I can't remember his name

Ugh. One of my least favourite tropes in fiction is Good Guy Gaslighting. 

You know the drill. Heroic Main Character is part of some Underground World (hidden society of vampires/clones/faerie etc) that needs to be kept Top Secret.

Then oblivious Side Character (most often love interest), who is kept in the dark for Their Own Safety starts to catch glimpses of the Secret World. Maybe they see someone survive an attack that should have killed them, maybe they see someone do magic. Whatever it is, they freak out, and go to The Main Character to tell them this crazy thing they’ve seen.

And of course, of course, the Main Character who Knows Best and is doing it For Their Own Safety, assures them that they were seeing things, and totally mistaken, and it’s OK, they’re not crazy, but maybe they just need to take it easy?

And so it continues for however many episodes the writers decide to drag out the ‘let’s watch this character believe they’re going mad as the main character deliberately encourage that perception for their own ends’.

I just hate it so much because it is, at the core of it, gaslighting. It’s deliberate, cruel gaslighting but because it’s done For Their Own Safety by the Heroic Main Character, it’s never condemned and is regularly used as a plot device.


So, @kapeluszniczka and I passed our exams and decided to celebrate it with an update of our lame Valentine’s Card!

Enjoy ((Graphic design is our passion: the sequel))

Part I

a little farmers market thing

The op of this post said i could write something based on their headcanon so here it is.

ETA: now jaradel and I are co-writing this verse, over at AO3!


How he can wear flannel in this weather is anyone’s guess.

But Bitty doesn’t mind the way he sweats as he moves carts of ripe tomatoes and bulbous squashes from truck to table. A bead glistens at his forehead, slides down the slope of his nose to linger on the tip of his chin. His arms stretch taut, muscles bunched, around the crates as he hefts them. The mop of dark hair above his eyebrows is damp, misshapen from the press of his baseball cap, discarded at the side of the register. As Bitty watches, a tuft of bangs becomes unmoored from where he’s combed it aside and flops down almost to his eyes. He doesn’t move to dislodge it. Bitty itches to cross the aisle and slide in behind the Zimmermann Farms table, lift one hand and brush it out of the way without a single word.

He bites his lip and looks down at his own table. Really, he should be rearranging the scones or sorting the loaves or something, but every single week, as this “Mr. Zimmermann” (Bitty has no idea of his first name) unloads his wares, Bitty’s reduced to a staring, flushing mess. Nobody ought to look like that. Nobody especially ought to look like that when they’re toting vegetables. It almost makes Bitty want to eat a healthy diet. Or grow green beans. Or something, some excuse to have a conversation with this square-jawed, droopy-eyed farmer who, when he smiles at a customer, makes Bitty’s toes curl up in his sandals. Maybe he should pick up some rhubarb for a pie.

Yes, rhubarb… and it’s a little early in the season for pumpkins, but when fall rolls around maybe he’ll have pumpkins and … and oh dear Bitty is staring isn’t he.

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