no way you could go back for it now. Or ever. Not if the DA used one of those classrooms. Although you weren’t sure how you hadn’t seen them before.

“Clearly wasn’t cut out for Ravenclaw,” Fred said.

“Cunning definitely doesn’t mean clever,” George finished. “Lestrange!”

The dam you had been holding in for about five years broke. They had just seen you practicing a stunning spell. You swore never to do offensive spells in front of people, you always failed at performing them in class and only executed them perfectly in the one on one exams. Now that they had seen it, you would never be able to escape the shadow of your parents. You just added validity to claims about doing things like the Cruciatus Curse. You felt that any work you made over the years was destroyed in a single minute and you hadn’t made much progress to begin with. And from what you saw, every house but Slytherin was in that group behind Harry. Everyone was going to know. They’d probably start calling you Death Eater to your face instead of just behind your back like you overheard.

“Is she crying?” George asked.

You didn’t get very far— you thought you were out of sight from them— when you crouched down in the middle of the hallway. The sobs turned from silent to audible and you quickly bit on your pullover sleeve to stop the noise from echoing down the hall before it reached whatever classroom Harry and his friends must have been in. They watched you pull your wand back from the skirt pocket it was in and set it on the ground. You stood up slowly and everyone gasped when your boot made contact with your wand. The sobs just grew louder and the crunch of wood could be heard between the pockets of silence. You picked up the little pile of wood and phoenix feather and chucked it at the wall. You wiped ferociously at your face so it looked like you had only been crying for maybe a second when you heard footsteps.

“There you are. We’re going to miss our carriage back home,” Draco said. “What happened?”

You pointed to the little pile. “Peeves broke it.”

“That foul, blo— we should go to Snape.”

“Leave it, Draco. He’s a ghost anyway, what punishment can he take? Can we just go home?”

“Alright. You’ll need a new wand.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled.

The first thing Lucius and Narcissa did was take you to Ollivander’s before he closed for Christmas. They went back to Malfoy Manor while you and Draco said that you wanted to stay in Diagon Alley a little longer. Lucius and Narcissa told you that you would go to bed without dinner if you didn’t return in time for it. The minute they apparated, you ditched Draco. He hated the muggle world but would cover for you as he met his friends. You wanted to see Christmas and how they did it.

Everyone stared as you rode the escalator multiple times in a row and you realized that it was not normal to do so, getting off and pretending to go shop. You didn’t exactly prepare so you didn’t have much muggle money on you. Whatever you spent had to matter because you were currently limited. You went around the stores and they even had a little outdoor festival called a Christmas Market. You picked through the various trinkets, trying to find a new little ceramic jar. You weren’t sure what a charity shop was or thrifting but you found yourself in that section, picking through ceramics.  

“How about this one?” an old woman held up a little ceramic doll.

“What is it?”

She looked bewildered but gladly set the doll down. You gasped as the top came off to show another doll underneath. It kept going until there was only a tiny one left. The old woman called them nesting dolls.

“How much?”

“Twenty pounds.”

You frowned. You only had fourteen. The woman set the dolls down and found nice mugs for you instead. You thanked her as she wrapped it and quickly made your way back to the alley with the bricks you needed to press in order to enter the wizarding world.

The wand was untouched the entire holiday break. The only time you used it was as a paper weight for one corner of the wrapping paper as you were wrapping a small box. You wanted to send the Longbottoms a gift because you did every year and felt an explanation was owed as to why you stopped showing up. Of course, you lied. You couldn’t visit anymore because you transferred to Ilvermorny because they have a really good Muggle/Magic Integration Program. No way in hell were you going to say that their son didn’t want you talking to them again. That would be vindictive as far as you were concerned. Dobby, who hated even stepping foot in Malfoy Manor, was nice enough to deliver the gift at your request. Probably because you always treated him with respect.

Other than that, your new wand— with the same phoenix feather core but now bleached ash wood instead of dark cherry wood— was untouched until it was time to go back to Hogwarts. You were glad that Narcissa insisted on dropping off you and Draco so you didn’t have to take the Hogwarts Express back. You just weren’t ready to deal with people. The ease continued as you sat down for breakfast and bit into a pancake. Even Draco was too tired to talk which meant you were left in comfortable silence in the morning that continued into your afternoon. It all came crashing down when the owls dropped off evening mail. It was all the same. A few Daily Prophets were dropped off at each table because no one had mail on even the first or second day back from holiday break.

You shook your head when you saw your mother’s face on the front page. The words ‘MASS BREAKOUT’ were plastered above it. You practically tore the paper from Draco’s hands and quickly scanned through it. It felt like all eyes were on you. You looked up at the faculty table to see them all reading the paper and speaking in hushed whispers. A breath hitched in your throat when you thought you caught the eye of Flitwick. To you, the silence was now a bunch of fingers pointing guilty. No one had to say anything, they just had to read the paper. You were going to throw up. You stood up from the table, tripping as your leg got caught on the bench. Draco got up but you shook your head aggressively and ran out of the Hall.

The entirety of Hogwarts was still too small for you to find a hiding place. You ran through the floors, ending up on the now infamous seventh one. Peeking into that one classroom that now twisted your stomach in knots, you found your textbook and robe had been taken out which meant you’d have to buy new ones. You were frantic as you paced. All you needed was a place to hide. That was it. A place to hide from everyone who thought you were going to be just like your parents.

You gasped when a large door appeared on the wall out of seemingly nowhere. The room was lined with a bunch of mirrors and some stuff on the wall, not that you cared. You went all the way to the mirrored wall at the back and just sunk down against it. The tears were ugly as you brought your knees up to your chest and buried your head. Your elbows rested on your knees and your fingers rested on your head as if you could somehow give yourself a gentle caress that said everything was going to be okay.

A click of a door and the shuffling of feet alerted you. You pulled out your wand and pointed it, not even thinking of a single spell, before dropping it. Harry and that large group from Hogsmeade were standing there. You buried your head again when you realized that this must have been the classroom they liked to go into and you were intruding. But you couldn’t move.

“Just teach around me.”

Your muffled shouts echoed throughout the place that they all heard you. Hesitantly, the DA stepped into the room. Harry kept teaching as if everything was normal. He occasionally looked behind him to see your position had not changed. You couldn’t see a thing they were doing because you hadn’t moved once. The DA members were wondering if your limbs weren’t going to go stiff, especially your neck that had been craned down the whole time. They also kept hearing sobs that died only to start up again before getting really quiet as if you were trying not to disturb them. Everyone went wide-eyed when Fred’s Expelliarmus spell missed George thanks to his Shield Charm and hit the space right above your head. You didn’t even flinch.

“Alright, let’s break for water and then finish strong,” Harry said.

You felt a body sit next to you. It wriggled uncomfortably before settling down and then shifting once more.

“This doesn’t look like Ilvermorny,” a voice said. “When do you leave?”

The quiet sob got loud again and you heard a panic in the voice.

“Joke, it was a joke, cause of your letter…”

You looked up. Neville kind of just looked in shock as you met his eyes. Your eyes were completely red and puffy, your lip was still trembling even after you bit it while wiping the snot from your nose. And he wasn’t greeted by dried tear stains, fresh ones slipped down your face little by little. You hiccuped with your next breath. The other DA members watched you look away before looking at Harry.

“I didn’t mean to come in here, I didn’t know…”

You wiped at your face with your shirt sleeve and stood up quickly. You already intruded by being in their club room. You knew when a hostile welcome was overstayed. It wasn’t quite running but it definitely wasn’t a calm walk as you exited the room.

“Lestr— (Y/N)!”

You stopped to see Neville holding your wand. You patted your skirt subconsciously, not believing that you left your brand new wand. Lucius would have a fit if you had to buy another one in the span of only a couple weeks. You took it from Neville, avoiding touching his hand, and mumbled a thank you. Neville scratched the back of his neck before walking back.

Draco gave you a hug when you entered the common room and then let you retreat into your room. You got up early to send a letter to Bagman. He did, in fact, appreciate the fruit platter and wanted to continue communication through letters. He got his life together and got married. They recently had a kid so you were sending a congratulations letter. You moved from the owlery to the pier on the Black Lake. No one liked to sit on the pier because of the giant squid and then the merpeople from last year. But half of the lake was over the Slytherin common room so you all were used to it. The first and second years were avoiding you, even the ones in Slytherin, when you finally entered the castle to get breakfast. You didn’t even bother with a sigh.

You came in late. The milk pitcher was empty. You looked around to see the one on Hufflepuff’s table looked barely used. They didn’t like cereal? You grabbed your bowl and started to walk over when you saw a first year tense up when you got closer. On instinct, you backed away a little with your hands up. Without a second thought, you set the bowl down on the Gryffindor table and just left.

Neville grabbed the bowl and poured milk into it before getting a spoon. The others kind of nodded at him as he got up to find you. It wasn’t hard. You were sitting in the stairwell close to the kitchens, planning on waiting and watching all the students leave so you could get breakfast before the elves cleaned it all up. You looked up and stopped picking at your shoelaces when a pair of feet stopped in front of you. Neville handed you the bowl. He immediately felt bad when you put the first spoonful to your mouth without a second thought because everyone thought that anything you gave to people was laced with poison.

“Can I sit?” he pointed next to you.

You nodded with a mouthful of cereal, Draco’s Pygmy Puff nickname being very fitting. You were really normal now that he was sitting next to you. Like another student. Neville started to think about when you were ever mean. He couldn’t come up with anything. Usually, you were apologizing for Slytherin’s insults. You did that a lot— he realized— apologize for people. Maybe they were too hard on you? He saw the mugs when his parents opened your Christmas present. It was a nice gesture for you to not just disappear. He shook the thought out of his head. You were near his parents. Your mum tortured his mum so bad that she couldn’t remember his name— until a few weeks ago. But that didn’t matter. You were a Lestrange. Abruptly, Neville stood up.

“Are you done? With the breakfast?”

You nodded and handed him the empty bowl. Neville gave a curt nod and walked back towards the Great Hall.

(Part 3)...

#neville longbottom x reader

[laputaindefrenchgirl]

the realm’s delight.

Rhaenyra.

How long has it been since I’ve fell in love with a character like I did with you? Your pain, your joy, your freedom and your fire. All of these things made you so unique and magnetic in a way that pushed me to be obsessed over House of the Dragon as a tv-show like I haven’t been in maybe a decade. 

WARNING : all spoilers. 

‘Nyra, she embodies a moment of my life, she is a woman fighting the madness and the patriarchy but all the while owning who she wants to become. When Milly first appeared on my screen, her smille was blinding. The way she exhaled mischief and confidence bound me to her eternally in a way few characters ever did. No one wants to give her the throne when it begins, not even her own father but she asks him repeatedly through this first season, “if you want me to become your heir, fight for me”. Brave and Bold and Dragon. I love how she dares to ask for what she has been shamed for deserving, for what seems to be the toughest to ask. How humiliating it is but eventually she sees the bigger picture as she’s growing up and she goes for what she fucking deserves. 

She is both a giver and a receiver. I love how it’s pretty well depicted all season long. She’s choosing her lovers, the father(s) of her sons, but she gives away bits of her that she will never get back for the throne. These intimates little things which are hidden and kind of broken in the name of duty and what’s supposedly right. Morally speaking. Yet she’s untamed and fucks who she bloody wants.

Speaking of fucking, a scene truly embodies to me the sense of womanhood which is so often overlooked or not understood. When Daemon took her to that brothel in that scene, he lit flames in her. Suddenly, it’s all heated touches and urgency and she truly burns with her own desire for the first time in her life. He slices her open with lust and ablaze sensations. And she does meet him halfway with a desire so wild that it does burn him. And from my perspective, that lack of control pisses him off. She is more than that young thing that he thinks he can bend to his will. She is a Dragon. So eventually he leaves her there, but guess what? She still wants to have sex, she needs to have that orgasm. You rarely see a woman allowing herself to seek pleasure that way, and to actually find another partner in the minute or so to pretty much finish what Daemon started. That is one of the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen through a screen.

So, she finds our dear Cole. And she has sex with him. Following that episode, another pivotal moment happens. He asks her, “Run away with me, become my wife and leave this life” for two reasons, he loves her and he is not fully comfortable with the fact that he broke his vows by having sex with her, that royal hypocrite. And she basically says, “I’m sorry, I like you, but I won’t leave the throne and my crown for you”, because, man that is the Iron Throne, duh. He is shocked. Here lays of one of the most iconic line “You want me to be your whore?” and that is truly, to me, the greatest accomplishment of this show. It’s a role reversal. Kings, men in general, are known to have mistresses and that is normal and not really criticized, but when a woman does? She’s slut shamed. Rhaenyra will forever suffer of that (besides the fact that Laenor is not the actual father of her sons) but she sticks to her wants. She said no. And she’s my hero.

The way House of the Dragon painted patriarchy and that specific pressure on women, from Alicent and that feet moment, to Vaemond screaming “She is a whore!” as precious last words, are real. I found it interesting how women are discriminated by duty and yet sexualized through pleasure, mostly their own, or then their lack of pleasure in this show. Usually, women are super sexualized through the eyes of men, but here Rhaenyra seeks pleasure for herself instead of trying to please someone else. It’s major to me, all season long. And the parallel of divergent growth between Rhaenyra and Alicent is smart that way. Rhaenyra never pretended to pretend, they all knew she was taking what she decided that she deserved when Alicent let herself get choked by her father’s greed and the weight of giving heirs and what is morally good ; what is even more interesting is that she turns to religion to find comfort in all the uncomfortable decisions she took. Again, quite hypocrite in my opinion but it draws the prism of patriarcal values found in most religions.

The suffering Rhaenyra goes through is kind of unbearable. She is selfish enough to protect what she deems to protect, and it’s taken away from her almost each time, Aemma, Alicent’s love, her innocence, Harwin, her father, Visenya, and most of all, Lucerys. That final frame in the last episode? Don’t get me started on how powerful it is. 

Daemon is the only constant in all of her losses. Daemon is hers from the first second they appear on screen together, and even she doesn’t have him right away, she never lets go, never stop loving him. She pursues and lives with the idea that they are meant to be together. Blood of my Blood. Incestuous ties apart, their relationship is beautiful. They earn each other. They support each other. They love.

I strongly think (look how my humor is edgy) that we should take pride in our sins because they make us more empathic with whom are struggling with the same guilt. By owning your mistakes, you make sense out of them, and it’s the only way, to me, to grow into a better version of yourself. When Lucerys says to his mother “I’m not like you, I’m not perfect” it does embody the weight of all her choices. Emma D’Arcy acting in that sequence are phenomenal. They are the purest form of devotion and it underlines flawlessly what it took Rhaneryra to be where she is at that moment of her life.

Rhaenys, as the Queen who Never was, went early on through the same misogyny as Rhaenyra. But she chooses to accept her fate and to play her part. I love the scene where ‘Nyra says “I will create a new order” and how Rhaenys scoffs and answers “Men would sooner put the realm to the torch than see a woman ascend the iron throne”, and well, ain’t that truth is our society as well?

I will never be a son either. I can’t help but think how real this is. They make a burden out what is our greatest power. Womanhood is where truly lays the most creative form of all. Was it really that doomed from the start? Can’t women be deserving to be on that fucking throne? This might be a show about Dragons and Kings but this is in its essence a show about how women deserve more, if not all.

+ side note : I met Milly Alcock last month, and she is the cutest and so radiant! I was lucky enough to speak with her a few words and get her to sign one of my portrait of her as Rhaenyra. Lucky bitch indeed.

Rhaenyra, in your spirit, I’ll allow myself to take things I want but not only the one which I need, but also the ones that I deserve. This is what this endless fight is about. I will try to create a new order and I won’t shy away from a little bit of blood, because I think I have the fire of the Dragon too. 

-Audrey

#writing positive shit #queen rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #realm's delight #milly alcock #emma d'arcy #feminism #power #feminist #girlpower #favorite character #hotd spoilers #hotd thoughts #house of the dragon #daemyra #lucerys valeryon #art #woman empowerment #womanhood #beauty #what do YOU want? #inspired #be you #fuck patriarchy #and fuck criston cole too

[fickleminder]

A scene from a very OOC/bad end AU that’s been stuck in my head recently. Just wanted to write something out to vent for a bit. Inspired by this fic (and if you know who I ship my F!MC with then you know whose part I was inspired by RIP 🙃)

Content warnings: past relationship, infidelity, single parenting

“Here’s your usual, Alice! All packed and ready to go.”

“Thanks Mister Sanders!”

“Anytime, kiddo. I see your folks are out with you today. Is your grandma not feeling well?”

“She’s doing alright! Dad just thought she could use some peace and quiet for once.”

“Glad to hear that. Now you take care on your way home, okay?”

Across the bustling town square, Lucifer observed the exchange with a thoughtful hum. “Her portions have gotten bigger. Have you been eating?”

“Yes, of course. Simeon always makes sure we have enough delivered to last a month.”

“That’s good. Are you feeling alright? We can find some shade to sit in if you want.”

“…No, I think I could use some more sun.”

“Very well.”

Lucifer offered Kirana his arm and continued to escort her around for the rest of the morning. His free hand carried the extra groceries picked up by the young girl happily running errands on their behalf.

When it was time for lunch, the three returned to a little cottage on the outskirts of town. Alice rushed upstairs to wash up, leaving them to prepare food.

“Thank you for accompanying us today. You can let go now.”

Lucifer released Kirana’s arm and started putting away the groceries, already familiar with where she kept everything in the kitchen.

Kirana smiled sadly. “Lucifer. Let go.”

A pause, and the demon sighed before allowing the glamor to fall away. Smooth skin became wrinkled, black hair faded to grey; when Lucifer finally turned around, a much older woman was standing in Kirana’s place.

“It’s okay. It was nice while it lasted.” She moved to pull out a few pots and pans. “Will you be staying for lunch?”

“I’m afraid not. Lord Diavolo needs me for several engagements.”

“Pity. Another time then.”

With a kiss to her cheek and a farewell hug, Lucifer teleported away.

.

.

.

“Mum, can Mister Lucifer be Dad?”

Kirana went still before carefully setting down her cutlery. “Alice, why—”

“I know he’s actually my uncle, but if my real dad doesn’t want me, then I don’t want him back!” The girl declared, crossing her arms with a huff.

“Sweetheart, you know he doesn’t know about—”

“I don’t care! He didn’t want you either, or any of them, so stop sticking up for him!”

It was the truth, but it never stopped hurting after all these years. To this day, Kirana still wondered where she’d gone wrong, wondered what she could’ve done differently. She didn’t regret having Alice, but there were times she wished she had someone by her side to help raise her daughter. Alice deserved more than just a heartbroken mother who couldn’t move on from the past.

“Mum? Mum, I’m sorry, please don’t cry…” Alice scrambled off her chair, green eyes bright with worry as she crawled onto Kirana’s lap and hugged her tight.

Kirana sighed and hugged her back, mentally chiding herself for wallowing in misery again. The fact that she survived delivering Alice into the world was a sign, according to Simeon and Lucifer. It meant that her fight wasn’t over, that she still had a role to play in the grand scheme of things. And despite losing her youth and magic in the process, Kirana wouldn’t trade her daughter for anything.

“Why don’t you ask Lucifer the next time he visits, hm?” Kirana acquiesced. Regardless of how she felt about the Avatar of Pride, her daughter needed a father. Alice was her world, and there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for her.

#writing #obey me #obey me fanfic #obey me lucifer #obey me oc

[emo-nova]

Honestly, I have opinions about Nancy Wheeler. She is a good written female character and well written as a character. I put the distinction there because in most media they make their women for "diversity" rather than placing the story in first. And in Stranger Things they put the story forward and diversity is included in the story and dealt well as it linked into the character arcs and the story.

Nancy Wheeler in the first season of ST, kinda annoyed me. The reasoning is that as a girl close to her age, I was mortified when I found out that Jonathan had taken photos of Nancy during the pool party. And honestly, I was expecting a bigger reaction to that fact someone took a photo of her in a state of undress without any consent and when Steve as her boyfriend confronted Jon about it, Nancy had taken a bad reaction to it.

If I was her, yes I will be sorry for your missing brother Jonathan, but that doesn't give you the right to photograph me in that state. And if anything, I was expecting Nancy to act like this was a major invasion of privacy. But it wasn't. And it was treated like it wasn't that important.

I will concede points of arguments that Nancy was more worried about Barb in this time as she was missing at this point. Nancy was thinking more about her friend than about her privacy at that moment. But I find this a flimsy argument. However, i do understand the way Steve tackled the confrontation is deserving of her reaction as it's done at school, in front of people she isn't that close to and in a parking lot.

I am going to state that at this point about her being declared as smart when Nancy was out in the woods with Jonathan looking for Will, she willingly looks at a hole in a tree and decides to Alice in Wonderland that shit. She is the first to discover what the Upside-Down looks like on screen, this may help with identifying the Demogoron but it doesn't stop her from looking at the strange-looking organic hole in a tree and not testing it out with a stick at least. This non-testing method nearly got her killed by the Demogoron and by sheer luck and (in character) fast thinking was able to get out. However, there was a struggle of getting out Upside-Down hole/gate because she didn't test the give of this gate.

This is me being nitpicky about her character, but her handling Steve not leaving the house when waiting for the Demogoron is wild. For her character, someone usually needs time to process what's happening to make a plan, it kind of makes sense but pulling a gun on your boyfriend who was there to apologise is fucked up. Especially when he got worried about the fact you're injured and you tried to hide it from him.

First season wasn't a great foundation for me to like her character, as I slowly noticed she was supposed to be the badass female character. Yes, she is a good shot, but she pulled a gun on a person who was unaware of what was happening. Yes, she is on top of her class, but the simple scientific practice of testing out the theory.

I know that she is to represent a book-smart character in contrast to Jonathan's kinda street-smart edge. She does become that foil very well and I enjoy that.

In season 2, they change things up a tad. Nancy is still book-smart but she is learning the world of street-smarts, going out of her way to show that the government is shit and terrible at hiding a girl's death. I like this. Another thing I like about Nancy is the fallout of her dealing with Barb's death. Her being bitter is humanising and having that affect her relationships is brilliant story telling, connecting stories of Steve and Jonathan further into the story while also doing a fantastic job of giving Steve another call for the show.

Season two, in my opinion, handled Nancy Wheeler the best. Using her to have conflict, cause it and also deal with the aftereffects of the previous season. She is well-utilised as a character and more than just "a girl with a gun who is also smart" and I like that.

Season Three, I have mixed feeling about. She is a good character and a better character study of people's ideals and their thought processes regarding how things are not working out for them. Nancy is a foil to Jonathan's idea of why Nancy is disliked in her work environment. As Nancy comes from a well-off middle-class family which is a contrast to Jonathan's single mother's lower-income family life.

Nancy thinks the reasoning is the stigma in America on women working unlike England (where I am living now and know the history of) where women had already proved they are capable of working jobs even men can do and make the bombs for such. However, Jonathan thinks it's because her status as a well-off middle-class girl is making her more outspoken to the big bosses. Something that an INTERN wouldn't normally do. I agree the bosses are sexist but there is also a line of command in this business, and normally Nancy would give the story over to her mentor in this place. She doesn't do this.

I know there is a story to be told and this is the inciting incident to make Nancy engage with the plot. It's just slightly out of left field when she proceeds with speaking up to her bosses rather than her mentor, Nancy is careful with authority from her pedants to teachers to the cops. So I feel her talking to the bosses about the story going crazy is something she would have asked her mentor to ask them and have them let her engage with the plot, giving another example of good authority but also the workings of the board potentially being sexist by having this story brought up by Nancy or something. I don't know, I just think it could have been handled better.

Season 4, both volumes, are ones that I need to look at more carefully as I need to slim down her character's storyline and her interactions with others' storylines and arcs. So I won't be making too many comments about it.

In conclusion, I have opinions on Nancy Wheeler as a character and how she is written more as a diverse card in some aspects than actually a character to just further the plot and others arcs. She isn't my favourite, but she is one of my favoured as a writer and how I would tackle similar characters

#nancy wheeler #stranger things #nancy stranger things #st #stranger things analysis #i like to discuss characters and their arcs #character analysis #i like analysing these things :) #i have thoughts #i need to rewatch stranger things for character analysis on each character and how they interact with storylines #its fun to do #this is ponetially a better written essay than what im giving my school and that says something

[0nlythrowharrybeaux]

Here are a list of questions for you. Lol. What does men actually do so day? What was keeping Alice alive? Was she eating in real life too? Of people dead in simulation die in reality too then how nobody cares about so many people dying? How does the family, friends and colleagues of these trapped wives do not come looking for them? What happened to the other wives of victory at the end? If a woman gets pregnant then is she pregnant in real life too?? M confused.

OK, I’m so excited for this LOL Here are some answers! And just a disclaimer that my "answers" are just me using my own critical thinking and problem solving skills to come up with logical explanations & scenarios for how these things would work. I haven’t read the original story and I’ve only seen the film once so far so they might not be accurate or anything close to what the creators of the story or film have in mind!

Don't read them if you don't want DWD spoilers if you haven't seen it yet:)

What do the men actually do in the day? They exit the simulation and literally go work whatever job they have in the real world in order to pay to keep participating in the Victory Project. We learn this towards the end of the film when Alice realizes she's in the simulation and Jack goes off and is like "I have to leave to work everyday to give us the life we deserve while you stay here and enjoy it and I fucking hate it so fucking much!". This also answers the question a lot of people had when they heard that the men have an "allotted time" to be in the sim with their wives. After seeing the film, my critical thinking skills led me to conclude that depending on how much the men pay that translates to how much time they have to be in the simulation with their "wives". So more money = more time in the sim!

What is keeping Alice alive? Was she eating in real life too? Jack is keeping Alice alive, all the other men are also keeping the women they have in the sim alive. When we see Jack bringing Alice flowers there's a voice over where they are interviewing Jack as a candidate for the Victory Project and one of the questions they ask him is "Are you aware that you are responsible for the physical upkeep of your chosen wife?" and Jack says, "Yes." and we can see him taking off the restraints and dripping a bit of water into her mouth. She’s also hooked out o an IV which probs had a cocktail of sedatives, hydration, & nutrients to keep let subdued but alive. I don't think she can eat normally, so I'm assuming the men are just tube feeding them or giving them little bits of those shakes that old people have to drink with hella nutritional supplements when they can't eat solids. And well, she's not really eating in the simulation, it's not real. So she only "eats" in the real world via whatever means Jack uses to feed her.

Why does no one care about the people that die in the simulation? / How does no one who knows them come looking for them These 2 can be answered together. So first off, towards the end when Alice is escaping and Frank is like freaking out that she might get out and expose it all, he's ordering for someone to get her and kill her before she makes it out. I believe that Frank and his people "take care" of the bodies of anyone who dies in the sim as to not arouse suspicion or knowledge of the Victory Project. This also ties into your second question of how can their families/friends/colleagues not realize they are gone. So I'm assuming they may also help the participants of the Victory Project stage something to make it seem like the person trapped in the sim is dead or something. I later saw on TikTok (I think?) someone who read the original story confirm this theory and that the "husbands" had to fake the women's deaths so that people would stop looking for them. And I think that in the re-write they are sticking to the same idea. We don't really see anything to confirm that in the film, but if the OG story says so I'll stick with that:)

What happened to the other wives at the end? I think they realize that something is really wrong, but they probably don't know fully what's going on unless Bunny tells them the truth. So in my opinion they probs just stay in the sim, sadly. It is unclear whether the sim will continue but be run by Shelley (Frank's wife) or whether she killed him to get out herself, so that's kind of the unknown next step that honestly I didn't even think about while watching the film. So thanks for asking because I was just so focused on Alice getting out I forgot about everyone else lol

If a woman is pregnant in the sim is she pregnant in real life? No, it's a simulation, so nothing going on there is real. Also, with the way these women are kept in the real world there would be no way that they could have a successful pregnancy. They are far too malnourished and dehydrated to carry a baby fully to term. We also know according to Bunny that the children in the sim are not real, so therefore the pregnancy cannot be real. We also know from the film that you can make yourself, and I'm assuming others as well, into whatever you want in the sim. Like Jack is American in the real world but his chosen nationality is British in the sim. So my theory about Peg (the always pregnant one) is that maybe in the real world she couldn't get pregnant whether it be by her or her man's fertility issues and so the man made her be pregnant in the simulation. Hence why she's always pregnant, so until something in the sim programing changes she will always be pregnant.

I hope my theories make sense!

#DWD theories #dwd spoilers #harry styles #olivia wilde #florence pugh #nick kroll #chris pine #gemma chan #don’t worry darling

[bandedbulbussnarfblat]

Temporary

They're fighting again.

Daniel doesn't even remember how the fight started, only how it ended. And it ended ugly. He may have told Armand that he was the worst thing that ever happened to him.

After that, Armand had tears in his eyes. It had instantly made Daniel feel like shit, but Armand asked him to leave when he tried to apologize.

So now he's ate a bar, pissed off and guilty and once again desperate for Armand's affection. He hopes that Armand didn't mean forever when he asked him to leave.

“I recognize that look. Girl trouble?”

It's close enough, so Daniel says back “The worst kind.”

He turns to look at the stranger who spoke and it's a woman around his age. Big brown hair, clear gray eyes. One of her eyebrows is half blonde. She's pretty, in a way. Her nose is too big and her mouth too wide for her to truly be beautiful, but she's easy on the eyes. She's got shit for tits, but she isn't wearing a bra under her black tank top and Daniel can see the press of her nipples against the fabric. She's wearing tight jeans that show her shapely legs off. Not an unappealing person to spend his evening with.

“Yeah, same.” The woman clicks her beer bottle to his.

Daniel acts on impulse saying “I show you mine if you show me yours?”

She smiles and it lights her whole face up. Boyfriend—ex boyfriend now—proposed to me. Didn't like my answer.”

“Ouch,” Daniel says. “Mine's a bit complicated. Gives me everything except the one thing I want.”

“Commitment?” she guesses. And isn't that what it is in the end? Daniel wants to be with Armand forever, Armand only wants Daniel a little while. It's why he won't turn him—Daniel isn't his everything the way Armand is his.

“I want us together forever, they don't want to do what it takes to make that happen.”

She peers at him. She's already a little drunk, Daniel realizes. Well, he'll just have to catch up. He chugs his bottle down and signals for another. “I'll tell you what I told my fellow,” she says. “You can either waste your time chasing someone who will only ever see you as temporary, or you can find someone who sees you as permanent.”

That's...probably good advice, actually. Daniel looks her over head to foot. Decides, why the hell not? “Wouldn't mind finding something temporary right now.”

She grins, takes a slow swallow of her beer. Sticks out her hand to take his. “The name's Alice. Wanna come back to mine?”

/

His key doesn't work when he comes back home the next night. It isn't the first time Armand has changed the locks on him, but Daniel hadn't expected it to happen so soon. He came prepared though; he's brought Armand a gift.

Daniel knocks on the door. “Armand?”

It's difficult to knock and keep the box in his arms, but he manages. It's an espresso machine. Not a typical apology gift, but Armand went through a phase with blenders and microwaves. Daniel figures he can't go wrong with kitchen appliances.

He hears Armand moving on the other side of the door. “I'm still angry with you, Daniel.”

Daniel shifts the box in his arms and sighs. He was really hoping not to have to go rounds with Armand today. “Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, okay? I'm a dick.”

“Go away, Daniel.”

Daniel wonders if Armand really kicks him out—and he never really does, he just needs space sometimes, that's all—he can get Alice to let him crash with her again tonight. He left with less than a hundred bucks cash on him, and he doesn't have anyone he can spend the night with. “Please, baby. Let me make it up to-”

“Whose Alice?” And right, mind reading. Armand typically doesn't do it as often now, now that Daniel earned his love. Except for when they argue, because he isn't above cheating, the bastard.

“She's nobody, baby. It didn't mean anything.”

Armand is quiet for a long moment, then he says mildly, “Then you won't mind if I kill her?”

Shit. Shit. He likes Alice. She's good people. Certainly not someone who deserves to die because he fucked up. “Aw, come on. Don't take it out on her. It's me you're mad at.”

Armand says nothing. Shit shit shit.

“I brought you a present,” Daniel tries. He sits down the box when Armand doesn't answer. “You gonna let me in?”

“No.”

Daniel swears. Fuck this. He's getting in one way or another. He needs to make things right with Armand. So he goes around to the back door. It's also locked, and his key doesn't work. But the back door has a small window built into it, covered by thick, blackout dark curtains.

He punches the window. It hurts like hell, but it cracks. He hits it again, and the glass shatters, leaving a small hole. Daniel pushes his arm through and unlocks the door, pushes his way inside.

Armand is there in the kitchen waiting for him. He's looking at him with dark, dilated eyes. “You're bleeding.”

And Daniel is, scratches all the way up his arm to his shoulder. His hand has broken glass smashed into it, and there's a wicked gash across his knuckles. He barely notices. “You're worth it.”

Armand makes a small noise, then launches himself into Daniel's arms. One moment he is across the room, and the next he's kissing Daniel. Daniel wraps his uninjured arm around his waist and kisses him back like he'll die if he doesn't. Armand kisses him like he wants to devour him, biting and hungry. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Daniel pants against his mouth.

Then he's being manhandled until he's bent over the counter, and Armand is kicking his legs apart. Armand takes him there in the kitchen, injured hand hanging off the counter, and other twisted behind his back and held in place by Armand. His face is mashed into the counter-top and his pants are only around his knees. Armand doesn't touch him, other than the hand in his hair holding him down and the one around his wrist. He fucks him, rough and deep, until Daniel is a crying, desperate, incoherent mess. Only then does he let him touch himself and come.

Later, Armand cleans and bandages his wounds. His blood would heal Daniel right up, but Daniel knows better than to ask. This peace is too fragile.

“Are you going to see her again?”

Armand sounds disinterested, like he couldn't care less. But if that were true, he wouldn't be asking. Daniel runs a hand through his hair and tucks a strand behind his ear. “No, I'm all yours. I promise”

Armand glances up at him. He's rooting around in Daniel's head to see if he's telling the truth. Daniel lets it happen without complaint; he's already in the dog house, he can grant Armand some leeway.

After a moment, Armand smiles. “Alright, I believe you.”

Daniel wraps an arm around his waist and rests their foreheads together. “We good now?”

“We're good.”

This time, he almost believes it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

read here on ao3

#interview with the vampire fic #daniel/armand #armand #daniel molloy

[biwritesfics]

Dead Girls Don’t Die

Part 1: We’ve got a live one

Characters: MCU Tony Stark and Matt Murdock with female witch OC

Warnings: General mentions of death and violence, Abuse against minor by parent. Allusion to NonCon, mention of suicide, just a lot of trauma in general. Read at your own risk ⚠️

AN: I posted this on A03 so I thought I should post here too. Heads up the idea is that the main girl can see ghosts and she has a crap ton of trauma.

Word count 2.3k (sorry if it’s too long)

——————————————

The cold was delicious; it draped over me like a blanket, the edges kissing my skin and caressing my soul. It slowly slipped away leaving me shaking, not from chill, but from power. The witches had been coming for days offering their knowledge. Women from so many different eras with rich and diverse skills.

The dark witches always seemed to stick, all but the chaos they said they belonged to another. They bid me goodbye, placing kisses on my cheek and whispering blessings in my ears. I had always loved the spirits. Most are satisfied with one meeting or they choose to come and go, but a few stayed. Mostly the women, it was a sisterhood connection of sorts. Alice Brody, a 23 year old 1950s housewife, killed her husband for cheating on her after learning of her infertility.

Alice occupied her time in “The Grey” as the spirits called it by taking on a maternal role with me. She gave great housekeeping and sewing advice I was capable of multiple elaborate 50s style hairdos and whenever someone hurt me she comforted me by explaining exactly how she would murder them. Most female killers preferred poison. Alice was not like most.

Joan the depression era pickpocket eternally age 14. She could get into just about anywhere while human so she enjoyed the freedom of her specter- like form. She was stabbed to death over a five dollar debt. She still insists it was better than starving. Dorothy Montie rising star of the cotton club. Her voice was haunting, do deep and sad it could swallow you up. I don't know how she died, all I know is that it was bad and white men with Harlem accents send her running.

Wyatt, one of the few male ghosts, was a cowboy in New Mexico. He talked about his friend and fellow Cowboy Manuel like he was much more than that to him. He wouldn't let me summon him though and despite my hints at modern terms he refused to admit his feelings out loud.

Martin was the other man who stuck around. He was huge and his body was riddled with scars but he called me Miss Sylvia in the softest voice. I had told him that he didn't have to call me Miss but he had scolded me “Ms.Sylvia it ain't nothing like that, you've been good to me and good women are deserving of respect.” He had another name in life but in his words “Since I'm a free man now I oughta have a free name.”

With the aid of my reading skills and multiple history books from the institute's library, he had settled on Martin. No one could be perfect when it came to the topic of race, but despite the fact it wasn't his job Martin sure did help keep all of us in check. He taught himself how to read, and we had a system that whenever he tapped my hand I turned the page for him. Now with concentration he could do it on his own. He was honestly more educated on the current political climate than I was. In my defense he didn't need to sleep.

Being the most modern I had the fewest problems ( note fewest not nonexistent) but the others needed some work. Even though Dorothy had lived in a time with more rights she struggled with believing she was worth it. I wish I could help her but giving my opinion on her no matter how kind wouldn't help. It would only cement the idea that other people’s opinions controlled her. Martin coaxed her out of her shell. They made me believe in true love. How morbid that the best example of a healthy relationship had was two dead people from times nearly seven decades apart.

There was a nun Sister Anne who popped in from time to time. Child ghosts could scare the crap out of you especially if they weren't verbal but I had only ever encountered one who was dangerous. They mostly just wanted to play or be held and talked too. Alice adored them and I had to admit I did too.

“You doing alright Darling, I saw you had another visitor,” she smooths my hair with her cool fingers. Ghosts could be anywhere from seemingly the same temperature as my skin, to cold enough to leave red marks on my body. Alice just felt like someone with poor circulation. “I'm alright, it gets easier every time,” I reassure her.” “It must be such a queer feeling, absorbing another person.” “It's really not they just leave their knowledge, I know how to read ancient languages and cast spells like I know 1+1=2.”

“Cole you have visitors, time for cuffs,” one of the male orderlies shouts unceremoniously. I look up annoyed. “ I oughta teach these brutes a lesson in manners,” Alice huffs, her gray-white tones flashing into color. Her eyes are this striking blue and her blonde hair is in the softest curls. The only harsh things are her blood red lips and nails, and of course the malice in her eyes.

“You can try later Alice. We need to know who the visitors are” I whisper. I stand in position as the guard places the cuffs. They had medicated me to near death and no change in my “Severe Schizophrenia”. So they kept me on low dose antipsychotics and cuffed me in the presence of other patients.

Doug the orderly was superstitious, he recited the exorcism from the exorcist every time he had to check on me. God himself couldn't stop me from killing him if I wanted to so it was pretty useless. Lucky enough for Doug I didn't want to kill him. We had a ghostly entourage as he led me out to the visiting area. The news of living visitors brought everyone out from the grey.

Two men were waiting. One was definitely blind and most definitely a lawyer. The second was wearing an overpriced suit and a little too much confidence for his own good. As we neared I realized the latter was Tony Stark. It was impossible to escape tabloid magazines even living under the rock that was Michael Bronlittle’s hospital for the criminally insane.

“You can take the shackles off of Miss cole” the lawyer speaks. He had the seal of approval from Sister Anne “a good Catholic boy” Alice was raving about how handsome he was and Martin had heard of his humanitarian work in NewYork. He was good in my book. “Are you sure sir, she's killed two men?” Doug sounds shocked that he even considered it.

“Doug look me in the eyes” I say exasperated. I turn around and he looks at me like I might bite him. “Doug if I had any desire to harm you I would have done it by now, I have been here seven years and the only trouble I have ever caused was Jackson three years ago.”

“We both know for a fact he wasn't checking on me just like he wasn't checking on Marcie before she got pregnant and just like he wasn't checking on April before she killed herself.” I can see in his eyes he knows, everyone knew. I was going to end on that note but then I remembered I had a promise to fulfill.

“Also before you go your Aunt Perla says you need to man up and propose to Rebecca already and the secret ingredient in her pound cake is just sour cream not anything fancy.” Perla was a dear, but she was ready to go upstairs and didn't have the energy to deliver the message herself. He goes silent then he sputters and stutters. “We’ll take our chances with Curly Sue Lady of Darkness” Stark Quips. Doug uncuffs me and leaves locking the door behind him. He’d be okay. Eventually.

“Have a seat Ms.Cole?” says the Lawyer “Matthew, Matt Murdock” Martin informs me. “You can call me Sylvia Mr. Murdock, as can you Mr.Stark, it's best to be on a first-name basis with a girl before she performs a seance or discusses her motive for murder.” I state simply sitting down across from them.

“Manners Darling, small talk, polite language.” Alice reminds me looking disdainfully at the shocked faces in front of me. “Oh I'm terribly sorry I'm quite rusty when it comes to conversation. I don't get visitors so I assumed those would be the only reasons someone would bother to come here. I apologize.”

“That's alright I like to cut to the chase, small talk is overrated,” says Stark taking off his shades.” We need to know about your Father he invented a certain device of sorts that we need to know about. It's for the sake of humanity.” My body stiffens and I feel Alice's embrace Wyatt steps forward placing a hand on my shoulder

“Alan has never been my father and he never will be, the last time I saw him was when I killed him and I would do it again. Anything he ever touched turned twisted and broken. Anything he created wouldn't be for the better of anything.” I can feel my nails digging into the skin of my palms and the phantom pains on the parts of my body I can't technically feel anymore.

“Anything at all would be incredibly helpful to our case.” Mr. Murdock urges gently. I feel the floodgates in my mind break open. “What I remember Mr.Murdock doesn't matter in any court of law. I'm just the psycho little girl, the murderous schizophrenic, Humanities little freak show to ogle from time to time,” I snap.

“Everyone says it's such a tragedy, what happened to my poor poor Father. What kind of little girl comes up with such horrible things!? What kind of monster murders her own father and blames it on ghosts!?” I mock the comments I've heard over the years, as hot tears beginning to roll down my cheeks.

“According to society and a multitude of mental health professionals, I'm a violent schizophrenic with extreme and vivid delusions,” I repeat the diagnosis that’s been told to me time and time again. “They say that the only thing in my life that gives it any meaning or inkling of joy is made up in my head,”

I pause for a ragged breath but they still don’t dare to interrupt me Some days I don't know if what my father did to me caused it or if he didn't even do anything at all.” The words are strained. “Even I know I am not sane Mr. Murdock, and I have more faith in myself than anyone else” I finish looking up at them with contempt in my eyes. “Memories, anything at all?,” Stark questions me.

He crossed an invisible line in my head. “What I remember was a man Who was a Sadistic Narcissistic Sociopath, a pedophile and a necrophile.” the list nearly makes me vomit. “A man who got off on my pain and my fear. A man who I know within my heart of hearts killed girls before I killed him.” I look in their eyes silently begging them to believe me.

“The man I know invented and built all manner of things to hurt a person no, a child and not leave a mark.” I’m seething at this point. “A monster so good at manipulating that he did it from his grave.” No one believed me not over him. “Mr.Murdock, Mr.Stark I remember a man that exists to no one except for me and the ghosts of little dead girls.”They're watching pale faces as one does when someone breaks down in front of you. Somehow I just know what I need to do.

“Tony, your mother loves you more than anything and she says that you shouldn't worry about living up to your father because you're ten times the man he ever was and a thousand times better Father. “Mattie I hope you really have the devil in you because God has no domain over where I'm sending you.”

I grab a file and a pen sitting on the table and I begin to write out the address. “Matthew, your father wanted me to remind you that you don't have to win every fight you just gotta survive 'em,” I say, trying not to imitate the man’s accent. “The well at the front of the estate is real but the one in the garden is a tunnel.” I turn to Stark. “I wouldn't recommend visiting all you'll see is your little girl or if I'm as insane as they say you'll find nothing.”

They both start to ask questions but I silence them. “I know what I know. I've already talked more today than I have my entire life,” Maybe it's a deathbed confession of sorts I think to myself. “I truly wish the best for both of you” . I pause cringing at the intense feelings in my body. “I'm sorry for not being able to help you more and for the fuss I'm about to cause.” I'm partially aware of the fall from my chair as I lose control of my body to a Grand mal seizure. I swear I can hear death and the devil laughing at the irony. How funny, a dead girl that's afraid of dying.

#fanfic #writing #marvel mcu #tony stark #matt murdock #dark!drabble #childhood trauma #witch oc #haunted #lawyer Matt Murdock #marvel #mcu fic #tony stark and teen OC #stark industries #matthew murdock #anthony stark #murder mystery #serial killer #the avengers

[w-m-heart]

We Three Witches Preview

We're back! And with a new chapter! Here's a preview of what we've just posted!

Chapter 38: The Conversation

March 24th, 2003

Bella’s POV

I’d always thought less of the characters in stories who let miscommunication get in the way of their love lives. Always rolled my eyes and declared that everything could be solved with a simple conversation. Always scoffed at the innermost thoughts of the main characters who insisted that their partner felt far away, even in the small room. 

Now, as I laid here in that stupid fucking hospital bed with rails that I was convinced had been put in with malicious intention, I knew without a doubt I owed those characters a big fucking apology. 

It’s easy to roll your eyes and dismiss something as ridiculous if you’ve never experienced it before. Maybe that's a sign: if you’re not afraid to lay your cards down on the table for all to see, not fucking terrified doing so will destroy the unstable balancing act you know won't last but cling to anyway, then you’ve never been truly in love. It's the simplest thing in the world for you as the reader to groan at another missed opportunity and wish that character would just get on with it. 

These thoughts raced around in my head as I stared at Edward through the door of my hospital room. Before the kidnapping, we’d left everything in shambles. Of course that hadn’t been my fault. He’d chosen to break up with me. He was the one who couldn’t handle me at my worst, so obviously he didn’t deserve me at my best. And yet…

The thought made my heart constrict and I looked across the room at my sisters’ beds. Both of them were under individual privacy spells, speaking to their boys. Rose had her head on Emmett’s shoulder with his arms around her waist, while Alice and Jasper seemed to be having a tense conversation in the other corner.

Irrational jealousy flowed through me. Why did they get the understanding ones? Why did they get the guys willing to stick with them through anything? Didn’t I deserve someone who’d be by my side regardless too? 

Their vampires hadn’t called it off with them when they blew up, and I knew my sisters had. Alice and Rose had told me all about how they’d exploded under pressure and all their boys had done was cling tighter to them, unwilling to let them go. Why couldn’t Edward have done the same?Why did he have to walk away? Right when I needed him the most?

Read the rest here:

#we three witches #twilight #ao3 #fanfiction #archive of our own #w.m.heart updates #our fic: we three witches #bella x edward #edward x bella

[kamreadsandrecs]

By Rachel Aviv

A few months ago, the writer Alice Sebold began to experience a kind of vertigo. She looked at a cup on the table, and it no longer appeared solid. Her vision fractured. Objects multiplied. Her awareness of depth shifted suddenly. Sometimes she glanced down and for a split second felt that there was no floor.

Sebold and I had recently begun corresponding, a little more than a year after she learned that the wrong man had been sent to prison, in 1982, for raping her. In 1999, she had published “Lucky,” a best-selling memoir about the rape and the subsequent conviction of a young Black man named Anthony Broadwater. Then she wrote “The Lovely Bones,” a novel about a girl who is raped and murdered, which has been described as the most commercially successful début novel since “Gone with the Wind.” But now Sebold had lost trust in language. She stopped writing and reading. Even stringing together sentences in an e-mail felt like adopting “a sense of authority that I don’t have,” she said.

Sebold, who is sixty, recognized that her case had taken a deeply American shape: a young white woman accuses an innocent Black man of rape. “I still don’t know where to go with this but to grief and to silence and to shame,” she wrote to me.

In February, I met Sebold in San Francisco for the first time. She lives alone with her dog. She wore fingerless woollen gloves and kept the lights off; her living room was lit by a window. Several times she started explaining something she’d once thought, and then stopped, midsentence. Although she’d quickly accepted the news that Broadwater was innocent, she felt as if she had “strapped on the new reality” and was still in the process of inhabiting it. She allowed that her experience with vertigo represented a kind of psychological progress: she was absorbing the fact that “there was no ground when I thought there was ground,” she said. “There’s that sense of standing up and immediately needing to sit down because you’re going to fall over.”

She was fearful of taking in new details too quickly. “It’s not just that the past collapses,” she said. “The present collapses, and any sense of good I ever did collapses. It feels like it’s a whole spinning universe that has its own velocity and, if I just stick my finger in it, it will take me—and I don’t know where I’ll end up.”

She was struggling to figure out what to call Broadwater. She had avoided his name for forty years. “Broadwater” felt too cold. “Anthony” felt like a level of closeness she didn’t deserve. And yet their lives were intertwined. “The rapist came out of nowhere and shaped my entire life,” she said. “My rape came out of nowhere and shaped his entire life.”

Sebold and Broadwater had defined themselves through stories that were in conflict. But Broadwater, too, felt that they were bound together, the same moments creating the upheaval in their lives. “We both went through the fire,” he said. “You see movies about rape and the young lady is scrubbing herself in the shower, over and over. And I’m saying to myself, ‘Damn, I feel the same way.’ Will it ever be gone from my memory, my mind, my thoughts? No. And it’s not going to be gone for her, either.”

Sebold was raped in a pedestrian tunnel in a park around midnight on May 8, 1981, the last day of her freshman year at Syracuse University. “I heard someone walking behind me,” she wrote in an affidavit. “I started to walk faster and was suddenly overtaken from behind and grabbed around the mouth.” When she tried to run away, the man yanked her by the hair, dragged her along a brick path, pounded her skull into the ground, and said he’d kill her if she screamed. Eventually, she stopped resisting and tried to intuit what he wanted. “He worked away on me,” she wrote in “Lucky.” “I became one with this man.”

She walked back to her dorm, bleeding, and a student called an ambulance. According to a medical exam, her nose was lacerated, her urine was bloody, and her clothes and hair were matted with dirt and leaves. When she was interviewed by the police that morning, she said that her rapist was a Black man, “16-18 yrs. of age, small and muscular build.” In the affidavit, she wrote, “I desire prosecution in the event this individual is caught.” But the detective on her case seemed skeptical of her account—he wrote, without explanation, that it did not seem “completely factual”—and recommended that “this case be referred to the inactive file.”

Sebold went home for the summer to a suburb of Philadelphia, where she rarely changed out of her nightgown. Friends from her parents’ church, where her mother was a warden, were told of the rape and treated her as if she had contracted a spiritual disease. Sebold saw herself as a misfit, an “earthy loose cannon,” she said, and felt that being raped confirmed her separateness. She sensed that her father believed she was at fault somehow, for walking through a park at night alone. Her parents wanted her to drop out of Syracuse and spend her sophomore year at a small Catholic college near home, but she had been accepted into classes that fall with the writers Tess Gallagher and Tobias Wolff, and she didn’t want to lose the chance to study with them. Even during the rape, she was aware that she would eventually write about it. “It was one of the ways that I stayed with myself,” she told me. “There’s that thing where you shut down, but you don’t want to disappear, so you reach out for the thing that connects you to life, and for me it was words, language, writing.”

In the fall, Gallagher, a poet, introduced herself to Sebold’s class by singing a ballad. She instructed her students to write “poems that mean,” a phrase that Sebold jotted down in her notebook. She felt that Gallagher, the partner of Raymond Carver, who also taught at the university, embodied the transcendence of a life devoted to writing. Carver was such a celebrity on campus that, to discourage students from stopping by their home at all hours, he and Gallagher hung a cardboard sign from their door that read “No visitors please,” with a picture of eyes squinting in concentration.

For her first assignment, Sebold turned in an opaque five-page poem that alluded to the rape. The other students didn’t pick up on the metaphor, and at office hours Gallagher proposed that Sebold write a poem with a more straightforward conceit: it should begin with the line “If they caught you.” Gallagher told me, “I realize now that that was rather dangerous, because I’m not a psychiatrist, but writing comes out of a being, and you must minister to the being. I saw her anger and lostness, and I had to make a way for the condition—that essential condition of having been violated—to find speech.”

In the class the following week, Sebold read aloud a poem, heavily influenced by Sylvia Plath, called “Conviction,” which was addressed to her rapist. “If they caught you,” she wrote. “Long enough for me / to see that face again, / maybe I would know / your name.” She went on, “Come to me, Come to me, / Come die and lie, beside me.”

The next week, before her workshop with Tobias Wolff, Sebold was picking up a snack on the main street near campus when she saw a man who looked like her rapist. “I was hyperaware,” she wrote in “Lucky.” “I went through my checklist: right height, right build, something in his posture.” A few minutes later, she saw the man crossing the street toward her. “Hey,” the man said. “Don’t I know you?” He was actually talking to a police officer named Paul Clapper, who was behind Sebold, but she thought he was addressing her, and she suddenly felt certain that he had been on top of her in the tunnel, and that he was mocking her, because he’d got away. She couldn’t speak. “I needed all my energy to focus on believing I was not under his control again,” she wrote. She walked away quickly and heard him laughing.

She hurried to class and told Wolff that she had to miss the workshop. “She was utterly distraught,” Wolff said, “and she told me that she had been raped and that she had just seen her rapist down on Marshall Street and that he had spoken to her.” Wolff told her, “You’ve got to call the police right now.” The author of memoirs about the Vietnam War and a tumultuous childhood, he had a kind of mantra: “Hold on to the memories, keep everything straight.” He shared that advice with Sebold.

She rushed back to her dorm room, “every nerve ending pushing out against the edges of my skin,” to call the police. As she walked, “I became a machine,” she wrote. “I think it must be the way men patrol during wartime, completely attuned to movement or threat. The quad is not the quad but a battlefield where the enemy is alive and hiding. He waits to attack the moment you let your guard down. The answer—never let it down, not even for a second.”

The scene is a devastating portrait of the nightmare-like state that post-traumatic stress disorder can induce. Previously, when Sebold had seen men who even vaguely resembled her rapist, she had felt sick. On some level, she wrote, she knew that these people hadn’t raped her, but described how eerie it was that “I feel like I’ve lain underneath all these men.” This time, her terror solidified into a firm belief.

The moment of recognition was perhaps amplified by the wild, magical hopes that can accompany the act of writing. Sebold had looked to Gallagher as a kind of good witch of art, the sort of writer and woman she wished to be. Now Sebold had made literal Gallagher’s instruction to write “poems that mean.” She had summoned her rapist.

Sebold sketched the man’s face, and the Syracuse Police Department issued an alert to its officers. Clapper, the cop who had been chatting with him, recognized the description. Nine days later, Anthony Broadwater, who was twenty years old, was arrested. One of six brothers, Broadwater had left the Marine Corps to take care of his father, a former janitor at Syracuse, who was dying of cancer. His mother had died of pneumonia when he was five, and he and his brothers had been dispersed among various relatives. Broadwater was working as a telephone installer. He couldn’t remember what he’d been doing when Sebold was raped, nearly five months earlier, but, he told the police, “I know I wasn’t doing that.” He had greeted Clapper because he remembered him as a rookie cop who used to patrol his neighborhood.

Five days after the arrest, Gallagher went to the courthouse with Sebold for a hearing. After Sebold testified, a memo from the district attorney’s office reported, “She makes a very good appearance, handled herself very well on cross-examination, and was very cool and collected.” A judge ruled that the prosecution could move forward. Sebold called her parents to tell them the news. “I could see her trying to talk with them, and it was very awkward,” Gallagher told me. “I just felt they weren’t responsive in some way. They could not connect with what was happening to her. I could feel that she was unprotected.”

Two weeks later, Sebold was asked to identify Broadwater in a lineup. He was the fourth in a line of five Black men wearing jail uniforms. Sebold identified the fifth man. After signing a form that confirmed her decision, she felt a wave of nausea. She sensed that she’d made the wrong choice. The detective on her case looked downcast and told her, “You were in a hurry to get out of there,” according to her account in “Lucky.”

The assistant district attorney, Gail Uebelhoer, was a thirty-one-year-old pregnant woman whom Sebold saw as another role model, her guide through a court system dominated by men. Sebold felt that she had failed Uebelhoer. But, Sebold writes in “Lucky,” Uebelhoer reassured her that her mistake was understandable. “Of course you chose the wrong one,” Uebelhoer said. “He and his attorney worked to make sure you’d never have a chance.” She said that Broadwater had intentionally duped her by asking an almost identical-looking friend from jail to stand in the No. 5 spot and stare at her, to scare and fluster her. (In fact, Broadwater was not friends with the man in the No. 5 spot, and they did not look the same.) In a memo, Uebelhoer wrote that Sebold had chosen the wrong man because he was “a dead ringer for defendant.”

Broadwater’s attorney, Steven Paquette, assumed that the case would be dismissed. He was shocked when Uebelhoer presented it to a grand jury that day. He wondered if she was trying to compensate for the indifference with which the police had originally met Sebold’s account of her rape. “I think she may have been driven by a feeling of ‘Darn it, this isn’t going to happen to this young lady again,’ ” Paquette said. (Uebelhoer didn’t respond to requests for an interview.)

On the witness stand, Sebold tried to explain her error. “Five did look at me almost in a way as if he knew me even though I realized you really can’t see through the mirror,” she said. “I don’t know, I was very scared, but I picked five basically because he was looking at me and his features are very much like No. 4.”

“You picked him out of the lineup,” a juror said to her. “Are you absolutely sure that this is the one?”

“No, five I am not absolutely sure,” she said. “It was between four and five, but I picked five because he was looking at me.”

“So then, what you are saying, you are not absolutely sure that he was the one?” the juror asked.

“Right.”

When Clapper testified, a juror asked him, “When someone is picked out of a lineup, doesn’t it have to be absolutely sure that the person that they picked out of the lineup is the one they’ve seen before?”

“That’s correct,” Clapper responded.

Uebelhoer cut him off. “He really can’t give you an opinion on that,” she said.

Broadwater was indicted after Uebelhoer told the grand jury that a pubic hair found on Sebold’s body during her rape examination matched a sample of Broadwater’s hair. Then she read from the medical records, saying that Sebold had been a virgin.

When Paquette offered to show Broadwater photographs taken of Sebold on the night of the rape, as preparation for the trial, Broadwater felt tainted even being near such a crime. He refused to look at the pictures.

Paquette recommended that Broadwater choose a bench trial, because he thought it was likely that a jury would be all white. Paquette assumed that a judge, confronted with the story of a Black man raping a virginal white college student, would be more impartial.

At the trial, Broadwater was the only person to testify for the defense.

“When is the first time that you ever saw Alice Sebold?” Paquette asked him.

“Just today,” he said. “Never seen her before.”

He explained that he had a scar on his face and a chipped tooth, neither of which Sebold had included in her description of her rapist. But she never heard him testify, because the trial had been scheduled for the same day as her sister’s college graduation. The trial date couldn’t be changed, and her parents said she couldn’t miss the ceremony.

The trial lasted only two days, and Sebold came for the second day. Her father, a professor of Romance languages at the University of Pennsylvania, accompanied her but mostly stayed in the lobby, reading a book in Latin. Her mother didn’t come. Sebold had no friends there, either. At the time, she said, “I felt more identified with people I had met in the criminal-justice system than I did with my peers.” On campus, she said, she had to pretend to be a normal student, but in the courtroom “I could exist as a person who had been raped.”

Sebold felt that, in order to save herself from being murdered, she had been forced to participate in her own rape. On the witness stand, she described how she helped the man undress her; she had to kiss him and give him oral sex, so that he could maintain an erection. After he finished, “he told me that he wanted to hug me,” she said. “I wouldn’t come near him. So he came over and pulled me back to the wall and hugged me and apologized for that, he said, ‘I am sorry, and you were a good girl.’ ” Then he asked her name. “I couldn’t think of anything else, because I was very scared,” she said. “I said ‘Alice,’ and he said, ‘It is nice knowing you, Alice, and I will be seeing you around.’ ”

To draw attention to the biases inherent in the proceedings, Paquette asked Sebold, “How many Black people do you see in the room?”

“I see one Black person,” she answered. Except for Broadwater, everyone in the courtroom was white.

“The whole thing made me uncomfortable,” she wrote in “Lucky.” “But this wouldn’t be the first time, or the last, that I wished my rapist had been white.”

During a brief recess, the judge, who had four daughters, chatted with Sebold and asked about her family and what her father did for a living. Immediately after the closing statements, the judge pronounced Broadwater guilty. None of Broadwater’s friends or family came to the trial. His cousin Delores said, “We knew he wasn’t chosen in the lineup. We knew he didn’t have a mind-set to do something like that.” They expected him to be acquitted. When the judge sentenced Broadwater to between eight and twenty-five years in prison, he was numb.

Sebold felt uneasy that, at the trial, she had been transformed into “a character that was already not me,” she said. In court, she heard the word “virgin” so often, she said, that it “clanged in my ear.” But she also felt that she’d done something important by seeing the case through. In the year after the trial, the Syracuse Herald American reported, the district attorney’s office lost nine rape cases in a row. “There was a sense of pride,” Orren Perlman, a friend of Sebold’s, told me. She could have “collapsed into incredible shame, but she was really able to tolerate it and to show up.”

Broadwater appealed the verdict, arguing that Sebold had a “reduced ability to perceive objects accurately due to the fear she felt during and after the attack.” At the time, there was only limited recognition of the fallibility of eyewitness testimony. Since then, studies have shown that roughly a third of eyewitness identifications are incorrect, and that, when the defendant and the witness are not the same race, the witness is fifty per cent more likely to be mistaken. Broadwater argued that Sebold had “probably added the person she saw on the street in Syracuse to the mental file of her assailant.” His appeal was denied.

He spent the first few months of his sentence at Great Meadow Correctional Facility, nicknamed Gladiator School, in Comstock, New York. Many of the men there had just been sentenced. “The hatred, the frustration, the pain, the disbelief—it was all manifesting,” he told me. Later, he was moved to Auburn prison, where a close friend of his from Syracuse was killed in the kitchen while he stood next to him, protecting himself with a baking tray.

As a convicted sex offender, Broadwater was targeted by other prisoners. Each time he was transferred to a new prison, he said, “I would try to prevent some incident by asking, ‘Hey, who’s the head of the Latin Kings? Who’s the head of the Aryan Nation? Listen, they need to read this.’ ” He would give gang leaders pages from his appeal and transcripts from his trial. “That was the only way I could really save my life,” he said. At Attica prison, an imam read parts of his transcript aloud to his cell block. Preparing for the worst, Broadwater made a weapon out of tuna-fish cans that he put inside two socks. But, after the imam finished reading, men came up to him and said, “You shouldn’t be in prison, man.”

Sebold did not know that Broadwater had appealed his conviction. The D.A.’s office never informed her, she said, and she never followed up herself: “I thought it would be a negative thing, psychologically. I wanted to live my own life.”

After college, she enrolled in the writing program at the University of Houston, to study poetry, but she felt adrift. She began doing drugs, and dropped out. She moved to Manhattan and lived in a low-income housing development in the East Village, where she often used heroin. In “Lucky,” she describes her realization that she did not share her life with the students at Syracuse or with the friends she’d made in New York. “I share my life with my rapist,” she wrote.

In 1989, while teaching freshman composition at Hunter College, she published an article in the Times titled “Speaking of the Unspeakable,” which described the “degree of denial and prettification” that surrounds the crime of rape. “Even my own father, who has spent his life working with young people, confessed to me that he did not understand how I could have been raped if I didn’t ‘want to’ be,” she wrote. “I am alive but eight years later, I can still see and smell that tunnel. And eight years later, it remains true that no one wants to know what happened.”

After the piece was published, Oprah Winfrey asked Sebold to appear on an episode of her TV show devoted to rape. Onstage, Sebold looked strikingly beautiful. She wore black pants, a black blouse, and black dagger-like earrings, and her dark hair was pulled up in a high ponytail. “The reason I came today is I think the most important thing we are doing today is telling the story of individual rape victims,” she said in a low, deep voice. “That’s the first step in getting over all of this.”

At Winfrey’s request, Sebold recounted the story of seeing her rapist months after the attack.

“And so when he came up to you on the street, was it an approach to—let’s go somewhere?” Winfrey asked.

“I think he was just having fun,” Sebold responded. “I kept walking, because I was very scared.” She added, “And then I pursued an I.D.”

“I don’t understand how you I.D.’d,” Winfrey said.

“What do you mean?” Sebold asked.

“Because you didn’t know his name,” Winfrey said. “How did you find him, how did you know, I mean—”

“Right. Well he came up and walked up to me, and the policeman was there, so I told the policeman, and then we pursued from that point.”

Winfrey still seemed confused. “And the policeman believed you, obviously,” she said.

Three years later, Sebold learned that her Times essay had been quoted in “Trauma and Recovery,” a groundbreaking book by the psychiatrist Judith Herman. At the time, post-traumatic stress disorder was largely seen as a syndrome affecting male combat veterans—it didn’t become an official diagnosis until 1980, the year that Sebold entered college—but Herman argued that trauma could be caused by more intimate forms of violence, too. She wrote that sexual assault could provoke the same symptoms as witnessing death on the battlefield: flashbacks, dissociation, shame, social isolation, a sense of being trapped in the past. She quoted Sebold in a chapter that described how “traumatized people feel that they belong more to the dead than to the living.”

Sebold felt that Herman’s book explained the past decade of her life. She went to the library and spent a week reading first-person accounts by veterans of Vietnam. “Somehow, reading these men’s stories allowed me to begin to feel,” she wrote.

In 1990, after eight years in prison, Broadwater was granted a hearing before a parole board. “I want to prove to myself and the people in the city of Syracuse that it wasn’t me,” he told the board’s commissioners. “I feel a crime like that every day, every night,” he went on. “It hurts me, hurts me just to be convicted of a crime like that.” He explained that he could have been working and saving money during these years. “I accept the fact it’s going to always be with me,” he told the board. His parole was denied.

Two years later, he went before the board again. He had gone to sex-offender counselling, to improve his chances of getting parole. A commissioner asked what he talked about in counselling, given his claim of innocence.

“Well, sir, the crime was done,” Broadwater answered. “I was punished for it. I must live with that.”

“That wasn’t my question,” the commissioner said. “My question is, what kind of responses do you give when the question was asked, why was this crime committed?”

“Well, sir, there is the problem,” Broadwater said. “If I’m convicted of it, yes, I’ve been going through the stages for it, yes.”

“You’re still vacillating as to whether or not you committed the crime,” the commissioner said. “They can’t treat you unless you first come to the threshold of acknowledgment of guilt.”

“Well, sir, the fact that I am guilty of being convicted of a crime—”

“No, no one is guilty of being convicted of a crime,” the commissioner interrupted. “Either you’re guilty of committing the crime or you’re not guilty of committing the crime. You’re talking in circles when you talk about being guilty of being convicted of committing a crime.”

Broadwater tried to find something else for which he could accept responsibility. If he was released, he would make sure “to have all my time accountable,” he said. “In case, you know, something like this arises or I be arrested or I’m being questioned for a crime again.” The board denied him parole, citing the fact that he couldn’t acknowledge his guilt.

Two years later, the board gave him another chance. “I presume after reading the minutes of your last Board appearance two years ago that you still maintain that you did not commit this crime,” a commissioner said. “Is that correct?”

“Well, Ma’am, the last time I answered that question, I was hit with twenty-four months,” he said. “I’m afraid to say anything.”

“I understand that you are in a Catch-22,” the commissioner said. Broadwater couldn’t get accepted into additional sex-offender treatment programs, which were a requirement for parole, he was told, “because you refuse to acknowledge that you committed the crime.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And according to what we have in front of us, you are guilty of this crime.”

He was denied parole again. The commissioner concluded that “the limited sex offender programming you have participated in does not rise to a level commensurate with the severity of your crime.”

On “Oprah,” Sebold had explained that she could not have endured her rape “if I didn’t separate myself and look down and watch.” When she was thirty-two, she enrolled in the master’s writing program at the University of California, Irvine, and began writing a novel about a girl named Susie Salmon, who exists in this dissociated state. After being raped and murdered in the first chapter, Susie spends the rest of the novel in Heaven, observing from above as the people she knows continue with their lives. A celestial “intake counselor” tells Susie that she can observe other people living but “you won’t experience it.” Susie comes to understand that “life is a perpetual yesterday.”

Sebold put the novel aside when she realized that she was trying to wedge in everything she wanted to say about rape. For a long time, she’d been frustrated that, when rape appeared in literature, the crime was described through poetic deflection. She wanted to “just put it all out on the table,” she said. Sebold got a grant from the university to go to Syracuse and research her rape, for a memoir. Gail Uebelhoer no longer worked in the D.A.’s office, but she met Sebold there. She pulled out a large plastic zipper bag with the underpants that Sebold had worn the night she was raped, which still had blood on them, and showed her pictures and documents from her file. Sebold was allowed to look at only some of the material. “Gail ended up being that filter for me,” she said.

In a class taught by Geoffrey Wolff, the director of the graduate fiction program, Sebold submitted the first sixty pages of what became “Lucky.” “My god this is good,” Wolff wrote to her in a letter. He was astonished by her ability to describe the rape’s “daily intersection with your character, your choices, your ferocious will to comprehend.” Her work reminded him of the “great good mystery of writing, why it matters to read, why it heals to write.”

His brother is Tobias Wolff, Sebold’s former professor at Syracuse. Both men had written childhood memoirs with conflicting portraits of their parents, an experience that had made Geoffrey acutely aware of the limitations of a writer’s perspective. “There are always other people in that room, too,” he said. But it never occurred to him that “Lucky,” of which he read many drafts, should try to capture Broadwater’s experience. “Shame on me,” he said. “The idea that it was the wrong guy didn’t enter my mind, so I didn’t give a shit about his point of view.”

“Lucky,” which opens with a meticulous reconstruction of the rape, was published in 1999 to quiet praise. Sebold detailed her failure to discriminate between the men standing in the No. 4 and No. 5 spots in the lineup, as well as Uebelhoer’s justification for her error, but readers did not publicly question her rendering of Broadwater’s guilt. (In the book, she refers to Broadwater by a pseudonym.) In Elle, the novelist Francine Prose wrote, “Reading Lucky, you understand how Sebold succeeded in persuading a judge that what happened to her occurred precisely—word for word, detail for detail—the way she described it.”

Three years after “Lucky” came out, Sebold, who had recently married a writer from her master’s program, published her novel about Susie Salmon, “The Lovely Bones.” The novel sold more than ten million copies and was adapted into a movie by Peter Jackson. The World Trade Center had just been attacked, and critics wondered if readers were perhaps uniquely receptive to the story of an innocent person who suffers a harrowing death and then learns how to adapt to the afterlife. “The response to ‘The Lovely Bones’ has been like a big, collective sigh of ‘That’s just what we needed,’ ” Laura Miller wrote in Salon.

“Lucky” was subsequently reissued in paperback and ended up selling more than a million copies. Sebold was surprised to learn that Uebelhoer was speaking to book clubs that were reading the memoir. Uebelhoer sent Sebold a packet of printouts about “Lucky” that she shared when she spoke with readers. “I love meeting with book clubs because it not only gets Alice’s story out there,” Uebelhoer wrote in an e-mail to a filmmaker, “but it also increases sales of her book!”

Paquette, Broadwater’s attorney, read the memoir after hearing about it from a colleague. He was taken aback by what Uebelhoer had told Sebold about the lineup, but he said, “Twenty years later, it didn’t occur to me that a chapter of a book about misconduct would be something to act on.” He hadn’t spoken with Broadwater since he went to prison.

In 1998, Broadwater was at the Mid-State Correctional Facility, a medium-security prison near Utica, when he was asked again to meet with the parole board. This time, he told a jail administrator that he was declining the opportunity. He understood that, unless he took blame for the rape, the parole board wouldn’t release him. He had nine more years until he hit the maximum sentence.

Several months later, an officer came to his cell and told him to pack up, because he was going home. “I know you’re joking,” he told the officer. “Leave me alone.” Broadwater figured that he had been given a disciplinary charge and was being transferred to a maximum-security prison. He gathered his legal records in a manila envelope and packed a few belongings. Then officials handed him paperwork to sign. He had been in prison for sixteen years and seven months and had reached his conditional release date, which is determined by a committee that considers a person’s record in prison. “When that last gate buzzed open—Lord have mercy,” he said. “You don’t think you will do it, but I did what everybody does. I knelt down, and I kissed that ground. I said, ‘Lord, I’m free, and I’m going to stay free for the rest of my life.’ ”

Broadwater was thirty-eight. He moved in with a cousin, whose mother was the only person who had regularly sent him letters while he was in prison. His father had died, and his brothers hadn’t kept in touch. He applied for temp jobs, but, as a registered sex offender with a sixteen-year gap in his work history, he was rejected. He bought a nineteen-dollar shovel from a hardware store and began clearing people’s driveways after snowstorms. When winter ended, he mowed their lawns.

He went to see a psychiatrist at a V.A. medical center about depression, but he was too ashamed to explain the cause of his distress: he didn’t want female doctors to learn about the rape conviction and be afraid of him. He figured they’d think he was lying about his innocence. Instead, he spoke in vague terms about injustice in the world. He had nightmares and flashbacks, but, when therapists asked him to elaborate on his memories, he spoke of his mom’s death or an injury in the military, leaving out the trauma that defined his life.

A year after his release, one of his cousins set him up with a woman named Elizabeth, who worked as a roofer. On their first night together, he told her that he wanted to be in a relationship with her but that she had to read his trial documents first. He slept on the couch while she spent the night in his bedroom with the transcripts. In the morning, she came into the living room where he was sleeping and said, crying, that she believed him.

They found jobs that they could do together, like roofing, janitorial, and factory work. They requested night shifts, because Broadwater wanted a potential alibi during what he called the “witching hours”—the time when most violent crimes occur. He was continually stunned that Elizabeth never left him for being a sex offender and never doubted his innocence. “That’s basically how I kept my face up,” he told me. But they decided not to have children, because they didn’t want their child to grow up with the stigma of the crime.

He had been free for two years when the police knocked on his door, to ask him about an eighteen-year-old white woman named Jill-Lyn Euto, who had been murdered in her apartment in Syracuse. “I was scared to death,” he said. “I said, ‘Oh no, not me—I work from six at night to six in the morning. I’m on the computer. I’m on camera.’ ” The police didn’t ultimately pursue him as a suspect, but the encounter made him so afraid that he didn’t want to work anywhere with female employees. He worried that he might accidentally glance at a woman in a way that would be interpreted as staring, or that he might make a gesture that appeared aggressive. “I’m always thinking, Maybe she knows,” he said. “It is very painful and shameful.” He became preoccupied with the mechanics of surveillance: he wanted jobs where he could punch into a clock, his movements recorded by cameras in each room. The idea of just being loose in the world, without a method of proving where he had been, was such a source of terror that sometimes he imagined he’d feel less anxiety if he was back in a jail cell.

After he had been out of prison for a few years, Elizabeth learned about “Lucky” and went to the public library to skim the book. Broadwater said, “She was trying to tell me things in the book, but I said, ‘I don’t want to know. It’s not about me. It’s what happened to her. It don’t pertain to me.’ ”

In 2010, Jane Campion, the only woman to be nominated twice for the Academy Award for best director, called Sebold. Campion wanted to adapt “Lucky,” which she had found “gripping, funny, devastating,” she said. After Sebold agreed, Campion asked Laurie Parker, who had produced Campion’s film “In the Cut,” to write the screenplay.

Parker spent two years researching and writing the first portion of the script, which follows Sebold up to the point when she tells Tobias Wolff that she has seen her rapist. Once that part of the script had been approved, Parker began researching the next installment, which dramatized the criminal proceedings. But, after Parker read the trial transcripts, she felt disturbed that there wasn’t more evidence. She had already interviewed Uebelhoer, the prosecutor, but she called her again to try to understand why the case had gone forward. Uebelhoer told Parker the same story about the lineup that Sebold narrates in “Lucky.” “She also explained how few rapes made it to trial,” Parker told me, “and how Alice really was a kind of Joan of Arc figure with the police, how they rallied around her, and how the judge seemed to feel fatherly toward her.”

As Parker continued writing, she thought about an episode from her own life. When she was nineteen, living in San Francisco, an older man had sexually assaulted her. She became so afraid of encountering him in the city that she moved to Berkeley. Several months later, she was at a library and thought she saw the man in a study carrel. “I froze,” she said. “It was a kind of out-of-body experience. I was tingling, and my face was tingling. It was the sort of terror that teleports you back to the original trauma.” For about thirty minutes, she couldn’t move. Finally, though, she had to leave for an appointment. As she walked out of the room, the man looked at her. “There was just no recognition at all,” she said. “And then I saw it: I’m wrong. That is not the same person.”

She had a “visceral but somewhat unconscious” sense, she said, that Sebold’s certainty may have been unreliable, too. “Because I had experienced being wrong myself, I just had this fundamental feeling of the subjectivity of every single person involved.” She didn’t feel that she could write a script in which the actor shown raping Sebold appears on Marshall Street five months later. “I just felt that we couldn’t perpetuate this story,” she told me.

By the summer of 2014, after interviewing Paul Clapper and a few other Syracuse cops who knew about the case, Parker had reached the point where she felt that “there was so little evidence that it should not have resulted in a conviction,” she said. She decided that the only way she felt comfortable telling the story was from a highly subjective point of view: the camera would be like a bird on the Sebold character’s shoulder. In her script, Parker referred to the man on Marshall Street not as the rapist but as “SHORT MUSCULAR MAN,” and never says if the man has been convicted. “That script had no objective perspective, no signifiers of any kind,” she said.

When she submitted the script, she was told that it was not “viable.” The project collapsed. Parker was a single mother, raising two children with special needs, and the movie could have transformed her career. Nevertheless, “there was a part of me that definitely didn’t want to make the movie, and I’m aware of that,” she said. “On some level, I probably knew that I was killing the project.”

Not long afterward, Parker began volunteering in prisons, holding writing workshops. “I think that connection was pretty direct,” she told me. “I felt like the perspective of the person who was convicted is not present, and it should be.”

A year and a half later, James Brown, who had recently produced the Oscar-winning film “Still Alice,” signed on to adapt “Lucky.” One of his sisters had been the victim of an attempted rape, and Sebold’s memoir had reshaped his understanding of the crime. Brown enlisted Karen Moncrieff, the writer and director of two well-regarded films about violence against women, to write the script. Moncrieff, who had a close friend who’d been raped, had wanted to adapt “Lucky” since it was published. “There really has not been a film that deals with the true experience of a rape survivor in a way that’s honest, raw, unflinching and humane and isn’t engineered to titillate on some level,” she wrote to Brown in an e-mail, in 2017.

Moncrieff wrote a script that hewed closely to the book. The man that Sebold sees on Marshall Street is referred to as “RAPIST.” When he’s convicted, Sebold pours herself a shot and “suddenly lets out a celebratory _whoop! _”

But Moncrieff felt uncomfortable with the script. Since first reading the book, “something had shifted in my awareness,” she said. Although “Lucky” had been praised for breaking taboos—it was recommended by psychologists and rape counsellors, and taught in colleges—there was also something traditional about the arc of the story: Sebold became a hero fighting for justice against an evil, unknowable stranger, who would pay for what he had done to her, with little consideration of the violence or fallibility of that form of payment. Sebold described the poem she’d written in Gallagher’s workshop as a “permission slip—I could hate.” But sometimes it reads as if she is repeating lines that she’s been told, assenting to a kind of cultural belief in the redemptive power of getting revenge. The fantasy of the poem—“If they caught you”—was fulfilled. But, when they caught and punished him, she did not find the promised relief.

Before casting the rapist, Moncrieff found Broadwater’s name and photograph on a registry of sex offenders. “This guy looked really sweet,” she said. “He had the sweetest-looking eyes.” She wanted to cast someone with a similarly welcoming face, so her casting directors brought in several young Black actors to audition, a process that involved pretending to rape someone. Moncrieff viewed the videos of the auditions from her home, in Los Angeles. She had felt conflicted by the idea of showing a Black man raping a white woman, and now she was ashamed to be looking at these interchangeable Black bodies. “It was fucking painful on so many levels,” she told me. “None of these guys wanted to be there.”

In April, 2021, her casting directors recommended a young Canadian actor named Adrian Walters. On a Zoom call, she showed Walters the picture of Broadwater from the sex-offender registry. “I remember feeling so heartbroken,” Walters told me. “He just had these kind, unassuming eyes. He looked like someone I would have grown up with.” Walters read the memoir and the script and then spent a week praying about whether to accept the role. “I remember something popped up on my TV when I was in contemplation,” he said. “I heard something along the lines of ‘young Black person killed by the hands of police’ and whatnot. That was the moment where I got the sign I needed from God, saying, ‘No, you can’t do this role. This will not be of service to people who look like you.’ ”

When he explained his reasoning to Moncrieff, she decided that she could not move forward with the script. “Since going down this road, and then embarking on the reality of actually casting the part, I have tried to get with the program, but find that I just can’t,” she wrote to Brown. “That it is true doesn’t make it The Truth.”

She submitted a revised draft, which Brown accepted. In the new version, the rapist would be white.

In early June, 2021, the movie’s actors were supposed to fly to Toronto to begin shooting. Victoria Pedretti was cast as Sebold, and Marcia Gay Harden as her mom. The movie’s financier, Timothy Mucciante, was a disbarred attorney—he had spent about a decade in prison after being convicted of bank fraud and forgery of bonds—but he had been upfront about his past. Yet the funds to begin shooting never materialized. When the production team received a copy of a wire transfer from Mucciante that appeared to have been doctored—the font of the dollar signs didn’t match—he was terminated from the project, and the shooting was called off. (Mucciante said that the font was altered inadvertently.)

Not long afterward, he asked his employees to investigate the details of Sebold’s rape. James Rolfe, an associate producer for the company, said, “I told him to drop it. We’ll move on. But, as soon as control of the project was taken away from him, he wouldn’t let go.”

When his employees couldn’t find information about the crime, Mucciante hired Dan Myers, a former sheriff who worked as a private investigator. Mucciante explained that he had doubted Sebold’s story after the race of the rapist was changed in the script. “He wanted me to get him details of the actual rape—whether or not it even happened,” Myers said.

Myers called Paul Clapper, the officer who had been talking to Broadwater on the street. “He mentioned the bad lineup,” Myers said. Clapper suggested that the right man may not have been caught. “I got the impression that he had been dying to tell someone for quite a long time.”

Broadwater was sixty and lived on the south side of Syracuse, across from a cemetery, in a house with broken windows covered by tarp. Myers found Broadwater in front of the house. He asked if Broadwater knew that people were making a movie about the woman he’d been convicted of raping.

“It’s a lie,” Broadwater said. “The whole conviction.” He explained that, since his release, he’d been trying to find a lawyer to take his case. He’d paid three hundred dollars for a polygraph test, which he passed.

“Well, let me tell you something,” Myers, who recorded the conversation, said. “Officer Clapper—you know who that is?”

When Broadwater was growing up, he responded, Clapper was an overbearing figure in the neighborhood who would “try to make you snitch.”

“I talked to Clapper, and he believes in your innocence.”

“No kidding!”

“The people that hired me want to help you,” Myers said.

“Hell yeah.” Broadwater’s voice gathered strength. “I’m on board with that—hundred per cent.” Broadwater said he’d give Myers all his legal documents. “This is something with my head, man, like a black shadow,” he said. “Believe it or not, I want to write a book. I want to tell my story.”

Myers shared what he’d learned with two Syracuse lawyers, Dave Hammond and Melissa Swartz, saying he believed that Broadwater was innocent. They both read “Lucky.” “We were, like, Oh, my God, there’s newly discovered evidence,” Hammond said. What had been, for hundreds of thousands of readers, a story of justice was, in their eyes, a careful recounting of prosecutorial misconduct.

They wondered why Sebold didn’t question the conviction when she was writing her book, but her confidence made more sense after they learned of Uebelhoer’s involvement in researching and promoting it. Swartz, who had worked in a district attorney’s office, said, “I’ve been on the other side, and I know the amount of trust and loyalty people feel for a prosecutor. And then that person is championing your book? It’s like reaffirmation that the conviction was good.”

Mucciante raised money for Hammond and Swartz to work on Broadwater’s case. He also hired Red Hawk Films, a small production company, to make a documentary about Broadwater’s quest to prove his innocence. It would be called “Unlucky.” Broadwater signed a release giving Mucciante’s company the exclusive right to his story.

When Sebold heard about Mucciante’s efforts, she asked James Brown, the producer, what was happening. Brown described Mucciante’s history of fraud and told Sebold, “Don’t believe it. Put it out of your mind.”

Swartz asked William Fitzpatrick, the Onondaga district attorney, for whom she had previously worked, to read the transcript of Broadwater’s trial and give her his opinion. The transcript was so short that Fitzpatrick read it in about an hour. “I was stunned,” he told me. “I couldn’t believe that, in 1981, in a non-jury trial, a guy could be convicted on that.”

In October, 2021, he contacted Sebold, who by then felt that she was largely “done with rape,” she said. After the #MeToo movement, she felt that she could retire from the cause as a younger generation took up the work. In an e-mail, Fitzpatrick explained that Broadwater had new lawyers who were filing a motion to vacate his conviction, based on newly discovered evidence. “You have done remarkable things in removing some of the barriers encountered by sexual assault victims,” he wrote. “The problem is the hair testimony.” He explained that the methodology used at trial had been discredited. In 2015, in one of the country’s worst forensic scandals, the Justice Department and the F.B.I. acknowledged that, for two decades, forensic examiners had been applying erroneous standards to the comparison of hairs.

Sebold wrote back a few hours later, thanking him for keeping her updated. “It sounds like Broadwater’s attorney is doing the right thing on behalf of her client and that there will be many steps going forward before there is an end result one way or another,” she wrote. Sebold told me, “I was very passionate in my belief that he was guilty, and the last twenty years of no one saying anything would only underscore that.”

A month later, Fitzpatrick e-mailed Sebold to say that he’d had a call with Gordon Cuffy, the judge who was reviewing Broadwater’s motion, and Cuffy wanted to know if the scenes in “Lucky” describing the lineup—and the commentary by Uebelhoer after it—were accurate. In those passages, Fitzpatrick explained, “the inference could be drawn that you were coached on how to handle the issue at trial which is not an ethical approach by law enforcement.”

Sebold responded, “I felt an immense responsibility to portray things as truthfully as I was capable of.” She believed Uebelhoer had told her details about the lineup, she wrote, because “she had a natural understanding that knowing what was happening in the case helped center and soothe me.”

Five days later, Fitzpatrick e-mailed Sebold again. “After a brief hearing moments ago Judge Gordon Cuffy vacated Mr. Broadwater’s conviction,” he wrote. The foundation of Broadwater’s conviction, Cuffy had concluded, rested on a debunked hair analysis and a lineup that had been tainted. “There is much I can wish for,” Fitzpatrick went on, “not the least of which is that 40 years ago a young woman had gotten home safely to her dorm. But she didn’t. So I wish you peace and happiness and comfort in knowing you never deviated from doing the right thing.”

Sebold’s friend Orren Perlman went to her house after the exoneration and made food for her, but she couldn’t talk about what had happened. (Sebold and her husband had divorced a decade earlier.) “It’s like someone pulling a thread out of a sweater and the whole thing just falls away,” Perlman said. When Sebold started to speak, “she’d be, like, ‘I have to stop.’ It was too much.” She told her friends that she would never write again.

She tried not to look at the Internet, but she understood, from what friends shared, that she was being criticized online. It was easy to internalize the “voices of the Internet,” she said, because they were amplifying “the voice that lies inside me.” The headline of a Daily Mail story read, “She made millions off the story while he lived in windowless squalor.” Perhaps there was an added level of urgency to the criticism, because it relieved the sense of group complicity—the hundreds of thousands of people who had read about Sebold’s identification of Broadwater and had not been concerned. It was as if the book itself had become a kind of weathervane for where, two decades earlier, the publishing world and its readership had been in their understanding of crime and race. When pictures were published of Sebold walking her dog, carrying plastic bags for its poop, she stopped leaving her house. Friends took the dog, so that Sebold wouldn’t have to go outside.

Eight days after the exoneration, Sebold, whose agent had found a crisis-communications consultant to help her, sent a one-page apology to Broadwater’s lawyers, and then posted it on Medium. “I am sorry most of all for the fact that the life you could have led was unjustly robbed from you, and I know that no apology can change what happened to you and never will,” she wrote. “My goal in 1982 was justice,” she went on. “Certainly not to forever, and irreparably, alter a young man’s life by the very crime that had altered mine.” Bitch Media published an article titled “The Infuriating Failure of Alice Sebold’s Apology,” criticizing her for writing sentences in the passive voice. An article in UnHerd was titled “Alice Sebold’s Empty Apology: I’ve Never Believed a Word She’s Written.” On the day that she published her apology, Scribner, which had legally vetted the book and reissued it in 2017, announced that it would stop distributing “Lucky.”

Broadwater had assumed that Sebold knew about his attempts to prove his innocence, and just didn’t care, but when he learned that no one had kept her abreast of his legal ordeal he felt less at odds with her. A wrongful conviction leaves wreckage in more than one direction. “I thank the good Lord I made it to a point where I’m strong enough mentally to say, ‘Hey, it was the court. It was the system. It’s not the victim’s fault,’ ” he told me.

Sebold had written that she shared her life with her rapist, but she had also foisted a kind of unchosen intimacy on a different man. The unspeakable nature of rape, which Sebold struggled with for many years, had become Broadwater’s burden, too. When people congratulated him on the exoneration, he said, they seemed not to realize that “I still carry the crime.” He never uses the word “rape.” “I won’t say exactly what it was,” he told me, “because that word is perplexing and humiliating, and it’s too hard on people.”

By the end of December, 2021, the “Unlucky” documentary had come to a halt. The crew refused to continue working, saying that they’d gone for more than a month without being paid and were owed nearly a hundred thousand dollars. (Mucciante said that he was withholding funds because he deemed some expenditures improper, among other reasons.)

Broadwater cut off contact, after a lunch meeting in which it seemed that Mucciante was focussed on the market value of a wrongful-conviction story. “I’d been thinking he was out for the goodness of proving my innocence, not knowing he had another agenda—profit, stuff like that,” Broadwater said.

Brown, the producer of the movie “Lucky,” wondered if whatever psychological characteristics had made Mucciante capable of conning people had also made him a different kind of reader. “I think that normal people who are equipped to feel empathy read the first chapter about Alice’s rape—the most unimaginable horror you could possibly imagine—and become so fully on Alice’s side that you don’t pay attention to detail,” he said. “But he could see through the emotional clutter of the experience.”

Sebold has a box in her house labelled “R,” for rape, where she keeps documents from the criminal proceedings, as well as her journals from that time. For the past year and a half, she has wanted to open it and reread the material but she finds that she can’t. Several times, when I asked about her memories of the trial—how she made sense of her certainty as an eighteen-year-old, for instance—she would try very hard to answer, straining to offer a helpful remark, but she would seem to shut down. She could discuss the exoneration on a broader level, but “it’s the details,” she said. “It’s the finding out of the details. I can’t dive into it without losing a sense of who I even am. My perceptions of other people, my trust in myself. That I can fuck up so badly and not even know it.”

Broadwater was disappointed that Sebold had not yet asked to meet him in person, but Sebold said that, when it comes to “identity destruction,” she was pacing herself: she is working on sending him a letter first. She wants to directly confront the enormity of his trauma, which she said makes her own troubles feel comparatively small, but she is also aware that her brain is not yet in the place that she wishes it were in, to be ready for those granular details. From remarks that Broadwater made after the exoneration, she sensed that, despite everything he’d been through, he was a remarkable person, a fact that had made her feel both better and worse. In a room together, after forty years, Broadwater hoped to “compare notes,” so that he could understand how the district attorney’s office “duped her and kept her blind.” When she envisioned the meeting, she expected that language would fail.“We might do nothing but stare at the floor or weep,” she said.

I thought that perhaps Sebold would have to repopulate her rape with a new face, to keep the memory intact, but she said she’d given up on the idea of narrative closure. She knew there was talk of other suspects who might have been her real rapist—“the ghost in this horror story,” as she described him—but she wasn’t sure she needed to know. She and Broadwater had both “gone from twenty years old to sixty years old in this time,” she said. “What most people consider the prime of their life has started and finished.” The window for making sense of it all through a story was over.

The philosopher Susan Brison, in “Aftermath,” a book about her rape, describes how trauma “introduces a ‘surd’—a nonsensical entry—into the series of events in one’s life.” In the years after she was raped, Brison was always trying to keep the story of her attack straight, both to make sure that her rapist was found guilty and to regain a sense of control and coherence. In the book, she asks if holding on to one tight narrative may, “if taken too far, hinder recovery, by tethering the survivor to one rigid version of the past.” She wonders if, after mastering the story, “perhaps one has to give it up, in order to retell it, without having to ‘get it right,’ without fear of betraying it.”

Sebold had always defined herself as a “ ‘books saved my life’ person,” she said, but, since the exoneration, she had found it impossible to “return to the place where I perceive words as inherently kind and playful.” Making sense of her trauma through writing was supposed to help make Sebold feel whole, a wish her writing professors encouraged, but, at a crucial moment when she was eighteen, her faith in literature may have got in the way of her ability to see and judge what was in front of her. Narratives about trauma can restore meaning so that the “surd” doesn’t just sit there, destroying a person’s beliefs about the world. But they can also provide unrealistic clarity, creating too singular a point of view, symmetries that don’t exist. “What I thought was the truth and wrote about as the truth—which then was validated year after year for 20+ years as a never out-of-print title—was not only NEVER the TRUTH, but the truth resided with Anthony B,” Sebold wrote to me. “He and his loved ones have held a lonely vigil all along.”

Shortly after his exoneration, Broadwater sued the State of New York for wrongful imprisonment. He also filed a federal lawsuit for violation of his civil rights. “While a defendant would normally be left to speculate as to how a victim can pick out the wrong individual at a lineup but then be permitted to explain why they did so,” the state lawsuit said, “the victim here published a book explaining in detail the events just after the lineup.”

In February, the state settled with Broadwater, for five and a half million dollars. He and Elizabeth are looking to buy a house. They want about ten acres of land, in the country, near Syracuse. Previously, only a handful of friends had ever invited Broadwater and Elizabeth over. Now neighbors were stopping by their house throughout the day. One of Broadwater’s brothers, whom he hadn’t heard from in more than a decade, had invited them to stay at his house. “I tell her, ‘There’s another reason and purpose for them inviting us now,’ ” Broadwater said, when I met him and Elizabeth at Hammond’s law office, in downtown Syracuse.

Since the exoneration, little in Broadwater’s life has changed. He still has a self-imposed curfew of 7 p.m., unless he is working. “I have to prevent myself from being in harm’s way,” he told me. Recently, when a student at Syracuse University was assaulted, he called his lawyer, panicked that he might become a suspect. “You get tense, you start sweating, and then the adrenaline comes,” he said.

When I described Sebold’s sense that he was a remarkable person, he and Elizabeth began crying so hard that it took several minutes for them to start speaking again. I mentioned that Sebold wanted to write a letter to him. “I think it needs to be face to face,” Elizabeth said, barely audibly. “If she’s comfortable with it.”

“I guess starting out with a letter would be pretty nice,” Broadwater said. When Sebold wrote about her experience, he added, she should know that “I was part of it—whatever she’s recollecting, each day and moment, I experienced it, too. I don’t think I can judge her pain, but I know that for me it was war,” he said, referring to the violence in prison. “I tell Liz, ‘I’m not normal,’ ” he said.

Broadwater said that his psychiatrist at the V.A. center often asked him if he had suicidal thoughts, and recently it occurred to him that he no longer had to worry as much about being there for Elizabeth: she would be O.K. without him, because she could live on the money from the settlement.

“Hmm,” Elizabeth said, sharply.

“My psychiatrist says, ‘Don’t think like that,’ ” he said.

Since his exoneration, Broadwater had finally been able to confide in his psychiatrist without worrying about whether his story would be believed. He could share the memories that were really haunting him. “Doubt,” he said softly. “It creeps in and goes back out.”

#anthony broadwater #alice sebold #tw: rape #tw: unjust imprisonment