#agoy

As you already pointed out, she naturally has a role in the narrative. I also think parts of her role in said narrative are sometimes a bit misunderstood. One prime example would be the idea she never loved Morpheus. And yes, she absolutely always put herself and her own interests first, so from that angle, she loved herself more than she loved him. That doesn’t mean she never loved him at any point though. Many people quote her saying that she never did as proof that she didn’t. But what people say doesn’t always align with what they feel or do: She says at his wake she swore she’ll never cry over him again—and cries while she’s saying it. That tells us two things: She *did* cry because of him before. And she *does* cry now.

Again, she is a selfish, utterly horrid bitch, but she loved him at some point, and she was mad at him for neglecting her and not paying her enough attention. That’s when it turned sour (and we know how absolutely shit at communicating with women Morpheus is, so they’re both as bad as each other in that regard).

I see her as someone who is totally disconnected/dissociated from her emotions, to the extent that she probably really believes what she says, out of some deep-rooted fear of any kind of vulnerability. Why that is—we can only speculate, because Neil never went into it, hence nothing we assume will ever be canon.

What can be considered canon, however, is that Neil has confirmed the fact that she *did* love him at some point—most notably in the Sandman Companion:

Hy Bender: […] Of course, she’s lying when she says she never loved the Sandman.

Neil Gaiman: Of course; I think that’s made explicit by the final panel, where she says, `I swore I would never shed another tear for him’ while crying. But after he’s won her and then returned to his duties, he wasn’t enough for her anymore. She wanted attention; and when she wasn’t getting it, she said, “Right. We’re done,” and walked out on him.”

I’d also like to point out that the most trans-exclusionary prick in the whole of AGoY is actually George, just that he’s not a woman, and hence, no one ever seems to mention it (he’s actually the one egging Wanda on, not Thessaly). Plus, walking the moon road is maiden, mother and crone to a T, and consciously so. Foxglove is the maiden, Hazel is pregnant, and Thessaly is ancient. So Thessaly’s choice was also based on that, and the only one who Wanda really could have *potentially* replaced would have been Foxglove; she presumably never had penetrative sex, unlike Hazel (in the archaic definition of what penetration means, so we don’t need to argue about lesbian sex practices now). We don’t know that about Wanda, no matter if someone sees her as a man or a woman. I didn’t mean to get that explicit about maiden status, but I guess it *is* important in this context (although yes, of course Thessaly said Wanda is a man, and I’m not arguing that either, but I still think it was grounded in her belief how moon magic works).

Which brings me to a very important point: Thessaly is ancient. Culturally, we can’t compare her to someone who grew up in the 20th century, also with regard to her violent inclinations. She is thousands of years old. She’s seen it all. She has a fierce sense of self-preservation, maybe even rooted in some fears or trauma of her own. All not very nice character traits, no, but that’s not the yardstick, and probably was never supposed to be. I also remember Neil saying he consciously wanted to oppose neopaganism and the watered down, new wave witchcraft of the time (late 1980s/early 1990s, and that, I really remember), which was all about the “divine feminine”, female empowerment, tarot cards and incense sticks. I’m being a bit flippant now, but it isn’t far off. It was more of a trend than anything. He wanted to consciously oppose it with someone who would still act according to ancient, rather violent codes and rules. And Morpheus will have known those, and probably found them less surprising than we do (doesn’t necessarily mean he’d condone them either).

The fact whether Thessaly should make us question Morpheus in the comics is a tricky one. What she definitely *should* make us question is: Morpheus could have quite easily broken some rules in the Kindly Ones when Thessaly had set up the protection circle for Lyta, and the consequences probably would have been less disastrous than playing by said rules. And we can safely presume he knew. We are also supposed to question the same when he lets Nuala call in her boon and doesn’t just say: “This isn’t really a good time, can we do this later?” (and he absolutely COULD have done that), but actually follows through with going ,“Well, what gives, I basically grant you your boon now and leave the Dreaming, even though I know the potential consequences.” So yes, Thessaly is supposed to make us question Dream’s choices, but probably not the way we think. And for that, we perhaps should look deeper into…

Thessaly the TERF and Feminism in the late 1980s/early 1990s

This might get a bit longwinded, and I am showing my age here. I grew up at the intersection of second wave and third wave feminism, and as a bisexual woman, I made a lot of experiences during the early 90s that feel wholly aligned with the plot of AGoY (which was written during that time). I don’t want to write a whole essay about feminism here, but second wave feminism was on its way out in the late 80s. A lot of the bad associations some people have with feminism today stem from that time (not always justified, because a lot of good was achieved during that period. But parts of it in specific sub-communities—definitely problematic). Equality vs equity discussions within the feminist movement were dominating everything, and the divide between radfems and libfems was getting deeper. People like Audre Lorde IMHO rightly criticised that failing to understand that not all women start on equal footing, that not all women are the same, is problematic (so you could easily see how this is incorporated into the narrative of AGoY).

Second wave feminism wasn’t just about making sure women had rights. It was very much about “all of us can do everything men do, and we want the same a man gets”. It was all about the workspace (so often very white, CIS, middle class), not being at home with the kids etc (of course there were also other topics, but this one was really quite dominant). You could even see it fashion (massive shoulder pads etc). All the while, actually *being* a man was vilified (again, just in certain quarters).

So I feel you’re on to something with your #girlboss comment, only that I don’t think it was intentionally set up to like her, but rather as a criticism of what certain quarters of the feminist movement were like at the time.

Personal anecdote: I got that type of schtick from WITHIN the LGBT community at the time. Bi-erasure was big. And there were radfem lesbians that would actually tell you that being bi doesn’t exist, that you are basically a traitor to your “sisters” and just a lesbian who isn’t fully out. The same shite they used to criticise about men who would say you’re only a lesbian because you haven’t found the right guy yet. And here they went, telling you that you can’t be attracted to men if you’re also attracted to women.

Third wave feminism has a much stronger focus on the individual woman and what it means to be a woman to HER. This also included trans women, much more than during the second wave. Judith Butler’s work is actually exemplary for this (in essence, there is no such woman as “the” woman—we’re all different despite sharing common traits and problems. Trying to make us all the same will only harm us in the long run).

And with AGoY and Thessaly, we are exactly at the moment in time (in the comics) where that shift happens. I think Neil got it right for the time, and understood a lot of what was going on. Many people in queer communities felt really understood and seen, myself included. I absolutely see how that translates differently today. But it always saddens me when the historical context gets completely stripped away, and people don’t take the time a work of fiction was written into consideration and only measure it from today’s viewpoint. We can, and absolutely have to be critical if the TV shows fails to address these points and just translates everything 1-2-1. Which I am fairly certain won’t happen, because Thessaly has already been stripped off a lot of her obvious TERFiness in the Audible. I’m not even sure if we’ll get her in the show—we’ll hopefully find out.

✨ = most recent

A Ghost of You (smut, angst) You and Dieter were made for each other, but that doesn't mean you should be together. Dieter is broken into millions of pieces and you're trying so hard to super glue him back together.

Do You Love Me (angst, fluff) Dieter needs reassurance that you truly love him.

Bruise (smut) You get high and paint with Dieter. No canvas to be found though.

In the Next One (angst, smut) Dieter thinks you’ve been together in every past life and he’s lost you every time.

I've Shattered Now (angst) Dieter dies and you have to learn to live without him.

Faulty System (fluff, angst) It’s easy to let all the bad parts of being with Dieter obscure the beauty of who he was. You try not to.

Isn't it enough that we stripped down to our skin? Cold and porcelain like bathers in a painting

Dieter wraps his arms around you from behind. You’re chopping an onion to make dinner. He slips his hands on top of yours, holds the knife in your hands and chops with you. You tilt your head into his where it rests on your shoulder affectionately. You let him guide your hands for a moment. He keeps his grip on the knife, but drops your left hand, guides the knife to his left palm. You freeze, forcing his hands to stop.  

“Woah, Dieter. Babe. Stop. What are you doing?” 

“Blood Oath.” 

“Like that weird movie we watched? Son of Rambow?” 

You pull the knife from his fingers, set it on the cutting board, wrap his arms back around you. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “Like Son of Rambow. Just want you to know how much you mean to me. Want us to always be connected.” 

You turn to face him, press a thumb into both cheekbones. Your eyes burn and so do his, crying onion tears. You press a kiss to his torn lips.

“We don’t need that.”

 “You could ruin me, you know that? I don’t know if I can ever be without you.”

He pulls away from you. Fidgets with the rings on his fingers. Digs a hand into his hair and tugs hard. You step right back into his space, pull his hand out of his hair and right back around you.

 “Hey? Made for you. Remember?” You press your lips into his scruff covered jaw. Gently smooth his hair back out. Slip your hands over his shoulders and down his back. Pull him so hard into you it feels like you’re trying to mold him to your body. “I’m not going anywhere Dieter.” 

You pull his ugly sweater over his head. Set it gently on the counter. Toss your own t-shirt on the floor. Press your bare chests back together. Let him feel how real, how solid, how corporeal you are. All the way here even when he is not. You keep your bodies pressed together and pull him to the bathroom. Undress him fully and pull him into the shower with you. Forget about dinner and let him fill you instead. 

And I told you of your past lives, every man you've ever been It wasn't flattering, but you listened like it mattered

Dieter taps the ring on his middle finger against the glass mug of green tea in front of him. Chews his lips as he works up the nerve to tell you a theory he has. Something important. You have to know. 

You sit across from him, looking out the window. The park you spend so much time in just visible from your booth. You’re watching a pair of hummingbirds dance around each other. 

“Do you remember the night we met?” Dieter traces the triangle on his forearm instead of looking at you. You drag your eyes from the birds.

“Most of it. We were kind of fucked up, so the details are hazy. Why?” Your finger joins the path he traces on his arm, following just behind. He changes direction so your fingers bump each other at the highest point.

“I think we’ve always been together.” Dieter doesn’t elaborate. You’re used to his non sequiturs. He doesn’t have a train of thought so much as a shipping yard of them. A little maze like. Disconnected. You remember something you said that night. 

“I asked you why it felt like I’ve known you my whole life. And you said ‘Maybe you have.’” Drugs may have made you say it out loud, but you knew then just as much as you know now that you were made for each other. You had always known him, somehow. 

“I think, in all my past lives, I’ve had you and I’ve lost you.” Dieter pulls a piece of dead skin off his lip. Sucks the iron tang onto his tongue. “I think I’ve never known a life without knowing what it’s like to be without you. And I think it’s going to happen again.” 

He knows he’s been getting bad again. He broke your phone. He almost hurt you. He can’t figure out which thoughts are rational and which ones aren’t so he just drowns out all of them with all the drugs he can get his hands on. He isn’t so numb that he can’t see the way he’s hurting you though. He has to make sure you love him. He can’t fucking bear it if you don’t love him anymore. 

You dig a fingernail into wrist, make a crescent shape in the skin. He focuses on the tiny pain, lets his mind still. You press your lips into his palm and settle his hand on your cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dieter. If I left you in my past lives it was all so I could find you in this one.”

Will you still love me if it turns out I'm insane? I know what you'll say, but it helps to hear you say it anyway

Dieter paints a portrait of you. He smears the canvas in cerulean, plum, vermillion. Vibrant colors that match your aura. You find him at the window, forming the shape of your lips with a thumb, brush between his teeth.

“Beautiful.” You whisper it into his neck. Drag your lips down the column of his throat. He pulls you into his arms, spits the brush to the floor. 

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

You look into his eyes, shining with tears but dulled by so much pain.

“No,” you lie. He looks away from you. A sob catches in his throat. He chokes on it. He knows he’s insane, knows he should try the hospitals again, knows that wouldn’t work. It never does. 

You pull him to the bedroom. You kiss the tears off his cheeks. You strip each other bare. You press your love into his skin with your lips, tongue, teeth. With your fingers and hands. You kiss him so hard it hurts. He slowly responds to your touches, the dull ache in his eyes fading to something deeper, open, vulnerable. He pushes inside you and stays there for a moment, relishing the fact that this is the closest he can be to you. You don’t try to make him move. Just pull him even closer to you. Wrap yourself around him and pull him close. He moves his hips shallowly, barely separating from you at all. Grinding into you. He devours your lips, your neck, your shoulder. You settle your teeth into the space where his neck meets his shoulder. Bite until you taste salt and iron. He wraps a hand in your hair and pulls your mouth to his. Buries himself in you with fervor now. Decides he’ll leave bruises inside you to keep himself there even when he’s gone.

In the next one, will you find me? I'll be the boy with the pink carnation pinned to my lapel

You’re snuggled up on your too small green couch. You’d had a huge argument. You had thrown buddha statues and crystals and incense holders at him and screamed that none of this shit was going to help him. He had to take his Fucking Medicine. 

He’d hurled his empty bottles of hydrocodone and oxycontin and xanax at you, like any of those were what he was supposed to take. Like any of that could help him. He’d dropped to the couch and curled into a little ball, his whole body shaking with sobs as he tore at his curls with trembling hands.

You had knelt on the floor next to him, pulled his hands away, cradled his head in your arms. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers into your chest. “I’m so sorry I’m fucked up again.” 

He buries his head deeper into your shoulder. You think he means he’s sorry his mental illness is acting up again. Or that he’s sorry he did too many drugs again. 

He means he’s sorry he came out wrong in this life just like all the other ones. You were made for him, but maybe he wasn’t made for you. Not this time and not all the times before and he won’t be next time and he can’t fucking take it. 

You climb up behind him. Press his deteriorating frame against you and try to pour all your love into him. Try to put him back together. You whisper to him about how much he means to you. That you won’t leave him. That you love him and just want him to feel better. 

He can’t be better though.

“I’ll try harder in the next life. I’ll try to be okay next time. I’ll be so good for you.”

“I’ll find you.” A promise you seal with a kiss to the crown of his head. If he finds you in the next life, you’ll take him as he is. You love him now and you always will. 

You drift off to sleep with your lips pressed into his hair. His breathing slows and slows and slows. 

I could go on and on and on and I will Go on and on and on until It all comes back

----

A shiver crests over your shoulders and down your spine as Dieter drags the paint brush from the inside of your thigh down to the back of your knee, leaving a streak of purple in its wake. The brush leaves a spiral on your kneecap. Whispers over your hip bone. Strokes along the curve of your waist. Outlines your breasts. Comes to rest in the hollow of your throat. 

Dieter’s mouth follows the trail, painting its own blooms of purple beside the paint. It latches on to your pulse point. Ghosts a hot breath over your cheek. Settles on your own. 

You paint his unkempt curls a brilliant shade of blue with your fingertips. Trace stripes over his shoulders. Down his back. Leave your mark where you can reach. Pull him closer and beg for more. 

Paintbrush abandoned, his hands smear the lines etched so adoringly into your skin. Follow the path back to your thighs. He settles there on his knees, drinks in his masterpiece with dark eyes. Pupils blown wide with lust. And something more.

The tingling in your fingertips, your scalp, your toes, meets him there in the center. All paths lead here, you think. To you and Dieter. Always you and Dieter. His mouth finds yours again, invades it. You dig into his shoulders. Mix sparkling red with brilliant blue. Turn him purple too  as he fills you again and again. 

You’re weighless, floating. Maybe drowning. Dieter pulls you to the surface, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he drags your chest up to meet his. You roll with him, ride his wave until your own crashes over the shore. Collapse back into the pillows. He follows you. He’ll always follow you.

Plum colored fingertips caress your cheekbones, your jaw, your lips. His forehead drops to yours as his hips still. Featherlight kisses grace the highpoints of your face. He whispers into your mouth. Made for me. You sigh. Pull his weight down onto you. You’d let him consume you completely, if he wanted. You whisper. 

Made for you.

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